Chapter XXVII: What Patricia Wanted

"REALLY, my dear, I don't see that it can be helped. If Robert says he cannot come on that particular day, I suppose he cannot. Men generally know their own business. You will have either to alter the day, or to do without him."

Mrs. Framley stood near the door, in the Manor hall, and she spoke in her deepest voice—a voice which Mrs. Miles privately declared had its origin in her shoes. She wore her magnificent furs; and she looked more than ever like a big brown bear on end. But she smiled good-humouredly as she spoke; while Patricia, on the other side of the solid oak table, seemed the reverse of good-humoured. A frown puckered her pretty brow; and the charming smile was conspicuously absent. When Patricia was "put out," she could be very much "out" indeed.

"You see, he is a busy man, not always with time at his own disposal; and he has to consider his Vicar. If I were you, I wouldn't mind. It can't be helped."

"I do mind, and it can be helped. If I want Rob, he ought to come. And I intend that he shall."

"I thought you said it was impossible."

"He says so. Ridiculous! Rob can always get his own way, if he chooses. People have told me so, again and again."

"Why don't you alter the day?"

"Because it's not convenient, and I don't choose. Rob has to make his plans fit in with mine. Some stupid parish tea! Anybody could see to it."

"When you are Rob's wife, you will find that a parish tea can't be put aside for the sake of a charade."

"When I am Rob's wife, if that ever comes to pass, he will find that a parish tea has to give way to me."

Mrs. Framley doubted the fact, but forebore to say so.

"I am sure he would do what you wish, if he could. But if he cannot—"

"It only shows that slums are more to him than I am."

Patricia walked across to the fireplace and threw a letter into the flames. She watched the disappearance of Rob's signature, as it slowly blackened and curled.

"Does she mean to toss him overboard?" questioned the elder lady.

"I would not be too sure," she remarked with soothing intent. "He naturally feels bound to his work, even at some cost to himself."

"He ought to consider the cost to me. But he never does. I have seen that, plainly—and I have my doubts—"

Mrs. Framley repeated the last word.

"Whether he really wishes things to be as they are! Once or twice before he has refused to do what I wished. And it can't go on. I shall make this a test-case."

"Patricia, if I were you, I wouldn't do what I should be sorry for afterwards."

Patricia made a movement as of one flinging aside unasked advice.

"I shall make this a test-case," she loftily repeated. "I have told Rob that I particularly want him to be here that evening, and to take a part in the charade. If he cares so little for my wishes that anything and everything is considered first—then our engagement may come to an end. I shall tell him so."

"I wouldn't, my dear! I really would not. You know you are fond of him—and you can't expect always to get your own way in life. You had much better give in quietly and not mind. It would be such a pity to upset things for nothing."

"The question is whether Rob is fond enough of me—to do what I wish. If not, the sooner we part the better. If he does not choose to give in, he may find somebody else to act as his humble slave. That's not my style!"

Mrs. Framley shook a protesting head. "You are not wise, Patricia. You may do the sort of thing once too often. This is your third engagement!"

"If it were my thirteenth, I would end it, rather than go on with what we should both be sorry for in the end."

"Well, I believe you will be sorry soon for what you think of doing. But of course it is no business of mine! You must decide for yourself. Ah—there it comes."

"It" referred to her carriage, for which she had been waiting. Two minutes more saw her gone; and Patricia sat down, to write the threatened note to Rob. She tossed it off in haste; not weighing her words; put it up, and stamped it. Then Magda was announced.

"How do you do?" she said coldly, presenting a cheek. "A note? Thanks."

"From mother. I think it is only to say that we shall like very much to come to your evening—and to help as much as we can."

Magda spoke in a rather dejected tone, and sat down with the air of one who was tired of everything. Since the departure of Ned Fairfax a month earlier, in the end of September, no word of him, good or bad or indifferent, had come to hand. She began to feel again as the little Magda of old had felt, when her long letter brought no response. Only she was now debarred from writing, since Ned had not asked it. She wondered much and often that he had not! Here again was shown the altered nature of their relations.

Patricia read the note slowly, then seemed to ponder over it. Magda exerted herself to break the silence.

"We're all looking forward to your evening. But it is such a pity that Rob can't come."

"Rob will come of course—if I ask it."

"I've had a letter from him this morning, and he says it is impossible. He would if he could."

"I'm writing to say that I shall expect him."

Magda wondered at the confident tone. She thought she knew Patricia pretty well by this time—but she also knew that Rob was not in the habit of lightly changing his plans.

"It would be nice if he could," she said, with unwonted caution, aware that Patricia was not in a mood to be contradicted. "And you are going to get up a charade."

Patricia laughed. "I call it a charade!" she said. "My uncle has a mortal horror of theatricals, and wouldn't for any consideration allow them in his house. He doesn't mind a mild little charade—so that's what it is supposed to be. Of course I intend to do things properly. Pen says she can't act—so I want you and Merryl."

"I should love it—but Merryl can't act!"

"She'll do for dumb show—it will be hardly more than that. Mind you don't use the word theatricals before my uncle and aunt."

"But won't they know when the day comes? And—do you think you—ought?"

"That's my business; not yours! Of course they will know when the day comes. They can't help it then; so it will not matter. They can say what they like afterwards."

Magda succumbed. "What sort of play is it to be?" she asked.

"Written by a friend of mine—on purpose for me. Something quite uncommon. A Queen of Beauty, living on an island, and being wooed by two Princes from other islands. Not many characters, and I shall take the part of the Queen, of course. I want you and Beatrice Major for my attendants. Your colouring and hers will look well together; and Merryl shall be the waiting-maid. She will only have to say a word or two at a time. My part is much the longest of any. Yours will be easily learnt. But I must have two men for the princes; and Rob is to be the successful one."

"Rob never cares for acting."

"He will have to care—if I wish it."

Magda was again astonished.

"His part is not difficult. I thought of Mr. Ivor for the second prince; but he says he has no time for getting it up. It wants some one with a turn for the comic. I've been rather wondering—how about that other cousin of Mrs. Miles who was here—Mr. Fairfax?"

Magda flashed into animation. "Oh, he would do it splendidly."

"I'm not so sure. He is plain; and he can look dull."

"Oh!" and Magda barely held in words of indignant contradiction. "I should think he would be the very one for you. He once did Father Christmas for a lot of children, and kept them in roars of laughter."

"When?"

"Years ago."

"That is a very different sort of thing."

"But he can be comic, I know, and that is what you want." She watched Patricia's undecided face eagerly. "I've known him ever so long. He and I were great chums, when I was little. And we are now—too. He is such a nice fellow—everybody likes him. Mrs. Miles says so."

"Really!" in an uninterested tone. "Well—it might be worth thinking about, if I can't get any one else. I'd rather have had somebody a trifle better-looking."

Magda again bottled up her wrath. Ned not good-looking indeed! But she knew that if she annoyed Patricia, all hope of his coming would vanish.

Patricia then entered at length into the momentous question of what she herself would wear in the different scenes. It became clear that the part which she had selected was the dominant one of the play; and that all others, except those of the two lovers, would be subordinate and unimportant. She took out the MS., and read passages aloud, explaining by the way what would be required of Magda and Bee, but chiefly occupied with the impression which she herself expected to make. Her dress was to be arranged without regard to cost.

"White and blue are what suit me best; and I mean to make my first appearance in white and silver—a sort of silver sheen, which will sparkle—and my hair down over my shoulders. I've been making a sketch of the style of dress—a kind of medieval flowing robe. Yes—here it is. What do you think? But nothing suits me quite so well as blue; so I shall keep that for the last. I'm not sure about the second act. Something by way of contrast might come in there. I have a notion of pale mauve velvet, with gold trimmings and a long train."

"It will cost a lot," remarked Magda dreamily, her mind still on Ned. Would he come? Would Patricia ask him? "I'm afraid I can't spend much on mine. I shouldn't think Bee could either."

"I've spoken to her, and she is all right. She will run up her own things in no time. And I mean to help with you and Merryl. In fact, I shall give you both your dresses. Yours won't need to be expensive. The general effect has to be pretty; but so long as your colouring harmonises with mine, that is all that matters. For the first scene I thought of some soft material like delaine—either blue or mauve—for you and Miss Major. Then, in the second part, something dark—and in the third, just white. You see, if your frocks are simple, they will throw out mine the more."

Patricia spoke with serene unconsciousness; and this was the note which controlled her talk all through. For herself—the best, the most costly, the most becoming and effective that could be designed! For the rest—anything!

And she did not see it! She had not the faintest idea how this looked in the eyes of another.

Magda's mind wandered, as Patricia flowed on—still about self, all about self, how self was to be adorned, how self was to be admired. A sudden revelation had come to her of the great lack in the character of this girl, whom once she had adored and counted perfect. And with the glimpse into Patricia Vincent came also a glimpse into—Magda Royston. Being with Patricia to-day meant an unexpected vision of herself, seen as in a mirror, whereby she learnt something new as to "the manner of girl" that she was.

Weeks earlier, in a certain talk with Bee, a little previous insight had been given. Then, by way of contrast. Now, through an exaggeration.

Yet, was it exaggeration? Were Patricia's complacent self-absorption, self-admiration, self-preoccupation, really so much greater than her own? Patricia was the prettier, the more fascinating, and her temptations therefore were increased. But Magda too had lived for self.

And how essentially unlovely such a life was!

Another thought broke upon Magda with sudden force. Had Ned seen her as she now saw Patricia?

All the month that he had been in and out of the house, all through those long delightful talks she had had with him, through which he had patiently listened,—had not the keynote been the same with her outpourings—always Herself? For the first time she saw it with clearness.

What must Ned think?

"Oh, how could I?" she mentally cried, in extreme disgust. "How could I do it? But I must stop! I must change! I can't let myself go on so. I didn't know before how it looked to other people—how poor and mean and horrid!" She might have added—"Or, how it looked in the sight of God!" At this moment the thought of Ned's opinion blotted out all else.

"What on earth are you mooning about?" Patricia enquired. "I've asked you a question three times and had no answer."

"I'm sorry. What was it?"

Patricia declined to repeat her question a fourth time; and Magda found that she had to move, or she would be late for luncheon. When she was gone, Patricia took up the note that she had written to Rob, and stood weighing it in her hand with an air of consideration.

"Shall I send it? Yes, I think so. Why not? Rob needs to be brought to his bearings."

She dropped it into the letter-box in the hall, then mounted the stairs, singing as she went, picturing herself as the Queen of Beauty, and wondering which of the three costumes would be the most entrancing.

Half-an-hour later a qualm assailed her. What if her words should fail to "bring Rob to his bearings"? What if he did not yield? Then—she had said to him—they had better part. Did she really wish this?

She ran downstairs again, with a half intention to take her letter back, and at least to have a few hours for consideration.

But the letters were gone, and from the window she saw the postman trudging far down the drive. Should she race and overtake him? She could just do it.

Pride held her back, and she stood debating till it was too late. No chance now! "Oh well, it must go," she said recklessly.

It went, and later in the day she would have given much to recall it. She began to realise what Rob really was to her, how much more than either of her two former fiancés, whom she had discarded as easily as one discards old gloves. What if he should take her at her word? She grew cold at the thought. Then she tried to forget him in renewed attention to the charade costumes.