Chapter XXXI: Lost Looks

"YOU don't seem to have much to say," Patricia languidly remarked, as Magda sat in a dazed silence.

"It was—so kind of you to send for me," murmured Magda.

"I didn't want to do it. I don't care to see any one—till I'm all right again. But they said I must have somebody—so I thought of you."

"Yes, of course—I—you were quite right."

"Bee Major has offered to come, again and again. But I can't have her yet. I'd rather not. Magda—I want you to tell me something—quite honestly. Tell me the truth. Am I much altered? Nurse won't let me have a glass. She says I am to wait—but I have waited so long. I did get a glimpse one day—some time ago. But my eyes were so weak, and the room was so dark, I could hardly see anything. Of course, I know there's a scar—and that must take some time to wear away. The doctors keep telling me to be patient. Patient! After nearly three months! It is like three years!"

"I dare say it does seem long."

"You don't understand, of course. You have never had anything of the kind to bear. It wasn't so bad at first when I was very ill. I could think of nothing then but the pain; and, in a sort of way, time didn't drag so awfully. But now I am better, I do long to be all right again—and just as I used to be."

Magda muttered something vaguely, playing with the handle of her sunshade. Would Patricia ever again be "just as she used to be"?

"You've not answered my question. How does my face look—seeing it for the first time? Tell me plainly—I want to know the truth. Is it much altered?"

"Of course you look different. Anybody would—after a long illness."

"That is not what I mean. I want to know if I shall be pretty again, as I was. Nobody will tell me. I am treated like a child. And I don't choose to be treated so." She spoke fretfully. "I want to know how I look—now."

Magda was very much at a loss. "It must take time, I suppose," she observed hesitatingly. "If I were you, I would try not to think about that. I would make up my mind to wait."

"I dare say! It's so easy to be patient for somebody else! If you had to bear it yourself, you wouldn't be so sensible. I'm sick of hearing that sort of thing. Everybody talks so—aunt and nurse and doctors, all round. Over and over again the same. My face feels horrid still—like a mask. Magda, do you know that it was Bee who saved my life? You just ran away and did nothing! It was awful!—to feel myself so horribly alone! I suppose it was only for one moment; but it seemed like ages."

"I wish I hadn't! I would give anything to have done what Bee did!" Magda spoke from the depth of her heart, and Patricia heard listlessly.

"Of course you were frightened. I dare say I should have done the same in your place. But if Bee had run too, they say I must have died. I should have been out in the hall in one second more, in the full draught—and then nothing could have saved me. I suppose I ought to have thrown myself down; but how can one remember anything at such a time? Bee was quick! Sometimes I wonder—whether—I wouldn't rather have died!" Patricia burst into tears.

"Don't cry, please," begged Magda, dismayed. "You don't really mean that, you know."

"Perhaps not, in one way. But in another way—if I'm never to be what I was—if nobody is ever to love me again—"

"People don't love one another because of their looks."

Patricia drew the little lace handkerchief petulantly from her eyes.

"Oh, don't they? I know better."

"Wouldn't it be wiser not to keep thinking about that sort of thing—just to wait till you are well again?"

"I dare say! I've nothing else to think about. If money would do it—would make me what I was—I would spend every penny I have!"

Magda thought she would try a change of topic. "Have you heard of Bee's engagement?"

"Everybody has heard it, I suppose. When are they to be married?"

"Not till next August. Mrs. Major says she can't spare Bee sooner. I'm to be one of the bridesmaids."

"And of course your brother will be best man."

Magda had not expected Patricia to speak of Rob.

"I dare say he will, if he isn't too busy."

"He always says he is too busy for anything." A pause, and then—"I sometimes wonder—if we had not broken off before all this—"

"You wonder what?" Magda's curiosity was aroused.

"How he would have managed. He would not have wanted me any longer."

"Patricia!" indignantly. "Rob would never never have changed—and for such a reason!"

"He did change. It was because I knew he had changed that I—oh, it doesn't matter! Nothing matters now. I dare say he would have put up with me still, as a duty. I should hate to be put up with, as a duty! And he only cared for me because of my face. I knew that all along, though he didn't."

"If that was all, I don't call it 'love.'" Magda spoke with decision, though an odd consciousness came over her that the devotion which she herself had poured upon Patricia might be described in those terms.

"You don't know anything about it. I'm glad we broke off in time. And he has his beloved slums. That is all he really cares for."

"He mayn't have them long. There's some idea of his going to Canada."

Patricia sat suddenly upright, and her pale face grew quite white. "Canada! Why! What for?"

"There's a great want for more men in the North-West—men of his stamp, it is said. The Bishop there has begged for Rob; and Rob is thinking what to do. He likes the idea. Mother is sorry; but she won't try to prevent his going."

"If he does, I suppose you will go too some day, and keep house for him. Your old notion!" There was a hard little laugh; but Magda, occupied with her own thoughts, did not notice it.

"Oh, I don't know," she said uncertainly. "I—perhaps I shall—some day."

"You used to rave about the prospect." Patricia leant back with a sigh.

"Are you tired? Would you like me to go?"

"It doesn't matter. Yes, I'm tired—I always am. And you can go as soon as you like. There's nothing to keep you here. I'm not going to be a bore to people."

Magda kept her seat uncomfortably; and the door opened slowly. "Who is there? Nurse?" Patricia asked.

"It's not nurse," a soft voice said.

"I can't see anybody. Go away, please. It is a mistake. Magda, you needn't wait. I'd rather be alone."

"It's Bee," the voice said. "I did not know Magda was here. The maid told me she was gone, and she said I could not come upstairs. And I have come—against orders. I wanted so much to see you, dear."

Patricia turned sullenly away, hiding her face with both hands. Bee came through the dim room to her side, knelt down, and took Patricia into her arms, holding her in a firm and tender grasp. Nothing more was said. Magda looked on in wonder. Bee remained perfectly still; and in a few seconds Patricia turned a little, so that her face rested against Bee's dress. She was sobbing now, hard convulsive sobs; and at first Bee allowed the passionate distress to have its way. Presently the nurse, coming in and finding them thus, murmured—

"She ought not. It is bad for her eyes."

"Some water, please," Bee said in a smothered voice; and a glass being brought, she held it to Patricia's lips.

"You poor darling!—take some," she said with a sob.

Patricia looked up in utter amazement, to see those brown eyes streaming.

"Bee! You don't really care!" she gasped. "I thought nobody—nobody—would ever care again!"

She flung her arms round Bee and clung to her as if in a despairing appeal for help; and the silence now was broken only by Bee's weeping.

"Don't cry!" Patricia whispered in her turn. "Don't! But—it's such a comfort! It has been—awful! And I mustn't even cry. They say—if I go on as I did—it will make me blind!"

Bee had hardly voice to whisper—"Poor darling!"—once more.

"Hold me tight! Bee—don't go. To think that you—care! I shan't feel so alone now! Hold me—tighter!"

Magda might have moved or spoken, not being tactful, but nurse's hand on her arm insisted on silence. Any sound or stir might break the spell. Presently Patricia's voice was heard again in a note of subdued passion and vehement appeal.

"Bee—Bee—help me! I want help! I don't know what to do. I don't know how to bear it! . . . Bee—I've been so wicked! I've been longing to die! And nobody helped me . . . I know—it was my own fault. I wouldn't see any one—who could. But I—I—couldn't make up my mind. You'll come now— sometimes—come and help me!"

That hand on Magda's arm bade her go. She obeyed without a word, and it did not seem that Patricia even remembered their presence or noticed their departure. Nurse closed the door softly when they were outside.

"If anybody can do that poor thing good—she will!" came with a slight break.

"Nurse, is Patricia getting on? Will she be well in time?"

"She gets on slowly. She would get on faster, if she cared."

"Cared to get well?"

"Yes."

"You mean—she doesn't care because her face is altered? Yes—I heard what she said. But will it get right in time? She has been so lovely. Will she be that again?"

"I'm afraid not, quite. She will improve; and the scar will get fainter. But that contraction of the mouth will be permanent."

"And her eyes—they seem so weak."

"Yes. They may improve a good deal. I hope they will."

Magda was conscious of a lump in her own throat. She went off, oppressed once more with a sense of failure. How was it that she could do nothing for Patricia, while Bee in two minutes had gained a hold, and was giving comfort? And a soft inner voice whispered—

"You were thinking of yourself! Bee thought only of Patricia."