Chapter XXXII: After Seven Months

ONE sunny August afternoon saw those two charming sisters, the Miss Wryatts of Wratt-Wrothesley, in their favourite "living-room," a square antique hall, with windows of mediæval coloured glass and ancient black-oak panelling, busily discussing with their other sister, Mrs. Major, the never-ending subject of Bee's wedding on the morrow.

Bee was to be married from the old family home—of course! So the Miss Wryatts had said from the first. That she should be married from Virginia Villa was, in their opinion, a thing unthinkable. Not only every spare room in the house—and there were fewer than might have been expected from its size, since a large amount of space went to reception rooms—but also every available bed in the neighbourhood, had been long engaged for the use of relatives and friends.

Miss Wryatt was tall and meekly dignified, with the sweetest and serenest elderly face ever seen; and Miss Emma Wryatt was short and plump and full of life. Both resembled Mrs. Major in a certain air of distinguished composure; and both also resembled her in devotion to and admiration for Bee, only daughter of the one, only niece of the other two.

Everything was by this time in train for the morrow; all arrangements were made; and nothing remained to be done. The staff of old and capable servants knew their duties to perfection in any kind of function; so that really they needed little telling, though Miss Wryatt kept the reins in her own hands, and trusted nothing to chance. She had just been going through with her sisters the list of guests expected that afternoon, naming the bedroom assigned to each, and discussing plans for making the hours slide by with smoothness and satisfaction.

Mr. and Mrs. Royston, Robert, Magda, Merryl, and Frances; Mr. and Mrs. Framley, and Patricia Vincent; Mr. and Mrs. Miles; Ned Fairfax, and two or three others, would arrive before tea; and carriages had already been despatched to meet them at the station. Ivor had come the day before, and was now with Bee in the grounds.

"Dear Bee!" Miss Wryatt said affectionately. "She looks the very picture of happiness! It does one good to see her face. Well, dear—one thing is certain—you will be gaining a son and not losing a daughter. And such a son! I really do not know a finer fellow than Lance—such high principles! All that we could wish for our dear Bee. And there are not many men whom one could count worthy of her."

"Lance is all right," remarked Mrs. Major, who had no trace of sentimentality in her composition.

"Dear fellow! And he will be a fortunate man—with such a sweet wife. My dear, I am glad that poor girl, Patricia Vincent, has made up her mind to be present. Bee was afraid she would not."

"Bee refused to let her off."

"And of course it is wiser—still, one can well understand that it must be a trial to come among all her old friends. Such a lovely creature as she was! And now, I suppose—"

"No, she is not lovely now. To my mind, she is more taking."

"Really, dear!" both sisters exclaimed.

Mrs. Major was turning down a narrow hem, in some useful work for Bee; and she paused to complete it.

"Much more," she said. "Patricia's prettiness was all outside—mere shape and colouring. Something else has come now. There is a great difference—but not all for the worse."

"Ah! Something of spirit-beauty, perhaps," murmured Miss Wryatt.

"You might call it that. A very pleasant look. Her expression in old days spoilt her—it was so self-centred."

"And now—it is otherwise?"

"Yes. The fact is, Bee was the saving of her. No one else could do anything. She seemed hopeless and broken, with no interest left in life; and she would see nobody—not even Mr. Miles."

"That delightful Mr. Miles! We are so pleased that he can come. And Bee did—what, dear?"

A slight moisture might be seen in Mrs. Major's small keen dark eyes.

"What the child always does! She crept somehow into the poor thing's heart, and got hold of her. It is a way that Bee has, you know. She was the first to carry a grain of comfort. And for weeks afterwards, no matter how busy she might be, she went there day after day—even if it were only for ten minutes, and generally it was for at least an hour—till Patricia was ordered abroad in May. Patricia would only go on condition that Bee should be with her for the first month. I have no doubt that Bee's influence has made all the difference to her future."

"Just like dear Bee!" murmured Miss Wryatt. "And—what about Robert Royston?"

"Well, he went to Florence after Bee came away. Mrs. Framley says it was a curious sight to see him falling in love again with Patricia—this time with herself, not with her face. For my part, I believe he has never left off caring for her. They say that after her accident, he looked ghastly. Then he had a breakdown, and the Canada plan had to be put off. In June he was ordered abroad—and he went straight to Florence. If he were not going to Canada, I don't see why that might not come on again."

"Why should not Patricia go too?" Miss Wryatt asked tranquilly.

The expected guests began to arrive and no more could be said.

Bee had indeed devoted much of her time to Patricia, through the late winter and early spring; spending hours in the dim room; putting aside other claims and many pleasures, that she might carry comfort and cheer to the stricken girl, bracing her to endure her trouble with courage, and gently leading her up to higher views of life and its duties, to a truer conception of what is meant by happiness, than Patricia had ever known before. These efforts had been crowned by a month with her on the Continent, and later by constant correspondence, while Patricia remained abroad till after the end of July.

The Roystons were among the first to arrive; and Rob was there when Patricia came. She walked in quietly—not as of old with the air of one who expected everybody to be looking at her, but rather as if shunning observation.

And she was, as Mrs. Major had said, much changed in more ways than one. She was thinner than in past years; and the exquisite colouring had vanished. The scar was already less prominent, yet it could not be overlooked, neither could the contraction at one side of her mouth, which altered her much when she smiled. The eyes were still weak, but very gentle; and her hair had grown into short curls, clustering closely over her head. But there was gain as well as loss; for if the delicate beauty of form and tint had disappeared, a new loveliness had dawned in the calm peace of her expression, the soft light in her eyes, never seen there before. It was, as Miss Wryatt suggested, a touch of spirit-beauty.

Rob had noted it already, in its earlier dawning; and he welcomed now its fuller development with a throb of joy. Few minutes passed before he made his way to her side; and neither he nor she had much attention to spare for others that evening.

Magda looking eagerly for Ned Fairfax, found him soon at her side, where indeed her face beckoned him; and they had a short chat. Her consequent high spirits, somewhat later, were rather dashed, when she saw him deep in talk with Merryl, showing at least as much interest as when he had been with her. An independent observer would have said that he showed much more interest, but Magda was not an independent observer.

She noticed enough, however, to feel a sharp pang of jealousy; and she recognised it as jealousy, which would hardly have been the case a year earlier. Jealousy was so mean, she told herself; it had to be kept down! And she really did try hard.

Soon she saw Merryl making signs to her to join them; and she at once responded, failing to note the disappointment in Fairfax' face. Bestowing herself gaily on a seat close by, she took the lead in a triangular talk, from which Merryl next slipped away, leaving her in possession.

That was delightful! Now she had Ned again all to herself; and there were a hundred things that she wanted to tell him. Merryl never seemed to forget for a moment that Ned was her friend, and that she had—as she would have expressed it—the "first right." That this view of the question made small account of Ned's possible wishes did not occur to her mind.

She began to pour out details of what she had been doing lately, of books she had read and people she had seen. As she rambled on, she awoke to the fact that Ned seemed less interested than he had been before she joined him and Merryl. His eyes and attention both wandered; and his answers went astray. Then, to her utter amazement, on some slight pretext, Ned himself was gone; and in less than a minute she saw him again by Merryl's side.

But she wouldn't be jealous!—She wouldn't!—She wouldn't! So she declared resolutely to herself. Jealousy was so horrid. And Ned had always been kind to the younger ones. Merryl was still only "one of the younger ones!" It was just like dear old Ned to go and amuse her, because she had unselfishly departed—when perhaps he might have liked better to stay and talk with his old chum. He always had been so nice and thoughtful!