Chapter III: Robert

WITH a creak, the door was cautiously opened. Somebody put in his head.

"All alone, Magda!"

Depression vanished, and the transformation in Magda's face was like an instantaneous leap from November to June. In a moment her eyes were alight, her limbs alert.

"Rob!" she cried.

"Well, old girl! How are you?"

"You dear old fellow—I am glad."

The new-comer was about her own height, which though fairly tall for a girl could not be so counted for a man. He was slim in make, like Pen; also, like Pen, scrupulously neat in dress. Her eager welcome met with a quiet kiss; after which he seated himself; and his eyes travelled over her, with a rather dubious expression.

"It's awfully jolly to have you here again. You never told us you were coming."

"I happened not to know it myself till this morning. What have you been after?"

"Just now? Playing in the snow."

Rob's gaze reached her shoes, and she laughed.

"Yes, I know! Of course, I ought to have changed them. But it didn't seem worth while. I shall have to dress for dinner soon."

"And, meantime, you are anxious to start early rheumatism!"

"My dear Rob! I never had a twinge of it in my life—I don't know what it means."

"So much the better. It would be more sensible to continue in ignorance."

"Oh, all right. I'll be sensible, and change—presently. I really can't just now. I must have you while I can. When the others know you are here, I shall not have a chance. Are you going to stay?"

"One night. I must be off the first thing to-morrow morning."

"And I've oceans to say! Things that can't by any possibility be written."

"Fire away then. There's no time like the present."

"We shall be interrupted in two minutes. It's always the way! Why do things always go contrary, I wonder? At least, they do with me. If I could only come and live with you, Rob!—now!"

"That is to be your future life—is it?"

"Why, you know! Haven't we always said so? And whenever I am miserable, I always comfort myself by looking forward to a home with you."

"What are you miserable about?"

"All sorts of things. Some days everything goes wrong and I can't get on with people. It's not my fault. They don't understand me."

"I wonder whether you understand them?" murmured Rob.

"And there's nothing in life that's worth doing. Nothing in my life, I mean."

"Or rather—you have not found it yet."

"No, I don't mean that. I mean that there isn't anything. Really and truly!"

Rob said only, "H'm!"

"Yes, I dare say! But just think what I have to do. Tennis and hockey; cycling and walking; mending my clothes and making blouses—not that I'm much good at that! Going to tea with people I don't care a fig for; and having people here that I shouldn't mind never setting eyes on again! Smothering down all I think and feel, because nobody cares. Worrying and being worried, and all to no good. Nothing to show for the half-year that is gone, and nothing to look to in the year that's begun. The months are just simply frittered away, and no human being is the better for my being alive. It's not what I call Life. It is just getting through time. Don't you see? It suits Pen well enough. So long as she gets a decent amount of attention, she's happy. But I'm not made that way; and I can't see what life is given us for, if it means nothing better."

When she stopped, pleased with her own eloquence, Rob merely remarked—

"Don't you think that bit of hard judgment might have been left out? It wasn't a needful peroration."

Magda blushed; and Robert pondered.

"But, Rob—would you like to live such a life?"

Rob's gesture was sufficient answer.

"And yet you think I oughtn't to mind?"

"I beg your pardon. You are wrong to live it."

"But what can I do?"

"Find work. Take care that somebody is the better for your existence."

"I've tried. I can't. It's no good."

"There are always people to be helped—people you can be kind to—people you can cheer up, when they feel dull."

"Pick up old ladies' stitches, I suppose. Interesting!"

"I did not know you wished to be interested. I thought you wanted to be of use."

"Well—of course! But that's so commonplace. I want to do something out of the ordinary beat."

"You want some agreeable duty, manufactured to suit your especial taste!"

"Oh, bother! Somebody is coming. What a plague! And I have heaps more to say. Won't you give me another talk?"

"I'll manage it."

He stood up to greet his mother, as she came in, followed by the two younger girls. The news of his unexpected arrival seemed all at once to pervade the household.

Penrose entered next; and behind her Mr. Royston, a thick-set grey-haired man, of impulsive manners, sometimes more kindly than judicious.

He was devoted to his family; not much given to books; ready to help anybody and everybody who might appeal to him; generally more or less in financial difficulties, partly from his inherited tendency to allow pounds and pence to slide too rapidly through his fingers. A pleasant and genial man, so long as he did not encounter opposition; but it was out of his power to understand why all the world should not agree with himself. His wife gave in to him ninety-nine times in a hundred; and if, the hundredth time, she set her foot down firmly, he gave in to her; for he was a most affectionate husband.

As for his daughters, he doted on them. Steady Penrose, useful Merryl, picturesque little Frip, were everything that he desired. Magda alone puzzled him. He could not make out what she wanted, or why she would not be content to fit in with others, to play games, to sit and work, to do anything or nothing with equal content. Dreams and aspirations, indeed! Nonsense! Humbug! What did girls want with such notions? They had to be good girls, to do as they were told, and to make themselves agreeable. A vexed face annoyed him beyond expression. He could not get over it. He could never ignore it. By his want of tact, though with the kindest intentions, he often managed to put a finishing stroke to Magda's uncomfortable moods.

"Why can't father leave me alone?" she sometimes complained.

Mr. Royston never did leave anybody alone, whether for weal or for woe. Nor did he ever learn wisdom through his own mistakes.

This afternoon, happily, there were no dismal faces. With Rob to the fore, even though he had not fallen in with her views, Magda was in the best of spirits.

She took pains with her toilette that evening—which she was not always at the trouble to do. Sometimes it did not seem "worth while." Yet she well repaid care in that direction. Though not strictly good-looking, she had a nice figure, and knew how to carry herself; and the mass of reddish-gold hair came out well, if properly dressed; and when she smiled and was pleased, her face would hardly have been recognised by one who had seen her only in one of her "November fogs." Rob looked her over, and signified approval by a quiet—"That's right." She expected no more. He never wasted unnecessary words.

Further confidential talk that day proved out of the question, for Rob was very much in request. But Magda waited patiently; for he had promised, and he always kept his promises. Bedtime arrived; and still she felt sure.

"I'm off early," he said, and he looked at her. "Seven-thirty train. Will you be down at seven, and walk to the station with me?"

"This weather!" demurred Mrs. Royston.

"It won't hurt her, mother. She's strong."

"I'm as strong as a horse. Of course it wont hurt me."

"Mayn't we come too?" begged Merryl.

"Only Magda." Rob's tone was final.

"She will never be down in time. Magda is always late," put in Penrose.

Magda's eyes flamed, but she had no need to speak.

"I don't think she will fail me," Rob said tranquilly.