Chapter XIV: A Reversion of Thought

LEAVING her machine in the bicycle-shed, Magda went indoors, to find herself face to face with her father. Up to that moment she had been entirely occupied with her own concerns—dissatisfied with herself, disappointed not to have seen more of Patricia, uncomfortable about Bee—and since leaving the house she had not once remembered Merryl.

The moment her eyes fell upon Mr. Royston she did remember. He was roving restlessly about, between hall and study and drawing-room, as if not knowing what to do with himself. At the sight of Magda, he faced round abruptly.

"So here you are at last! Time enough too! Where have you been all day?"

"I've only been away since lunch. Not all day."

"Pretty sharp you went off too, never stopping to see if you were wanted. Never a thought of your poor little sister, or how she might be!"

There was too much truth in this. She had hurried off, in fear that something might prevent that which she had set her mind on doing.

"Isn't Merryl well, father?"

"Well! Not likely!—treated in such a way! My poor little girl! Sent off in that hair-brained fashion, when she was only fit for bed! In this heat too! I'm not blaming your mother. She didn't know. Merryl took care she shouldn't! But you might have had more sense. Not a soul in the house sees to that child. She never complains—never thinks of herself—the most unselfish little darling that ever lived. And you—always so full of your own affairs, that you neither know nor care what becomes of anybody else!"

Magda swelled resentfully, for this of course was an exaggeration; but he went on wrathfully—"I'll take good care nothing of that sort ever happens again! I'll look after her myself in future—if—" and there was an ominous choke in his voice—"if—if she gets over—this!"

Magda's heart gave a great frightened throb.

"Is Merryl lying down still?"

"Lying down still!" growled Mr. Royston. "That's all you know! That's all you care!" He turned off, as if not trusting himself to say more, and disappeared in the study, shutting the door.

Magda stood feeling dazed. It was as if a small thunderbolt had fallen at her feet. If Merryl should get over this! She repeated the words to herself. Get over what? Something must have come to pass while she was away—something unlooked-for. All sorts of conjectures thronged up, none of which would fit the case. But Merryl was ill. Merryl must be ill. That "if she gets over this" could have no other meaning. She must have been ill in the morning—too ill for a long hot bicycle ride—and Magda had refused to go in her stead.

In one moment the world had changed; and she saw it from a new standpoint. No longer was Patricia the one and only person to be considered. Suddenly she found how much these home-ties really meant—how dear to her heart was this unselfish little sister, Merryl! Ill! Perhaps not to get over it! Oh, but that was impossible. It could not have come upon them with such frightful suddenness. And Mr. Royston was always an alarmist, especially in regard to Merryl.

Magda plucked up courage, and went to the school-room. She must hear more—must know what it all meant.

At first the room looked empty. Then she espied a small figure, curled up in one corner of the deep old window seat, with long hair falling like a veil and hiding the child's face.

"Frip!" The word came fearfully. Dread surged up anew.

Francie made no answer. Magda went close, putting an urgent arm round the little figure; and there was a slight shake of the shoulders, as if to repudiate her touch.

"Frip! what is it? Frip, tell me! I'm only just come in. What is the matter?"

Frip said one word—"Merryl!" and burst into tears.

"Go on! Go on!" commanded Magda.

"She is—oh, so bad!" sobbed Frip. "And the doctor has been. And he says—she never, never ought to have gone! Her head did ache so, and her throat was sore, and I begged her so to let you take the note. But she said you couldn't—you were busy—and she wouldn't let me worry mother—and I couldn't find Pen."

"She never told me her head ached," spoke Magda miserably.

"She didn't tell me; but I saw. Of course I saw. And I do wish now I'd told mother, though she said I mustn't. She said perhaps the ride would do her good. But it didn't. When she tried to get up, after lunch, she nearly fainted right off. And then she said she had tumbled off her bicycle twice, coming home; and the second time she banged her head against the gate-post, and it hurt her so dreadfully, she could hardly get indoors. And the doctor says nobody is to go into her room, except mother; and she's to be taken to the end spare room; and Pen has gone out to find a nurse. And I don't know what to do without Merryl!"

Magda felt guilty and unhappy. It was easy to see that even little Francie blamed her; and for once she had no words of self-defence to offer.

Penrose came in, grave and sad. "Is Frip here?" she said. Then—"So you have come back!" Magda heard reproach in the tone.

"Yes. What is the matter with Merryl?"

Pen did not at once reply. "Come, Frip, dear," she said. "You had better run into the garden."

"I don't want to go—without Merryl."

"Shall I come too? Run and get your garden-hat, and wait for me at the back-door. Don't go upstairs."

Frip obeyed, and Pen turned to Magda. "We don't want much said before Frip," she breathed. "Dr. Cartwright is afraid that it may be scarlet fever. There are one or two bad cases in the town."

"Then it wasn't going out in the sun that made her ill."

"That has made her worse. She never ought to have gone—if any one had had the least idea that she was so poorly. No one knew except Frip; and of course Frip did not understand. I can't think how it was that none of us saw; but mother and I were very busy; and she had such a colour. Frip says she turned quite white before she started—and when she asked you to go."

The words, though pointed, were not unkindly spoken; and Magda was too unhappy for vexation.

"I don't think I looked at her—particularly. And she never said she wasn't well. If I had known, of course I would have gone."

"It is such a pity you did not. She fell from her bicycle with her head against the gate-post, and it almost stunned her. That makes things so much worse. She was quite wandering before Dr. Cartwright came, and he found her in a high fever. He cannot know for some hours how much is due to the blow, and whether it really is scarlet fever; but he seems pretty sure. Poor dear little Merryl. If only we had known!"

Pen spoke tenderly and went away. Magda, left alone, with nothing to do, nobody wanting her, nobody turning to her, felt very wretched. When she thought of Merryl's plaintive petition, and of her own curt refusal, she hardly knew how to bear herself. It was too terrible to think that she might have refused Merryl's very last request—the very last time that she would ever see and speak with her sister. It was not her way to cry easily; but she sat long, looking straight before her, and feeling acutely that if that came to pass, she could never be happy again.

Yet nobody seemed to think that she was to be pitied. This dawned upon her with a sense of surprise. All the others were full of loving sympathy one for another; while towards herself there was only blame; and no one expected her to mind very much. It startled her to find things thus, and made her realise, more than she had ever done before, the manner of life she had been living.

For it was not that she meant to be unkind or selfish; not that she was wanting in real affection; but that she did not think, did not put others' happiness before her own, did not live for those around. There was any amount of real love and tenderness below the surface, but love of self had had the upper hand. And when she resented what they felt, she quite forgot how very little she had yet shown of what this trouble meant to her. The first impulse with Magda, as with many girls who pride themselves on their reserve, was to hide what she felt, and to put on an appearance of indifference.

This was only the beginning of a long stretch of anxiety. The doctor's fear proved correct. It was scarlet fever of a pronounced type; and the illness was greatly aggravated by the blow on the head, which had caused slight concussion. Day by day reports grew worse; and delirium was incessant.

The patient had been removed to a part of the house entirely separated from the rest, with a staircase of its own, and an outer door; so the segregation could be complete. There was at first some talk of the family going elsewhere for a time. But this was decided against. They had all been with Merryl; and any one among them might already have caught the complaint. So they remained where they were, all possible precautions being taken. Nothing could induce Mrs. Royston to remain away from the sick-room. A second nurse was a necessity, the case being so severe; so she and the nurse and child lived a separate existence from the household.

Complete isolation from friends and neighbours was involved for the whole party. It was a new experience for Magda. Everybody was most kind; notes and enquiries, supplies of beef-tea and jelly for the little invalid, arrived in profusion. But naturally and rightly, other people had to avoid infection for themselves and their children.

No going to church; no entering of shops; no seeing of friends; no engagements. The doctor of course came daily; before long twice and even three times in the day; but only Mr. Royston or Pen spoke with him; and though the Vicar called often, he and Magda did not happen to meet.

Patricia sent a little conventional note of sympathy, prettily expressed, and making it very clear that she intended to hold aloof as long as possible. Magda was requested not even to write to her, for fear of infection being conveyed through the post. Magda did think Patricia might have said less about the need for care on her own account, and more about her friend's trouble. It was the first real touch of disillusionment.

On the same day a letter arrived from Bee, so tender, so loving, so full of sympathy, that Magda could not but mark the contrast. Bee seemed to think of nothing, to remember nothing, except that Magda was in sorrow, and that she longed to comfort her. Magda could not but think of Miss Mordaunt's words—"Bee is a friend worth having, and worth keeping."

How little she had thought of late about kind Miss Mordaunt!—And still less of her own aims and aspirations, her desire to live a brave and useful life!

She quite longed to speak out, to tell her mother about the Majors, to confess her own folly in keeping silence. But Mrs. Royston was in the sick-room, out of reach. She had to wait; and meantime nothing could be thought of except that long life-and-death struggle going on upstairs in the distant end-room.

Then came a day when a few hours would decide the probable issue; when Merryl lay, powerless, feeble, unconscious, just breathing, and on the very borderland of the next world—when, hour by hour, they all knew that any moment might see the end. And of all in the house, none grieved more bitterly than Magda. For she knew, she could not help knowing, that her consenting to take the note might have made just all the difference. The great danger was that Merryl would sink from exhaustion. And but for the added complications, resulting from over-exertion and the fall from her bicycle, there could be no doubt that her rallying-power would have been greater.

If Magda had never prayed before—and probably she had at times, however fitfully—she did pray, fervently and passionately, in these days of suspense.

No one in the house thought now that she did not care. Little though she said, the burden was plainly written on her face. Even Mr. Royston had ceased to reproach her; and Pen was kind; and Frip often clung to her with childish pity. But there was no comfort. Magda felt that there never could be any comfort, if Merryl should die.

She saw life in truer colours than ever before. There are times when we get away from earth-mists, and gain clear views of the true proportions, the true values of things. This was one such time. Many a resolution she made in those sorrowful waiting hours—if only Merryl might recover!

Rob came down to see them. He thought nothing of infection for himself, being used to sick-rooms of all kinds; and he had hoped to see Merryl, but against this Mr. Royston laid an embargo. If Rob went to that room, he might not come back among the rest. Rob was about to agree, about to say that he would return home that evening, when his eyes fell upon Magda. He knew in a moment that she needed him more than Merryl.

No opportunity came before night for any word alone with her. Magda kept up and seemed resolutely to hold aloof.

And next morning the cloud lifted. Merryl was better. Definite improvement had set in; and the doctor, coming early, spoke in cheerful tones of recovery.

Until that moment Magda had not been seen to give way. But when Mr. Royston came in, radiant with the good news, and when she learnt that confident hopes might at last be indulged, she looked wildly round as if for escape. She rushed away, without a word, to the deserted school-room, and knelt down, hiding her face on folded arms, to sob out her vehement thanksgiving for this merciful escape from a life-long sorrow.

Pen found her thus; and she might as well have tried to stop a gale of wind with her hand, as to stay with words that tempest of weeping. As with many who seldom are mastered, when Magda was mastered, it was very completely. She did not even know that Pen had been, or was gone. But presently a strong quiet hand was on her shoulder, gently pressing it, and in time Rob's voice said—

"That will do!"

Magda sobbed on, and again came the words—

"That will do, Magda."

She was crumpled in a heap on the rug; and she allowed him to draw her to a sitting posture. With gasping efforts after self-control, she at length managed to stop.

"What is it all about?" he asked then. "Try to tell me—quietly."

"Rob—if—if she had died—"

"Yes. Go on."

"It would have been my doing."

"In what way? Hush—" as the storm threatened to return. "It would have been your doing—how?"

Gradually he induced her to pour out the whole—how she had failed all round, how she had lived for self only, how she had refused to help Merryl when asked, how that one ordinary slip in everyday kindness might have brought about tragic consequences. And when she had related her tale, she found that he knew it already at least in part, that he had divined what she must be going through, that he was here for the very purpose of bringing help.

Not help of his own. He was here to point her to ONE stronger than himself,—"mighty to save." Magda needed to be saved from her weakness of will, from her readiness to give in to temptation. For the past she needed forgiveness; for the future, power to fight and to conquer.

"But this must be no empty repentance," he urged. "You must let what has happened be a warning to you. It is in the small things of common life that we fail most grievously; it is in those small things that we often dishonour our Lord most, and do most harm to others. You have to make a fresh start now, to remember that you are bound to His service. It must not be any longer self-pleasing, self-indulgence—but—'Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth Thee!' When you get back into everyday life again, don't let yourself forget."

"I'll try," she whispered in a subdued tone.