And she—Magda—had nobody! Not even Patricia remained to her. Patricia had Rob. She was left alone.
The ground seemed cut away from beneath her feet; and she found herself stranded.
She had escaped from the house, in dread of being questioned, and either pitied or laughed at; and she walked with hot impatient steps up and down the path at the far end of the kitchen garden. She was angry with Rob; angry with Patricia. And she did not see in this wreck of her dream one of Life's opportunities for real heroism—for putting self manfully aside, and dwelling only on the happiness of others.
[CHAPTER XVI]
THE THICK OF THE FIGHT
SOME days later, in the afternoon, Magda lounged in the old school-room basket-chair, with a novel on her knee. She failed to find the tale interesting, and she did not care to do anything else. Of what use now to practise or work or study? The future for which she had been toiling was at an end. No delightful little home with Rob lay before her—a home into which no troubles or worries were ever to find admission. The dream was dead; and life was a blank.
Her mood, of course, was wrong, and she knew it; but she would not admit that it might be conquered. She only indulged in self-pity.
Everything had gone astray to-day; and she had nothing to which she could turn in contrast.
The room looked untidy. This week it was in Magda's charge; and she had left arrangements to care for themselves; a mode not conducive to order. The green window-curtains hung awry; chairs stood crookedly; books lay about in confusion; and the table-cloth had collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Presently she stood up and went across to a side-table. In her present mood of self-compassion, she wanted further food for unhappiness; and it had come to her mind that Rob, no long time since, had spoken in one of his letters about that future which now had ceased to be. She unlocked her desk, and fished out a bundle of his letters, which she began glancing through.