And it was useless to talk, to express regrets. The crucial moment had gone by. Such an opportunity might never recur. If it should—how different might be her conduct! But such chances seldom come a second time. Other tests, other opportunities, would no doubt arrive in due course; yet they would not be the same in kind.
In that moment of horror, she might have done just what Bee did do. She might now be the heroine of the hour; admired and talked about—a centre of notice.
Yet this is hardly fair to Magda. It was not only for the sake of lost praise that she so blamed herself, and so vehemently wished to have acted in other wise. Praise once had been her foremost aim; but of late she had made advance. She did now truly wish to live a noble life for the sake of living it; not merely that she might win good opinions. She began to see—a little—what it meant to do right for the sake of pleasing God!
And, looking back, she knew that she had not even tried to do this; she knew that her life had been the reverse of noble. Everything had gone wrong. Plans had failed. Resolutions had come to nought. Nothing that she took up had ended well. She was of no use to any one.
Was it that she had begun at the wrong end?—That she had not first yielded herself in heart and spirit to her Divine Master? That she had attempted things in her own strength alone?
As days went by, a longing took possession of her to pour out what she felt to somebody. But who would care? Fairfax was out of reach, having left within twenty-four hours after the accident, during which she had seen nothing of him. Rob was corresponding with his mother; not with her. Magda had refused sympathy in his happiness; and naturally now he did not turn to her in trouble. She could not go to Bee. Bee was so glad, so joyous! Bee had done just what Magda had failed to do. To seek help from her at that moment seemed out of the question. Not that Bee would be conceited or boastful!—But still, she could not!
There was the Vicar! Many times Magda thought of him, and almost went; but somehow she held back—perhaps mainly from pride. Perhaps unconsciously what she craved was not really advice, but soothing. So, unwisely, she put off that step.
It was no doubt well that she had no "soothing" friend at this juncture, to whom she could pour out freely. Much talk is apt to weaken conviction. She might have found satisfaction in enlarging on her own remorse, and comfort in making excuses for herself. Having no such vent, she viewed her own conduct more severely; and, from the lack of such comfort, she was driven to find help in prayer.
Thus weeks passed by, and Pen's wedding-day arrived. After which Pen was gone, and Magda found herself in the new position of eldest daughter in the house.
It entailed upon her a variety of new duties, new claims, new responsibilities. She had never guessed beforehand how very much she and everybody would miss careful quiet Pen in the little arrangements of common life. Everything at first seemed awry without her; everything out of joint. And Magda really did set herself, honestly, to learn and remember the hundred and one little things, which somehow had always seemed to do themselves, and which now she was expected as a matter of course to undertake.