Magda was half touched, half aggrieved. She hardly knew how to take it. She and Beatrice had been friends through two long years of school-life; and though she might make little of the tie to Miss Mordaunt, it had been a close one. Bee had loved her devotedly; and she had been really fond of Bee. Yet, somehow, she did not take to the idea of having Bee permanently in Burwood, for reasons earlier explained.
Things looked even worse to her now than when she was at school. Her mother and Pen were so awfully critical and particular. She minded Pen's little laugh of disdain almost more than she minded anything. It would be horrid if that laugh were called forth by a friend of hers.
And then the small creeper-grown house in High Street, where till now a successful dressmaker had lived—it really was too dreadful! To think of her especial friend living there—in Virginia Villa! She was certain that nothing would ever induce her mother to leave a card at that door. And if not—if Mrs. Royston declined to call—it would be quite as objectionable. To have a friend in a different stratum, so to speak, just allowed in their house on occasions, just tolerated perhaps, but looked upon as belonging to a lower level—how unbearable! And Bee's relatives might be—well, anything! They might tread upon the sensitive toes of her people at every turn. If only Bee had never thought of the plan!
Worse still—much worse!—there was this delightful new friendship with Patricia Vincent. Most certainly neither Patricia nor her aunt, Mrs. Framley, would deign to look at any human being who should live in Virginia Villa. To them it would be an impossible locality. For a dressmaker, well enough—and nothing would exceed their gracious kindness to the said dressmaker. But—for a friend! Magda went hot and cold by turns. She had not haunted Patricia for weeks, without becoming pretty well acquainted with the Framley scales of measurement.
When the Majors should have settled in, she would have to keep her two friends absolutely apart—to segregate them in water-tight compartments, so to speak. But would this be possible? Suppose, some day, they should come together! Suppose that Patricia should find her chosen friend's other friend to be a mere nobody, living in that wretched little house! Why, it might squash altogether this new glorious friendship of hers!
And the more she considered, the more certain she felt that the two must sooner or later meet. Burwood was not a large town. Everybody there knew all about everybody else. To be sure, the Framleys lived apart, and held themselves very much aloof from the townsfolk generally. Still, accidental encounters do take place, even under such conditions, just when least desired.
And Bee was so simple; she would never understand. Nobody could call so gentle a creature "pushing;" but on the other hand it would never occur to her mind that anybody could object to know her, merely because she lived in an insignificant house. She had a pretty natural way of always expecting to find herself welcome. Magda had heard that way admired; but she felt at this moment that she could have dispensed with it.
She would have to make Bee understand—somehow. She would have to explain that not all her friends and acquaintances would be likely to call—in fact, that probably very few would. It would be very difficult and horrid; but since the Majors chose to come, they must take the consequences.
Always in and out! That was very fine; but neither her mother nor Pen would stand such a state of things—considering the position of Virginia Villa. Magda had a good deal of liberty, within limits; but those limits were clearly defined.
In this direction she did not want more liberty. She could not be perpetually going after Bee. Her time was already full—of Patricia.
True, Bee was the old friend, Patricia was the new. But she had always felt that Bee could not fully meet her needs, and Patricia could—which made all the difference. Patricia was more to her—oh, miles more!—than poor little Bee.
As she felt her way through this maze of difficulties, a thought suggested itself. Why need she say anything at present about the coming of the Majors to Burwood?
Nobody in the place knew them. It was nobody's business except her own. There was plenty of time. They would not arrive for weeks and weeks. And each week was of importance to her for the further cementing of her new friendship. She could at least—wait.
By-and-by, of course, it must be told; and her mother must be asked to call; and Pen's little laugh of disdain must be endured. But there was no hurry. For a while longer she might allow herself to revel in the Patricia sunshine, without fear of a rising cloud.
SWISS ENCOUNTERS
TWO girls sat in a tiny verandah, outside the third storey of a Swiss hotel, facing a horseshoe group of dazzling peaks. Or rather, one of the two faced it, while the other faced her.
She who gazed upon the mountains, a slender maiden, pale, with brown eyes and wavy hair and rather heavy dark brows, did nothing else. It was enough to be there, enough to look, enough to study and absorb Nature's glories.
But the second—a girl only by courtesy, being many years the older—a short plump vigorous person, snub-nosed, with insignificant light eyes and tow-coloured hair—seemed to find an occasional glance at lofty peaks sufficient. For each glance sent in that direction, half-a-dozen glances went towards her companion; and in addition, she busily darned a dilapidated stocking.
Despite the difference in age, a difference amounting to over twelve years, those two were intimate friends. Yet it was a friendship of sorts; not alike on both sides. The younger girl's love for her senior was gentle and sincere. The elder's love for her junior amounted to an absorbing passion. Amy Smith would have done anything, given anything, endured anything, for the sake of Beatrice Major.
"Amy—if you could only know what a delight this trip has been to me!—has been and is!"
"My dear, one couldn't watch your face and not know."
"But to think that it is all you!—that you have saved and scraped and denied yourself—and just for my sake! And I never dreaming all those months, when you said you could not afford this and that and the other—never dreaming what you had in your mind!"
"It has been one long joy to me. You wouldn't wish to deprive me of it."
"But that you should have given up so much—for me!"
"Nobody minds giving up a shilling for the sake of a guinea."
"If I could feel that I deserved it—but I don't."
"I know, my dear!"
"You don't—and I can't make you."
She looked up to meet the steadfast gaze; a gaze which she understood. It meant that if Amy had her, there was no need for aught beside. And she could not return this devotion in kind or in degree. She did want something else.
"C'est toujours l'un qui aime, et l'autre qui se laisse aimé." Was it always so? Not altogether; for she did love dear kind Amy, truly and faithfully. But with the same love!—ah, no. And this seemed cruel for Amy.
"How I shall miss you in Burwood!" she said, with an earnest wish to give pleasure. And, indeed, it was true! She could not but miss the constant outpouring of affection which she had had from childhood, even though at times she might have felt its expression a trifle burdensome. But she would not miss as she would be missed.
"Will you—really?" Amy was generally blunt in speech and manner; yet she could be wistful. The plump plain face softened; the little snub nose flushed with the flushing of her freckled brow and tanned cheeks; and the pale grey eyes grew moist. "Bee—will you want me?"
"Of course I shall, at every turn. Think how long I have had you always."
"You will have Magda Royston now."
"Yes." Bee forgot to say more. She looked away at the lofty peaks opposite, where a ruby gleam lay athwart the snows. Yes, she would have Magda. She remembered in a flash her letter to Magda, telling her so eagerly of the settled plans; and her own hurt feeling at receiving no response.
In a month the response came; but before the close of that month another personality had entered her life. The three weeks at "Aunt Belle's" meant much to her. She had been in close touch with one whom she could never forget, who could never in the future be to her as a stranger. An impress had been made upon her life, transforming her at one touch into a woman. And if her love for Amy had paled a little before her warmer love for Magda, as starlight pales before moonlight, her love for Magda paled before this fresh experience, as moonlight pales before sunlight. Not that in either case her affection actually waned or altered, but that the lesser light became of necessity dim by comparison with the greater.
Nobody knew or suspected what had happened. Her gentle self-control prevented any betrayal of feeling on her part. The two had indeed been a great deal together, during those three weeks, but intercourse came about so simply and naturally, that she never could decide how far it was purely accidental, how far as a result of effort on his part. He seemed to enjoy being with her; and they seemed to suit; but whether he would remember her, whether he had any strong desire to meet her again, were questions which she had no power to decide. Their paths might lie permanently apart.
When the expected letter at last came from Magda, though she was a little grieved at the manifest lack of real delight in the prospect of having her at Burwood, it could not mean the same that it would have meant before that visit. For one who has been in strong sunshine, the brightest moonlight must seem pale.
"Bee, what are you cogitating about? I don't understand your face."
Bee smiled. "I was thinking over—varieties. These mountains make one think. Yes, I shall have Magda. But one friend does not fill another's place. You will always be you to me."
"And she will be she, I suppose."
"Yes; but she can never be you. Don't you see?"
Amy sighed profoundly. "All I know is that London will be a desert without you. And I'm torn in half—do you know that sensation?—between two longings. I long for you to be happy in Burwood; and if you weren't happy, I should be miserable. And yet I long for you to miss me so desperately that you can't be happy without me. There!—it's out! Horrid and mean of me! But it's true."
"Amy, you never could be mean. You are only too good—too unselfish."
"It's all selfishness. You don't understand. I love doing anything in the world for you, purely as a matter of self-gratification. Real unselfishness would only want you to be perfectly happy—apart from myself. And what I do want is that I should make you happy. Which means that, if I can't, I'd rather nobody else should. Isn't it disgusting?"
"But you have made me happy. I can't tell you half or a quarter of the joy this trip has been to me. I have so longed all my life to see Swiss mountains. And you have given me the joy! I do believe there is going to be an afterglow, and we shall miss it! Just time for table d'hôte."
Once before the glow had occurred when they were all engaged in what Amy disdainfully described as "gormandizing."
"We've got to be in bed early to-night, mind, Bee. I want you to get well rested for to-morrow's exertions. Sure you are fit for it?"
"I never was more fit in my life. It will be splendid."
"And to-morrow night we sleep at the Hut."
"Delightful! Such an experience! I don't believe I shall sleep a wink to-night, thinking about all we are going to see."
"You must, or you won't be up to the walking."
After two weeks of lesser practice, and divers small climbs, they were going on a real expedition—their first ascent, worthy of the name—under charge of Peter Steimathen, than whom they could have found no more dependable guide, and his son, Abraham. Both girls were of slight physique; both were by nature sure of foot; and both dearly loved climbing. Since both were Londoners, their opportunities hitherto had not been great in that line; but they had taken to it like ducklings to water. Peter Steimathen, after some consultation, pronounced that they might safely, under his guidance, make the attempt.
At table d'hôte Beatrice found a stranger by her side; a reticent young English clergyman, slim in make, with quiet observant eyes. She had never met him before; yet something once and again in his look seemed familiar, and she vainly tried to "locate" the resemblance. He and she fell easily into talk—strictly on the surface of things.
"Yes, we are going for a climb to-morrow," she said soon. "Nothing big, of course. We are only beginners. It is called the Rothstock—a lesser peak of the Blümlisalp group."
"You will want a guide for that, if you are beginners."
"We would not venture without Peter Steimathen."
"I know him. You couldn't do better."
"Are you going up somewhere too?"
"The Blümlisalphorn."
"Not alone! You have a guide."
"No, I have a friend. Not here—he has a room in a châlet close by. We are both well used to the mountains. No need for a guide."
"People say that is not safe."
"Depends!" And he smiled. "We've done a good deal together that way."
"Without guides?"
"Without guides."
"I hope you won't come to grief some day."
"I hope not!"
"You think it is wise?" dubiously.
"Extremely wise. But you must be careful—excuse me! There are traps for beginners that don't affect old hands."
"Peter Steimathen!" she suggested.
"He is excellent. But you must do as he tells you."
"Oh, I've learnt to obey," laughed Bee.
Then she saw that his attention was distracted; and her own became distracted also. Two new arrivals had just come in; a middle-aged lady, stout and handsomely dressed; and a girl, young, and quite lovely. She had one of those picture-faces which are seen two or three times in a half-century. Not Bee's gaze alone suffered distraction. The whole room gazed; and the object of all this attention received it calmly, without a change of colour or the flicker of an eyelid.
"She's used to it," Bee remarked to herself.
But it was impossible not to go on gazing. The face was one that nobody could glance at once and not glance again. Soft curly fair hair clustered about a fair brow; and the delicately tinted complexion made one think of snowflakes and rose-buds, or of early dawn in June. A slender figure, full of grace, shell-white arms and hands, features pretty enough not to detract from the exquisite colouring, helped to make up the tout-ensemble; and the forget-me-not blue eyes smiled graciously at the elder lady, at the waiters, at the table-cloth, at anything and everything that they happened to encounter.
Beatrice cast an involuntary side-glance towards her neighbour. He too was gazing; and in the quiet eyes she detected a subdued intensity, of which she would not have thought them capable.
"Isn't she sweet?" breathed Bee.
The remark was not even heard, and no reply came. Their broken talk was not renewed; and he disposed of eatables with the air of one who hardly knew what was before him. Dinner ended, the vision disappeared, and so did Bee's neighbour; but an hour later she was amused to see him at the further end of the saloon, in close talk with the pretty new arrival.
Meeting him still later in a passage, she paused and made some slight reference to the girl.
"I wonder who she is," Bee said.
"A friend of my sister's," he replied. "Singular, our meeting here. I have heard of her before."
Bee noted again a suppressed gleam in his eyes.
A MOUNTAIN HUT BY NIGHT
THE Frauenbahn Hut, at last!
For eight hours and a half, including rests, they had been en route, with their guide and porter, making the steep ascent from Kandersteg, winding through pine-woods, pausing at the rough Oeschinen Hotel, skirting the deep-grey waters of the lake from which it took its name—then mounting again to the "Upper Alp," only to leave that also behind, as they yet more steeply zig-zagged onward over rough shale, with the glacier to their right and the Hut for their aim.
An experienced mountaineer would have covered in six hours the distance they had come; but, naturally, it took them a good deal longer, which meant arriving late.
Both were very tired and very happy, and in a state of mental exhilaration, which, despite fatigue, gave small promise of getting quickly to sleep amid such unwonted surroundings. Thus far, though the way had been steep, they had had a rugged path. On the morrow they would quit beaten tracks, and would do a "bit of the real thing," as Amy expressed it.
The guide, Peter Steimathen, had proved himself a pleasant companion all that day. Fortunately, since neither of the two was a practised German speaker, he had some command of English.
A rough little place was this Frauenbahn Hut, though better than most mountain refuges, for, in addition to the room on the ground-floor, it boasted a loft above, both being on occasions crammed with climbers. Nearly half the lower room consisted of a shelf, some three feet from the floor, covered with a bedding of straw; and on this the girls would spend their night, rolled up in rugs, provided for sleepers. High above their heads the guides would repose on another shelf, to reach which some agility was needed.
Beatrice and Amy counted themselves fortunate in finding the Hut empty. Apparently they would have the place to themselves. They looked round with interest at the wooden walls, the small window, and the stove at which the guide was preparing to boil water for their soup.
"But come—come outside," urged Amy. "Don't let us miss the sunset. It won't wait our pleasure. We can examine things inside by-and-by. Come!"
And they went, commandeering hut rugs for wraps, since it was "a nipping and an eager air" here, nine thousand feet above the sea-level.
"To think of it! Up in the very midst of the mountain amphitheatre!" murmured Amy.
When seated side by side on the bench, silence fell. They had chatted much in the early stage of their ascent; or rather, Amy had chatted and Bee had listened, which was a not unusual division of labour between them. Bee was a good listener. But more than once Amy had detected a wandering of attention, which was not common. At least, it had not been common till lately.
"Dreaming, Bee?" she had asked; and Bee blushed. Amy noted the blush, putting that down also as something new.
But Amy too for once became dumb, as they gazed from their Alpine Hut over the wide snowy expanse. It was hardly a scene to induce light chatter.
The track by which they had mounted from the Oeschinensee was already lost in darkness. But in front stood forth the roseate peaks of the Blümlisalp; notably the Weisse Frau, square-shouldered, and clothed in a mantle of ineffably delicate pink; and beyond her, almost bending over her like a devoted bridegroom, stood the yet loftier Blümlisalphorn, scarcely less pure, though broken by lines and ridges of rock which lay at too sharp an angle to retain snow. Nearer was the bare and rocky Blümlisalp-stock, cold and grim in the twilight, rising abruptly from the névé of the glacier.
Long lingered the mysterious radiance of the afterglow on the spurs and slopes of those great Gothic peaks, until the last filmy veil, sea-green in hue, faded before the onslaught of night. Then attendant stars began to twinkle in the vault over the Blümlisalphorn, forming a little crown above his head.
The two girls held their breath, clasping hands under the rugs.
"It's too lovely," murmured Amy. "What a splendid world ours is! Do you remember what Ruskin says—'Did you ever see one sunrise like another? Does not God vary His clouds for you every morning and every night?' Does He really—for us? Are you and I meant to enjoy this, Bee? And has nobody ever seen, and will nobody else ever see, just precisely what we are seeing now? Isn't it a perfectly extraordinary idea? Why, even a mile off—even half a mile off—it wouldn't be the same."
Bee did not answer at once. She could not so readily as Amy put her thoughts into words. After a pause she suggested—
"It makes one feel how small one's life is."
"Does it? No, no, Bee—just the other way. I always feel how terrifically full life is—absolutely brim-full! There's any amount, every day, of what one could do, and might do, and ought to do—and of what one doesn't do! Isn't that true?"
Then, with a change of tone—"Bee, do you ever look forward, and picture life in the future—think and dream of what may lie ahead!" Bee's imprisoned hand stirred, for did she not? Amy went on, unheeding the movement—"I do! I'm always and for ever dreaming of the time when you and I will live together; when we shall be just everything to each other. One knows that changes must come, as years pass on; and why shouldn't one think of the things that will lie beyond those changes? Do you remember my telling you last summer of this vision of mine?—Of the dear little home that is to be ours, and of how the days will fly, and of how I shall shelter and guard and pet my darling, and of how we shall want nothing and nobody except just our two selves! Think—how perfect it will be. You remember—don't you?"
Yes; Bee remembered, though, truth to tell, the said talk had made no very profound impression upon her mind. Amy had talked, and she had listened and had pleasantly assented, only to dismiss the subject later from her thoughts. Plainly, Amy had taken it much more seriously.
"When I'm vexed or worried, nothing comforts me like thinking about that sweet little future home of ours. Does it comfort you too?"
Bee hesitated, too truthful to say yes. "I don't know—" she murmured at length. "I haven't thought much about it."
"You haven't!"
"One can't look forward with any sort of certainty. Life is often so different—so unlike what one has fancied."
"That wasn't the way you took it last time."
"I'm older now."
"You're not twenty; and I'm over thirty."
"Yes, I know. But don't you think one learns to see things a little differently as time goes on?"
"Nothing could make me see that differently. I have always counted myself yours for life—and you mine. I have always felt sure that you did too."
"At all events—nothing can ever alter our friendship," remarked Bee cheerfully.
"It would be very much altered, if I believed that you didn't care for me as I care for you."
"I don't think it's a question of caring—but only—one never knows what life may be by-and-by."
Amy made an impatient movement. "Of course I see what all this means. I suppose you're thinking of marrying some day."
Another little pause, broken by Bee's soft tones.
"One can't shut one's eyes quite to possibilities," she said. "Either you or I might some day come across the right man. I dare say it isn't likely—but still—"
"So—that's it!" Amy drew a long breath. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Who is the lucky person?"
"You are talking nonsense now, Amy. All I say is that the thing might some day happen for either of us. And then—I'm afraid the little house—"
"Would be tenantless! No doubt! And if this supposititious individual did turn up—you'd care for him, of course, a great deal more than you care for—"
Bee laughed a little. "I shouldn't think you could compare the two sorts of feeling. I shall always care for you, no matter what else happens. But I don't see the use of planning so far ahead."
Amy was busily thinking. "Somebody or other is at the bottom of this," she cogitated. "Who can it be? Let me think—Bee has not been her usual self since—since—that visit to her aunts! I know! There were two house-parties while she was there, and she saw no end of people. And—yes, she did mention one name several times—a great pet of the old ladies! I remember! He was there nearly as long as Bee. What was his name?"
"So you can't compare the two feelings!" she remarked aloud. "Which means that you know both, my dear! Ah, now you've given yourself away, you transparent person! Come—you may as well 'fess! Who is the objectionable individual?"
"You are talking nonsense again!"
"I'm not so sure! Let me think—whom have you been seeing lately? Wasn't there a very delightful person at your aunts' house—yes, you certainly spoke of somebody two or three times, and said he was nice. Which from you is high praise. What is the man's name?"
Bee was thankful for the darkness. She wished now that she had not been so foolish as to differ from Amy. Why had she not fallen in with her friend's mood, and allowed her to expatiate as long as she liked on that "sweet little home," which in Bee's eyes looked so far from attractive? It would have been wiser not to risk awakening her suspicions.
"A great many nice people were in the house. Amy, look at that gleam of light on the snow—just dying away."
"I'm more interested in the lights and shades of human beings. I suppose he didn't actually propose."
Bee stood up, and her tone held a touch of gentle dignity.
"Amy, you are talking in a very foolish way—in a way you have no right to talk. I am tired of listening, and I shall go inside."
Amy was in a perverse mood, at the root of which lay jealousy; and this offended her. She, too, jumped up.
"Just as you like! I'll come too. But you can't throw dust in my eyes, my dear. You never can hide things from me, you know. Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive. I have it now! I remember his name! And I shall always owe a grudge to Wratt-Wrothesley after this. Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched man, to rob me of my Bee!"
She slightly raised her voice that Bee might hear. And as the latter disappeared within the hut door, making no reply, a soft sound floated down from the loft, just over Amy's head—the unmistakable sound of a subdued masculine snore.
"Gracious!" uttered Amy under her breath. "Somebody must be up there! What a mercy he's asleep!"
She found Bee inside, looking pale, and disposed to hold coldly aloof. Amy, already ashamed of herself, was constrained to whisper—
"Never mind! I was only talking nonsense! I won't again! It's all right!"
IN AN AVALANCHE
THE Hut was not, as Amy and Beatrice had supposed, occupied only by themselves, their guide and their porter. Unknown to them all, two guideless climbers had arrived earlier—none other than the young English clergyman and his friend. They had retired to rest in the loft, purposing to ascend the Blümlisalphorn the next day. As they meant to start in the very small hours of the morning, they were glad to get to sleep without loss of time; and by thus retreating to the loft they hoped to secure an absence of interruptions.
Steimathen had quickly discovered, by the remains of a fire in the stove, that somebody had preceded them; but this fact he had not happened to name to the girls.
One of the two men, out of sight in the loft, was Robert Royston, now abroad for his short summer holiday. The other, strange to say, was actually Lancelot Dennis Ivor himself—with whom Bee had been thrown during her three weeks' visit to her aunts.
Bee had known, and had not forgotten, that he was an adept at mountaineering. Nay, it was he who had advised her to do a little scrambling in this very district, when she had mentioned her hope of a visit to Switzerland in the summer. She did not dream of coming across him, since he had said that Switzerland this year would be for him an impossibility, on account of certain engagements. Plans had changed, however; and here he was in company with his old college friend, Robert Royston.
At table d'hôte the evening before, though Robert alluded to his proposed ascent, he did not speak of the Hut; and she failed to deduce the fact that he and his friend were likely to sleep there. Neither did he utter his friend's name. Possibly, had Patricia not appeared just when she did, drawing off everybody's attention, he might have done either; in which case she and Amy would have been upon their guard. As things were, they had not the smallest suspicion that any human being was within earshot—the guide and his son being quite cut off by the solid wall of the Hut.
Voices under the open loft-window aroused Ivor from a light sleep. Not for some time fully. He lay in semi-consciousness—vaguely wishing that he had not been disturbed, envying the calm slumber of Rob, hearing partly as in a dream what was said, and regarding the same with the uncritical detachment and indifference of a dreamer.
The soft tones of one speaker sounded familiar; and though he was too far gone to attach a name, they transported him in imagination to Wratt-Wrothesley; and he saw himself again wandering through the lovely grounds with Bee.
A girlish argument of some sort seemed to be going on; and he took a drowsy dislike to Amy, as he rolled over and tried to forget himself once more.
Then the sounds grew clearer, more definite. That gentle-voiced girl was being pestered—worried—and he felt a touch of indignation. It dawned upon him that he was listening to something not meant for his ears; and he was rousing himself to give a loud cough of warning, when—
"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive," checked him abruptly, with a feeling that the listening girl must not know what he had heard. Then came the name of the place where he had met Bee Major, and his own name following.
In a moment he was wide awake. In a moment also he had the blankets over his ears, shutting out further sounds.
He recognised now well enough that soft voice. The only marvel was that he had not instantly known it. He had seen much of Bee during three weeks, had liked her much. If the impression made by him upon her was deep, the impression made by her upon him was not slight. He admired her; he enjoyed intercourse with her; he hoped some day before long to meet her again; he had even recognised as a possibility that he might by-and-bye find himself in love with her.
But he was not yet in love. He told himself so, almost angrily, as he clutched the blanket round his head. And of all wretched contretemps, what could be worse than this? That he and she should have come together, high in the mountains, away from the crowds, neither knowing of the other's presence, and that he should have overheard, without intending it, words which—whether truly or falsely—no doubt implied that he had somehow captured her heart! It was appalling!
Of course it might be all a mistake. Probably it was all a mistake. The girl was joking, teasing her companion, trying to get a rise out of her, as girls will; and Beatrice might never give the careless words another thought, if—it all hung upon that!—if she did not discover that he had been close at hand, and that he had or might have overheard. But if she did find this out—his whole being rose in revolt for Bee's sake. What would she not think? What would she not feel?
Small chance of sleep remained to him. He lay thinking the matter over, worrying himself, and planning how to escape in the early morning, before she should become aware of his presence.
An odd realisation crept over him, as he tossed and turned, that—if it were true—and no doubt it was not true, it was mere nonsense!—but if it were, then to be so loved would be a new and beautiful thing. Through his twenty-five years of life he had never yet known what it was to be first in a woman's heart. His mother had died in his infancy, and he had no sisters. He was well off, successful, and popular. Match-making mothers had courted him; and girls of a sort—the sort he would never dream of marrying, for he held a high ideal of what a woman should be—had flirted with him. But he knew Bee well enough to grasp that this would be altogether different. If Bee Major loved, hers would be a love worth having.
Of course it was all nonsense; a silly joke of that other unpleasant girl. Only—if it were—
He knew himself to be companionable and agreeable, liked by people in general, one who made and kept friends. But to be utterly and absolutely first with another—to be the one and only man to one only woman—that would put him on a new level, would give to life a fresh colouring.
No use dwelling on all that, he told himself impatiently. Bee Major had probably laughed at the silly words; and he himself was not in love. He was, however, very much concerned to prevent her from becoming aware of his presence in the Hut; and when one o'clock arrived, he wakened Robert, and impressed on him the need for abnormal caution, lest they should disturb two lady-climbers, sleeping on the ground-floor.
With exaggerated care, he set the example, creeping down the ladder like a mouse, and keeping as much as possible in shadow behind the stove, lest they also should have planned an early start, and should arouse themselves. Not likely, at one o'clock in the morning; but on such occasions nothing is impossible.
Besides, Beatrice might be awake, despite her stillness; and though she should catch no glimpse of his face, she might recognise his voice. So, in sombre silence, and not without some nervous glances towards the lower shelf, on which lay two dimly-outlined figures rolled in rugs, he drank his coffee. Rob kept equal silence.
It was a relief to Ivor to find himself safe outside the Hut. Quietly he and Rob started on their dark upward tramp, lighted only by stars, and by the glimmering lantern which swayed to and fro in the leader's hand. An hour later, as they were crossing the hard frozen neve, he received a fresh shock. Some words passed about their return route, and Rob remarked that he had entered a note as to their intentions in the Visitor's Book at the Hut.
"You didn't write our names!" Ivor involuntarily exclaimed.
"Yes, of course—why not?"
Why not, indeed? Ivor could offer no reason. He said only—
"I meant to do it on our way back."
"Always better to leave word of one's plans in case of an accident."
This was true enough; and Ivor made no further protest. He recalled that Rob had stayed behind for a minute or two, when he had made his way out of the Hut in readiness to start. He was very much annoyed—not with Rob for doing what was quite reasonable, but with the fact. Beatrice Major would undoubtedly look at the book, and she could not fail to see his name. She would at once surmise, not that he had actually heard her friend's foolish words, but that he might have done so. Too late now to do anything; but the day was more or less spoilt for him.
Such thoughts had to be put on one side, as the difficulties of the way increased. They were still there, lying as a weight at the back of his mind, though he had resolutely to ignore them and to bend all his energies to the task in hand. The ascent of the Blümlisalphorn is not exactly playwork, even for experienced climbers.
For a good while there was easy going over the frozen snow, and only for a few hundred yards was their route shadowed by the possibility—a slight one at such an early hour—of a falling avalanche. Breakfast on a pure white table-cloth followed; and after this began the exciting part of their ascent.
At first they mounted snow in good condition, lying on a foundation of rock, which here and there cropped through. Then it steepened and hardened, and the cutting of steps became necessary, till they reached the col or narrow neck, from which one looks down on the little Oeschinen Lake and the Valley of Kandersteg.
Thence the usual route is followed by the arête, now ice, now rock, not only narrow but steeply ascending. If the leader, as he cuts steps up the knife-edge of ice, should slip and fall, the instant duty of his companion on the rope is to fling himself over on the opposite side, where his weight would counterbalance that of his friend, and so prevent both from being dashed to pieces three thousand feet below. For such prompt action, in such a position, no little nerve is requisite; yet not to do it spells a double fatality. Both Ivor and Rob were men of calm nerve and quick decision.
While traversing the arête, no thinking about Beatrice could be allowed himself by Ivor; and he was hardly conscious of the scenery. Nothing but close and exclusive regard to each successive planting of the feet ensures safety, as, steadying himself with his ice-axe, a climber moves slowly upward and onward, till the summit is gained.
They stood there at length, side by side, triumphant,—just in time to revel in the magnificent sight of a cloudless panorama of peaks, each with its own wealth of golden light and azure shade, its morning glories and fleeting shadows, its crumpled and rifted glaciers, its uncountable revelations of beauty. Silent and entranced, they drank in the loveliness with supreme enjoyment; though perhaps neither could quite banish from his mind a recollection of that nerve-testing "knife-edge," which had soon to be descended.
Coming down such a mauvais pas is, as everybody knows, always far worse than going up it. Doubtless, it was as well that the Blümlisalphorn does not lend itself to a picnic or a lengthy rest upon the summit; for muscles are apt to stiffen with delay. A few minutes were all that could be safely spared.
As they gazed, neither of the two was thinking only and exclusively of the view.
In Rob's mind, together with the mountain glory, lay the picture of a girl's face, fair and smiling, which he could not banish. Patricia had laid her spell upon him; and even while his attention was most taken up with the perils of the way, that face remained. It sprang up now with a fresh insistence.
"If ever I marry—" he found himself saying, as his eyes roved from height to height, from glacier to glacier—"If ever I marry, she shall be my wife!" He was not conscious of haste in this decision—if a dream may be called a decision; and he did not even remember his words to Magda about not being a marrying man. He had not then "seen the girl." To-day he had seen her.
Ivor also, while his glance wandered hither and thither, was haunted by a presence. His chivalry had been troubled on behalf of Bee; and the thought of what she must go through, when she became aware of his nearness the evening before, pressed upon his mind. So soon as active exertion ceased, the burden made itself felt; and he began again to picture her state of mind.
If he did not really care for Bee, more than he was yet aware, it might seem singular that he should be so much disturbed. This view of the question did occur, and he had no answer ready—yet still he was disquieted. When, however, the moment arrived for starting; when the "knife-edge" had once more to be tackled—then he put her out of his thoughts; and then, too, Rob had for the time to forget Patricia. All their attention, all their nerve, were required.
Chip, chip, went the leader's axe, as he improved the steps made on their ascent; and when one was clean-cut, the nail-studded boot slid forward, and found good hold. Again the axe was at work; and the other boot crept to its place. So each in turn advanced; and never did the two climbers move together; and never was the rope that bound them in a bond of comradeship allowed to sag. Its tautness was their only insurance against the disaster which must otherwise have followed upon a slip. But, happily, no slip occurred.
They had come to a determination, on the preceding day, that if all went well they would return by another route from the col overlooking Kandersteg—a route rarely attempted, since the condition of an open couloir, a wide gully full of snow, which would have to be descended, was seldom tempting. In addition, there was always a possibility of the bergshrund below the couloir—a huge crevasse at the foot of the snow-slope—entirely stopping their further progress, and forcing them to re-ascend to the col, after half the descent had been done. But they hoped to find either a bridge of winter snow across the bergshrund, or else a place where they could turn it. And they were young and enthusiastic, and willing to run a certain amount of risk.
So they decided to venture on the attempt. And this was the scheme which Rob, the moment before they started, had scribbled in the Visitors' Book at the Hut, together with their two names.
The variation from the more ordinary route at first promised well; and the soft snow of the open couloir or gully allowed them, as they came down it, to kick for themselves deep and safe steps.
But gradually, almost imperceptibly, the character of the snow changed. It became powdery in substance; and each downward step started a miniature avalanche—so small as to discount precaution.
They were now hardly two hundred yards from the yawning bergshrund at the bottom of the slope; and to turn back without having examined it would be really too exasperating. Thus it was that the warning given by that shifting snow was allowed to pass almost unheeded. Rob, who was now the leader, did his best to pack it firmly, before trusting his weight to each foothold; and so far all seemed safe.
Ivor indeed felt so secure, as he plunged his foot into one deep step after another made by his friend, that he a little relaxed his watchful caution, and allowed his attention to wander, indulging in speculations whether he and Rob would find the two girls still at the Hut. But for that unfortunate remark overheard the evening before, he would have wished that it might be so. He would have liked nothing better than to see Bee Major again. He might never reach the point of actually falling in love with her; yet she was undoubtedly a very sweet and taking girl.
Such thoughts were travelling through his mind when something occurred, against which not all the acumen of the most experienced guides could have insured, had they ventured to trust themselves upon so treacherous a slope.
The sheet of snow which the two were descending began to stir! At first slightly—then more decisively.
Ivor, well behind Rob, the rope between them being nearly taut, was the first to awake to the awful fact that a wave had formed in front of him. Only too well he knew what that meant; and he instantaneously dug his ice-axe deep into the snow. This had small effect; for, as the snow-sheet slid downward, Rob was carried with it. For one second the rope tightened round Ivor; but, as the silent onrush of the avalanche fought for the mastery, he too felt himself gently yet irresistibly drawn into the white stream. Their eyes met, saying what their lips did not utter—"We are lost!"
Down and down, sliding, struggling, borne along by the moving mass, went both men; but Ivor was more in the actual stream than Rob, who happened to be swept to one side. It was a small avalanche, neither deep nor wide; and while Ivor remained near the centre, Rob was on the border. Though perforce moving with it, he was subject to less impetus; and as the white wave curled round a rib of rock outstanding from the snow, the rope caught firmly. On swirled the shallow snow, and he remained behind.
All might have been well with them both, had the rope held. But when Ivor's weight came on it with a heavy jerk, it severed on the sharp rock, as though cut by a knife.
Ivor was swept rapidly downwards; and without a sound, he disappeared over the edge, into the bergshrund. From that deep snow-prison, even if the hapless climber had not been at once killed by the fall, or smothered in the cataract of snow, Rob—barely escaping the same fate, and with only a short end of broken rope—was powerless to rescue him.
FRIENDS IN PERIL
FOUR hours after the departure of the two men, the girls were up, starting for their smaller ascent of the little Rothstock. They had a delightful five-hours' scramble, at the end of which, they again reached the Hut.
No contretemps, no false step on the part of either, had marred the climb. Amy had, in the early hours, shown a slight tendency to moodiness; and Bee had been silent and grave. But as the charm of their expedition gripped them, the spirits of both girls improved. As yet Bee remained in complete ignorance of the presence of others in the loft through the night. She could not easily throw off her displeasure at Amy's conduct; but she did her best to hide it. After all Amy had not meant to be unkind. She had only been—silly! It was wiser on her part to treat the affair as nonsense. And as the day went on, the recollection sank out of mind.
They resolved to have an hour's rest, before tackling the easy descent to Kandersteg; and as Amy flung herself down outside the Hut, Bee went inside, returning with the Visitors' Book in her hands.
"We haven't taken a look at the list of climbers yet," she said.
Amy had hoped to avert this. The last thing she wished was for Bee to awake to the possibility of those imprudent words having been overheard by some chance tourist. Unknown to Bee, she had found out that, not one man only, but two men had slept in the loft; and all day she had been at pains to keep clear of the subject.
"Yes, of course. We must sign our own names as conquerors of the Rothstock," she said quickly. "I'll do that presently. You've got to rest now. Give me the book, and I'll read the list aloud."
"Thanks, but we can both look. I like to see." Bee turned to the latest page, and exclaimed in surprise—"Robert Royston!—Magda's brother—" and the last word remained only half-uttered, as her eyes fell upon the name following. A deep flush suffused her cheeks. Amy, glancing at the page and then, in dismay, at her face, knew in a moment that what she had half-jestingly surmised was true.
Bee's colour faded faster than it had arisen. She grew white to the lips as if on the verge of fainting.
"They were here—last night!" Her eyes met those of her companion. "Amy!—Did you know?"
"Of course I didn't know. How should I? We both felt sure there was nobody here except ourselves. I never dreamt of such a thing. But we talked so low—they couldn't have heard a word!"
"Oh, no—no! You called out—loudly!"
"Bee, I'm sure I didn't. It isn't my way. You are fancying. And the window would be shut—"
"They are English. It would be open."
"But they were sound asleep. Of course they were sound!" Amy was really grieved at Bee's pale distress. "Quite sound!"
"It is easy to say so! You do not know."
"But Peter told me they went to bed very early, on purpose to sleep. Yes, I asked him, because—just after you went in, I heard a snore. I didn't see any use in worrying you, but I did ask Peter, and he said there were two Herren in the loft, and they had gone off in the night. I wonder we didn't hear them go. But I heard the snore quite plainly."
"That might show that one was asleep. Not—both!"
"If they had chanced to overhear a few words, they would know it meant nothing—just fun! They would understand."
"If only, only you had not done it!" Bee despairingly murmured. "I feel as if I could never bear to see either of them again."
"Why, Bee, really you are making too much of a small matter. What does it signify? Just a jest between two girls! Any sensible man would know what it was worth. If I had had a notion that anybody was there, of course I wouldn't have teased you; but I had not. And till this moment I didn't know their names. But now we do know, we can be perfectly sure that if either of them was awake, he would never have listened. He would have done something to let us know he was there."
"Not if he were taken by surprise—if he woke just then and heard his own name! How could he speak? I dare say it isn't likely; but it might have happened! I do think that sort of joking is very very wrong and unkind."
"Well, I won't do it again; I promise I won't. And I wouldn't think any more about it if I were you. Things can't be helped now; and the only way is to take sensibly what's done and can't be undone. You may depend upon it Mr. Ivor heard nothing."
Bee felt that it was easy for one person to be philosophical about another's trouble. She bent over the book with a troubled face, and read aloud a short note scrawled after the two names—"Going to try the Blümlisalphorn, descending from the col to the alp above the Oeschinensee."
She carried the book inside the Hut, and drew their guide's attention to this memorandum. Steimathen uttered a gruff word of disapproval. It was in his opinion a difficult and dangerous deviation from the ordinary route. The Herren would have been better advised, he said, had they kept to that route—with the snow in none too sound a state. Naturally, Peter was not particularly pleased with the enterprise of guideless parties, on mountains which he looked upon as his preserve.
All the way down, as far as the Oeschinen Hotel, Beatrice walked in thoughtful silence. She was pondering, partly, the dread that Ivor might have been awake, and so might have heard Amy's imprudent utterance; but also her mind was a good deal occupied with Steimathen's observations. More and more the possibility took hold of her that those two were in danger. The guide's suggestion might, it was true, have been to some extent dictated by jealousy; yet such a suggestion from a first-rate guide, who was also a good and dependable man, could not be lightly dismissed.
What if things were as Peter seemed to fear—if they had chosen a perilous route—if the snow was in an unsafe state—if something should happen to them on their way down? Nay, what if something were happening at this moment? The fear came between her mind and Amy's talk. For once she wished that her friend were capable of silence.
She made an opportunity to tackle Peter anew on the subject, asking fuller details about the nature of the proposed descent, and the reasons for his uneasiness. Peter's explanations were the reverse of comforting.
Very much more quickly than they had gone up, they regained the little hotel on the shore of the Oeschinensee. No sooner were they there, than Bee made straight for the telescope. She called Peter, got him to show her by which way the English gentlemen had planned to descend, and found that, from her present position, the entire route from the col—including a risky descent towards a very undesirable bergshrund, the nature of which he had already enlarged upon—could be swept by the glass.
Whether they had yet passed in safety that yawning chasm, Bee could not know, Peter could not tell her. If they had not, there was no reason why she should not actually watch their progress, could she but once "locate" them—or, as she expressed it, "get hold of them."
A good hour went by, during which she searched in vain. The guide wished to continue their descent to Kandersteg; and Amy was growing impatient; but neither of them could induce Bee to stir.
"I can't just yet," she pleaded. "There is no hurry. I have such a feeling that something is wrong. Do let me try a little longer. Yes—it may be all fancy—but I want to make sure."
Remonstrances fell on deaf ears. The usually compliant girl was resolute. She said little, but she clung to her post.
"What an imagination you have!" pettishly complained Amy, who by this time was both tired and cross. Yet still Bee gazed, searching the white slopes, regardless of her own or the other's fatigue.
"Just a little longer, Amy! I shall find them soon. I am sure I shall. If you cannot wait, please go on with Abraham; and I'll follow with Peter."
"Thanks. If I go, I'd rather have Peter. Of course I don't mean to leave you. But it is such nonsense!"
"Peter must wait, in case anything is wrong. He would have to go and help them."
"Why on earth should anything be wrong? It's more than likely that they have kept to the usual route, and are at the Hut by now. It's ridiculous your bothering about them like this."
"I can't help it, Amy. If anything happened to Magda's brother—"
"Oh, you needn't pretend, my dear! It's not—'Magda's brother'—" mimicking her tone—"that exercises your mind."
Beatrice lifted her face for one moment to look steadily at the other girl.
"I don't think that is quite like you," she said gravely, and she went back to the telescope.
Amy broke a lengthy silence, as if it had not existed. "No; it isn't like me. At least, I hope not. It isn't like my better self. I'm in the grip of the Green-eyed Monster to-day. Can't you see? It's hateful."
Bee's hand came softly on hers.
"Yes; I know. I've got to conquer. But all the same—oh, bother—I wish they'd turn up and have done with it. I'm tired."
"I'm so sorry," was all Bee said; and another ten minutes of patient scanning went by. Then her attitude changed, as—"There they are!" escaped her lips.
"Really!" with awakened interest.
"I see them! I see them plainly. Two little dots on the snow. I'm sure it is they." She called eagerly to Peter. "Oh, come!—come and look. I've found the Herren. What are they doing?"
She relinquished her post as he eagerly advanced. "My lady, she has good eyesight. She is right. The Herren are there. Nicht wahr?"
"Let me see again. One moment, please. Just to make sure!"
Unwillingly the guide complied, for Bee could not control her impatience.
"I see them now—quite plainly. Is that the part you said was where the snow might be bad? How fast they are coming down! Is it safe? But they are not so very high up. It's all right, isn't it? Oh! Oh, what is happening? What is it?" She seized Peter, and thrust him vehemently into her seat. "Tell me—what does it mean?"
Peter drew a long audible breath. He was just in time to catch one clear glimpse of the rolling figure of Ivor, before it vanished.
"Something is—not right," he answered gravely. "Yes; there is a mishap. One of the Herren has fallen. It may be—not far—but he is gone down. Nein, nein, Mees—one moment," as she grasped his arm. "Permit me, Mees—it is better that I look. Mees will not understand. The second Herr does not move. He stays there. He does nothing."
"You will send help! You will go yourself! You will not leave him to die!" urged the girl. "Peter—what can be done? Oh, please make haste."
She wrung her hands together, waiting for his next words, which did not come at once. Peter's gaze was riveted.
"The fallen Herr is out of sight still. The Herr above stirs not. He stays in one spot."
"You will go—will you not?" implored Bee.
"It is so. Mees may rest assured. All shall be done that man can do. They shall not be left to perish." Three minutes longer he studied the far-off scene.
"Peter—tell me—which Herr is it that has fallen?" She put the question faintly; and in her heart she chided herself for hoping that it might be Magda's brother—poor Magda!—and not the other.
"Ach! How can I tell?"
"Is he—is he—dead?"
Peter stood up. "We must not waste the time, Mees, in talk. It is that we must act. You, ladies, will wait here—is it not so?—till a rescue-party shall return from going to the Herren?"
"Yes, yes—only don't delay!" pleaded Bee.
Two other guides had happily arrived within the last hour from an expedition with three ladies, who at once agreed to manage the rest of their descent under the leadership of their porter, since they were unable to wait. A hurried consultation then took place; and it was decided that the three guides should start immediately, taking ropes and restoratives, and going by the shortest possible route. Peter, from his intimate knowledge of the district, had divined that one of the "Herren" must have fallen into the bergshrund, though he would not say as much to Bee. He knew too well what it might mean.
For Beatrice there followed a period of suspense, such as she had never before gone through. The hours seemed endless. It was not her way to talk of what she felt. All she wanted was to be left alone, that she might carry on her watch, silently praying. Afterwards, when she looked back, she knew that her whole being had been concentrated into one continuous wordless petition.
Amy really was sorry, now that she knew true cause for fear to exist. But her anxiety was moderate and impersonal; while to Bee it seemed that all joy in life hung upon the result of the guides' expedition.
While daylight lasted, she sat at the telescope, searching and searching, till her eyes grew dim and dazzled with the strain. That one tiny dark figure was always there; moving from time to time, yet never straying far. Beatrice built much upon the fact. If the fallen man were dead, why should his friend stay? On the other hand, if the fallen man were alive, would not his friend go in quest of help? Hope was put to a severe test.
Amy, as she found her efforts to bestow comfort of small use, went indoors and fell asleep; but Bee could not rest. When darkness made the telescope of no avail, she walked up and down outside the hotel, scarcely conscious of the cold, turning gently from well-meant attempts on the part of the hotel people to cheer her up, and picturing to herself without cessation Ivor dying or dead, or at best waiting on the lone island of rock, in cold and hunger and discomfort, resolute not to quit his friend.
If only he might escape with life, she would be content to ask no more. He might never think of her; he might never care for her; they might never meet again; but still he would be alive. She did not know how to endure the thought of a world which would no longer contain him.
Mastered at length by Amy's entreaties, she too went into the hotel, and lay down under blankets, refusing to undress. When Amy again dropped soundly off, she arose and seated herself at the window, to gaze in the direction of the spot where, perhaps, Ivor still was; or looking up at the calm stars overhead, to wonder whether already his spirit might have taken flight to those sublime heights; and how soon—if indeed it were so—she might be permitted to follow. Would it be wrong to wish to go—not to have to wait very long?
Then, refusing to admit any such possibilities, she imagined the guides drawing near to the scene of disaster, and tried to see, as in a vision, how they would rescue the fallen man. Though Peter had not told her exactly what it was that he conjectured, she had been quick to put two and two together, quick to read his thoughts. He had spoken of the bergshrund before the accident; and she knew at least something of what might be involved. Scene after scene passed before her mind's eyes till her brain whirled.
Dawn at last began; and with the earliest gleams of light she again planted herself at the post of observation; long before she could hope to make out anything. Time slowly, slowly dragged by; and patience at length met with its reward.
As day grew into being, she found herself actually witnessing the cautious descent of the couloir by the rescue-party. They hugged the rocks on one side, avoiding the course of the avalanche; and Bee watched, with a trembling hope which could find no utterance, till they reached the islet of rock where that patient watcher had spent his night; and the solitary dark figure was reinforced by other little dark figures. They seemed to pause and consult; then movements took place. What actually happened was that one of the guides attached himself to the full length of the rope, and was let down towards the shrund by the others, till he vanished over its edge. Then, when he reached Ivor, he fastened the rope round him, and they were drawn up together, the guide undermost.
Bee, from her distant post, could make out something of this. She followed the descent of the small dark body, saw it disappear, and with shortened breath waited through interminable minutes till something became visible, coming up slowly out of the depth. Something! But was it one man or two men?
She strained her eyes to see. Yes, certainly—two specks, close together, yet distinct, where only one had been; both apparently being dragged upwards toward where the rest of the party stood. The second might be Lancelot Ivor—or Robert Royston—or only a lifeless form, taken from its snow-prison. Who could tell?
"Anyhow, they've got him," Amy remarked, when Bee in short murmurs told what she saw.
"If we had not waited—if I had not found them—"
"Yes. You were right. I'm glad now that you persisted."
"Nobody might have known till—too late! Amy, you were very patient."
"I didn't feel patient, I assure you."
More hours crept by, and still Bee watched. Amy at last protested—
"You are worn out, Bee. If you would but lie down for an hour!"
"I can't just yet. Please don't ask it."
Nearer and nearer drew the party; more and more distinct in the field of the telescope.
Then Amy heard one short sigh of relief. "Yes," she said. "I can count them now. They are resting. The three guides, and both the others. Both—both!"
"Yes, dear."
"He's not killed. He's—alive!"
She slid off her seat into Amy's arms; and for a moment Amy thought she had fainted away; but she pulled herself together.
"How stupid! What made me do that?"
"You felt dizzy. Come indoors now and lie down. They are all right; and they can't get here for ever so long."
"Yes; I think I will. I'm a little—tired."
She walked quietly, stumbling once or twice, as if uncertain of her footing. Amy put her on the bed, and covered her up.
"You are to go to sleep. You shall hear everything by-and-by."
Amy stooped for a kiss; and Bee held her down. "Dear—you have been so kind. Thank you. Please don't let anybody know that I have—minded!"
"No, of course not!" Amy did not add, as she felt tempted to do, that anybody might have seen. She knew that it would be easy to explain Bee's over-anxiety, by the fact that one of the two men was the brother of her intimate friend.
"He's safe!" dropped slowly from Bee's lips. She drew one long sigh; her arms slackened and fell; and already she was dead asleep. A look of childlike peace overspread her face.
Amy stood looking down upon her. "Poor little dear! That's all you care for now! He—not even 'they.' And will he ever care for you? And if not—will you break your poor little heart? People don't break their hearts now-a-days—some say. But Bee is not like the ordinary run."
Bee smiled in her sleep.
"I shall hate him if he does; and I shall hate him if he doesn't! A nice state of things! O you Green-eyed Monster!—How I despise you! But you've had the better of me to-day; though I don't believe Bee has found it out. And you've got to be squashed, you know!" Amy shook her fist as at an enemy.
THE RESCUED MAN
ONCE asleep, after her long watch, Beatrice slept profoundly—slept till long after the rescue-party and the two Englishmen had come in.
There could be no question of getting back that night to Kandersteg. Ivor was suffering from frostbite and bruises; and though, with a good deal of help, he had managed to walk part of the way down to the Oeschinen Hotel, he could do no more. Both he and Rob had to be warmed and fed; and for both a good night's rest was the first essential.
Bee saw nothing of them until next morning, by which time she was quite restored to her usual gentle self. That evening talk outside the Hut seemed to her dreamy and unreal, and as if it had happened years before. She had almost lost sight of it, under the great strain of anxiety; and she could not think of it now, for the joy of knowing Ivor to be safe. For this her heart sang a ceaseless song of thanksgiving.
Or at least, she would not let herself think of it. Probably, as Amy insisted, he had heard nothing. If he had caught a few words—the only course for her was to be utterly simple, utterly natural, free from self-consciousness. Then he would forget; he would think himself mistaken. Bee was capable of carrying out this rôle; as perhaps many girls, less practised in self-control, might not have been.
Ivor appeared last of an early party. He came to breakfast limping, and still pale, but with a smile.
"All right, old fellow?" Rob asked.
"Thanks—yes." His glance went straight to Bee, and without hesitation he crossed over, holding out his hand. "We have met before," he said; for he, like Bee, had resolved on complete simplicity as the only mode of "grasping the nettle."
She met the hand and smiled bravely; and before a word could be spoken, Peter Steimathen, who had followed Ivor in, to see how the "Herr" might be after his severe experience, made matters easier for both by breaking in—
"It is to the Mees here that you owe your life, Mein Herr!" He glanced at Bee with admiration. "The Fräulein she would have her way! She would not return to Kandersteg, till she should see where the English Herren were. Myself I had told her there might be difficulties for the Herren, and the Fräulein understood. Ach, but had she not so done, we should not so soon have gone in search. Nein, truly we should not."
"And that must have meant for me—just all the difference!" Ivor observed in a low voice.
He was not allowed then to say more. Rob insisted on attention to breakfast. But Bee had already heard from the others what was thought of her share in the rescue; and her feelings may be easily imagined. From Ivor she wanted no thanks. It was enough, and more than enough, to know that she had been the means of saving his life—as they all declared was the case.
After breakfast, when Amy was putting up their things and Peter was consulting with Rob how to get Ivor to Kandersteg—since he was clearly unable to walk any distance—she found herself, quite by accident, alone with the latter.
Bee took it simply; and her complete naturalness made the position of affairs easy for him.
"I am afraid you are suffering a good deal with your foot," she said.
"Rather numb still, thanks; but I'm getting back the proper circulation. No fear now, they tell me, that I shall lose even a toe." He smiled; then, putting aside his own hurts, he expressed his gratitude, in a few strong words, for what she had done.
"Neither Royston nor I can ever forget it. We owe our lives to your thoughtfulness. I—even more than he. I suppose he might have got back in safety; but I was helpless."
"Would not the guides have started in search of you—if I had done nothing?"
"Yes. The question is—whether they would have been in time."
"I am very, very glad!" The words sounded absurdly inadequate. She had never in her life been half so glad, half so thankful; yet she spoke quietly. "It was curious—I could not help waiting. Such a strong feeling came that something was wrong—that I had to wait!—Even before it actually happened."
"One may say, I suppose, that it was—Providential!" He spoke with shy English reserve, yet with real feeling; and this time her response was eager.