"Wratt-Wrothesley.""Tuesday.""MY DEAR MAGDA,—""You will be rather surprised to find that I am here, in the same house with your brother, and with your friends the Majors. Why did you not tell me about their coming to Burwood, you dear little goose? Did you think I should be jealous? My aunt and I went lately to call at Virginia Villa—not dreaming that you knew them! And we were just charmed with them both. Mrs. Major is quite unique; and the daughter so pretty and charming. Of course everybody knows all about Mrs. Major, directly it oozes out that she is a sister of the Miss Wryatts'; and I believe it is solely through them that I have this invitation to Wyatt-Wrothesley, where I have always longed to come—though certainly I knew the Miss Wryatts slightly before. They are about the most delightful people I ever came across; and the house and its surroundings are simply perfect.""I am enjoying myself here more than I can tell; and for more reasons than one—as you will understand! You are such a devoted sister, that you have certainly read Rob's letter before giving a look at mine; so you know the news, and there is no need to tell you again. We are very, very happy—he and I. How happy I cannot explain, or hope to make you understand, since you have never yet been through the same. He is such a dear fellow! I can hardly believe in my good luck! And it is nice to think that one day you will be my sister. Not that we talk of marriage yet. That must wait till Rob gets a living. But everything is so far settled—except that Rob is writing to his father and mother and I am writing to my aunt. Everybody here congratulates us both—each on having the other—which is all right!""Your affectionate friend,""PATRICIA."
With dazzled eyes and beating heart, Magda tore open Rob's letter, not trusting herself to speak. As from a distance she heard Mr. Royston's excited exclamations—
"Hallo! So Rob has stolen a march on us all! Engaged! And to Miss Vincent! Well, well, he knows a pretty face when he sees it. Pretty manners too, and a nice girl; and there is money in the background. Might have done worse for himself."
Magda was reading, or trying to read, Rob's short letter, brimming with suppressed joy and tender gladness, which found no echo in her heart. He spoke of his darling—of his supreme happiness—of his certainty that Magda would rejoice with and for him. Not one word about that discarded dream of the future, now never to be anything but a dream. Not a thought of her disappointment! For him and Patricia—all might be sunshine. But—where did she come in?
She stood up hastily, sliding her chair back. "Where are you off to?" Mr. Royston asked. He disliked any one leaving the table before himself. "Did you hear about Rob?"
"Yes—I know."
Before another word could be said, she was gone. It was impossible to stay, impossible to hear them lightly and with laughter discussing that which was the death-knell of her hopes. Again it was as if a small thunderbolt had crashed down at her feet; not this time from any fault of her own, which might have been a comfort, had she only seen it. To bear a trouble which comes straight from a Father's Hand is always easier than to endure one which we have brought upon ourselves.
Still, it did seem very, very hard to Magda; and not less so because it was Patricia who had stolen Rob from her. Till now she had never quite realised what that dream of the future had been in her imagination—how fixed and stable it had seemed, how it had coloured all her outlook, how it had comforted and helped her in little daily frets and worries, how it had filled the horizon of her mind. And lately she had worked so hard, so eagerly, to make herself ready! And now—now—she was nothing to Rob; now Rob would never want her, would never again turn to her for sympathy. He had Patricia; and in Patricia, he would find all he needed.
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.
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.
The one she wanted did not appear; but she found a doleful enjoyment in reading one after another, and in contrasting their tone with what she knew she had to expect in days to come. He would write to Patricia instead of to her; he would tell Patricia everything, instead of telling her. That was the keynote of her mental ditty.
Losing herself in the thought, she ceased to read, and her fingers played aimlessly with the desk. Unconsciously she pressed a small spring with force, and a piece of wood stirred. Yes; there was a secret drawer there, of course; but she had not opened it for years and years. A touch of idle curiosity made her open it now; and she found within a sealed envelope. At the moment, memory brought no associations with the packet; but out of it dropped a small photograph. Then recollection flashed back.
"Why—Ned Fairfax!" she uttered.
It was the face of a boy of sixteen or seventeen; good-natured and sensible. She was a trifle amused, in spite of herself; recalling the long-past day when, in a fit of childish wrath, because her last letter to him had remained unanswered, she had tragically closed and sealed and put away his likeness, resolving to forget his existence.
"Seems to be my fate!" she muttered. "Everybody gives me up in turn."
A familiar voice outside the door broke upon these musings. "All right, Frip. I'll come presently. I must have a chat with Magda first."
And Rob came in; sunburnt, healthy, glowing with happiness.
Magda stood up reluctantly. She resented his manifest and supreme gladness, in which she had no share.
"Well, Magda," as she returned his kiss in limp fashion. "I have come for your congratulations. Why did you not write?"
"I—meant to. Are you going to stay?" So different from former comings did this seem, that she had to swallow a lump in her throat.
"I'm sleeping at Claughton. Came back with Patricia yesterday. I want to hear how Merryl is after her change. Not strong yet, I'm told. Well?" And his quiet happy eyes looked into hers.
She was silent, gazing on the ground. "Not one word!" in a tone of surprise. "Why—Magda!"
"I don't see how you can expect—" She spoke resentfully.
"Not expect congratulations!"
"Of course—I do congratulate you. One always has to say that, I suppose," and there was a hard little laugh. "All the same—Rob, you did tell me—"
"What did I tell you?"
"That you didn't mean to marry."
"I told you that I had not seen the right girl—and I had not. While that was the case, I was a non-marrying man. But now, I have seen her! Which makes all the difference!"
"Yes, it means that you'll never want me!"
Rob laughed outright at the injured tone. It was too comic—from the point of view of a man, and especially of a man over head and ears in love!
"My dear Magda!" he said. "You are not a child any longer. Don't you see that this alters everything—must alter everything? If I had not met Patricia, I might have gone on single for years, perhaps even for life. But—I have met her."
"Oh, I know! Of course, I understand. It's all quite right and sensible, I dare say—only it does just make all the difference to me. You'll never want anybody now except Patricia."
It was Amy Smith over again, but without consciousness of the "green-eyed monster." Magda was seeing things solely from her own point of view.
"Magda, are you an infant still?"
"No," shortly. "Only—I have looked forward—"
"I would not look forward any more in that spirit! I am sorry if my happiness means disappointment to you. Why, I thought you would be delighted—Patricia being your particular friend."
"I'm not."
"Don't make other people uncomfortable, pray, by treating them to a November fog."
Magda was silent.
"Come—be brave and sensible," he urged. "Some friends are expected there to tea this afternoon, and Patricia sent a particular message, hoping that you would come."
She murmured something like assent, and he went away evidently disappointed in her. No sooner was he gone, than she felt ashamed of her own moodiness, realising that if she should show any slight to Patricia, it could only end in a breach between herself and Rob.
The others were invited also; and not long after four o'clock they arrived at Claughton. A goodly company was already assembled on the large lawn, under shadow of some ancient cedars. It was a scene, and Magda felt secretly grateful to Pen and her mother for not allowing her to go in less than her "best," though she had flung out indignantly at the interference after luncheon. In her then state of mind she had been disposed to think that "anything" would do. Why bother to be smart?
Patricia, a dainty nymph in white and green, stood upon the grass, dispensing smiles upon an admiring world. She was particularly gracious to Mr. Royston—Mrs. Royston had not been able to come—and she welcomed her future sisters-in-law with exactly the right degree of warmth, kissing each lightly on the cheek, and paying chief attention to Pen as the elder.
Pen and Mr. Royston stayed in the circle which surrounded Patricia; but Magda fell back to a retired position, half sheltered by bushes. She had no wish to remain prominently forward, under Rob's observation.
To her surprise, she saw Bee, apparently the centre of another little circle, farther off; and Mrs. Major, looking distinguished in a rich black silk, seated in the post of honour, and receiving pointed attentions from Mr. and Mrs. Framley.
It was all oddly the reverse of what she had pictured so often in earlier months, before the arrival of the Majors at Virginia Villa.
Her own inclination would have been to escape from the crowd altogether; but that at present was out of the question. A fear of annoying Rob restrained her.
But what to do with herself was the question. Plainly she was not needed by Patricia; and having done her duty, she would not go forward again. All the ladies were chatting together, and being waited on with cups of tea by the limited number of masculine guests. There was no one for whom Magda cared; and nobody who cared for her. So she told herself rather dismally, as she stood apart, watching the people, listening to the buzz of voices. Bee once had cared; and, but for her own folly, Bee would undoubtedly care still, since hers was no changeable nature. But things were altered. How could Magda expect that either Bee or her mother would forget the manner in which she had treated them?
She was saying this to herself, when a hand touched hers, and she awoke with a start, to find Bee's soft brown eyes looking into her own.
"Why did you not come to me, Magda? I could not get away sooner, but I've been trying. Don't stay here all alone. Would you not like some tea?"
"Oh, thanks—but it doesn't matter. I can get some for myself presently. It's all right—don't bother about me, please." Magda was annoyed to hear a tell-tale huskiness in her own voice. That would never do. She pulled herself together, with an air of indifference. "The people over there want you. Don't stay."
Bee kept her position, and Magda examined her with more attention. She was very pretty, in her white embroidered frock and shady hat—so pale and delicate featured, with marked dark brows and a gentle smile. Yet there was something of sadness in those sweet eyes; and a wonder assailed Magda—had she given serious pain to her friend by her recent conduct?
"Bee, I want to talk with you some day," she broke out impulsively. "Not here. Another time. I want to explain—"
"Any day. You are always welcome at our house. I think I pretty well understand already. Don't you feel very glad about your brother?"
"Bee! How can I? When you know what I always expected!"
The words ended abruptly. Bee slipped her arm through Magda's, and led her into a little side-path winding among trees.
"Come, shall we have a turn through the grounds? Tea will do presently. Yes, I know you used to talk of keeping house for him some day. But that was only a dream. One knew it might never come true. And surely you must be glad about this—if it means his greater happiness. You—who are so fond of your brother! How can you help being glad?"
She would not seem to see the struggle going on at her side. Magda was in danger of a breakdown.
"Don't you see—" Bee went on—"that it is the right thing for him? If she is the one woman who can fill his life and make him happy—then, surely, he should marry. And you must wish the very best for him. Not merely that you should have something that you would like, but that he should live the fullest and most useful life possible. I don't know Miss Vincent well yet; but one can't help admiring her. And he is devoted to her—quite, quite devoted."
Magda muttered something indistinct, and they walked on in silence. On one side of them the bushes grew thinner, and they saw a seat beyond, with two ladies on it. As they passed, a voice remarked, low but distinctly—
"All very well, my dear! This is the third! Patricia is never happy long without a man at her apron-strings. But how long will it last?"
Bee hurried her companion on, making a slight stir; and the sound ceased. Another ten seconds, and they were out of hearing.
"Patricia! The third!" repeated Magda.
"We were not meant to hear. People should be more careful."
"Who was it? Do you know the voice?"
Bee kept silence, for she did know. It was that of Patricia's aunt, Mrs. Norman—the sister of Patricia's mother, whereas Mrs. Framley was the sister of Patricia's father.
"Do you suppose it is true?"
"There is always gossip of the sort. We must forget it."
"You don't think I ought to tell Rob?"
"Certainly not. It is no business of ours. Magda, be wise—don't repeat it to any human being. I shall not tell even my mother."
"But if it is true?"
"Miss Vincent may have been engaged before—and she may have found it to be a mistake. Anyhow, one may always allow for exaggeration. Your brother must find out for himself. Try to forget it, dear. No one can see the two together without seeing how happy they are."
"Would Rob be happy if he thought this was true—if he were really the third?"
"We have nothing whatever to do with that!" Then Bee began talking about Wratt-Wrothesley and the house-party there. "Everybody admired Miss Vincent," she said. "And everybody liked your brother. My aunts were so grateful to him for what he did in the summer, when Mr. Ivor had that terrible accident. He is one of their greatest friends; and but for your brother, he never could have come through it."
"But it was partly you too, Bee."
"Oh, mine was the most commonplace help. I just looked through a telescope and used ordinary sense. But Mr. Royston—think what it meant for him to spend the whole night on those rocks, in such awful cold—waiting for the morning. We all felt that he was a real hero."
"I suppose Mr. Ivor wasn't at Wratt-Wrothesley, too, when you were all there."
"No." Bee spoke quietly, without the shadow of a sign that it meant anything to her. "My aunts did invite him, but he said he could not spare the time just then. He was going a little later."
ABOUT TRUE SERVICE
"I SHOULD like to get hold of that child. There is something out of time in her life."
The Rev. Osborne Miles, Vicar of Burwood, stood on a side-path in his garden, surveying with deep interest a group of seedlings, pushing their way upward. After weeks of severe cold, a mild spell had set in—quite time it should, people said, near the end of April—and the Vegetable World was responding with vigour.
He had been presented to the living scarcely a year before this date, and was therefore still "a new man" in Burwood. Thirty years of strenuous toil in a murky manufacturing town, with a parish of twenty thousand, had broken his health by the time he arrived at sixty; and after much hesitation, and many regrets, he accepted a country cure. Burwood, though called a "town," was to him absolute country. Sleepy country too!
He did not look ill, as he stood with squared shoulders and vigorous mien—being a man of natural energy, and one who would never, at his physical worst, carry himself with limp dejection. Strong in build, deliberate and capable in movement, with abundant grey hair and searching eyes beneath overhanging brows, he was not one to be easily overcome; but two years earlier he had been brought by long strain to the lowest possible ebb of vitality. Yet he rallied; and though sternly prohibited by doctors from returning to his old and beloved sphere, he never dreamt of leading an idle existence. So the Burwood offer was accepted.
One thing he found here which, through all his strenuous existence, he had thirsted for—a garden. The old Vicarage, built of the same dull-hued local stone as the ancient Church, stood in an acre of ground well laid out. He could at last freely indulge his passion for flowers.
Of course, even in quiet Burwood, his time was much taken up; but after the life he had lived, this by comparison was ease. He found time for everything, and for his garden besides—especially on Monday, always counted as far as possible an "off-day;" and this was Monday.
After working among thousands of men, it was a change to find himself chiefly concerned with elderly ladies, spinsters or otherwise. Not all elderly. There were many girls in the place; and he studied them with interest. They belonged to such a different type from the young business-women and rough mill-girls, among whom he had worked hitherto. The mild futility of existence among many of them aroused his wonder. It seemed so inadequate a use of life!
"What do they do with themselves?" he one day asked his wife.
"A good many things, dear. They go to tennis-parties—and play hockey—and bicycle and skate. A few of them hunt."
"You are talking of amusements. What work do they do?"
"Some don't do any work. Some are busy at home. Some have classes in the Sunday-school—or help in other ways with parish doings. Some make their own blouses."
The Vicar heard this in silence and went on studying the problem. He was gradually individualising Burwood folks; and lately he had individualised Magda Royston. The church was free-seated; but the Roystons had their own position, just in front of the pulpit, and he had early noted a fresh girlish face, with its rather unusual mass of reddish hair, and with a bright brisk bearing. Then he observed a change. The bright face grew dull; the spirited pose spiritless. Something was wrong with her, he decided; and he went to call, but failed to find the object of his solicitude.
Two Sundays back his attention had been awakened anew. Talking to his people of life, its claims, its duties, its abuses, he saw that listless face lifted, and a look of interest dawn.
"The child wants a helping hand," he thought. "I must get hold of her." But he had not yet succeeded.
"Osborne," called a cheery voice; and his wife came across the wet lawn—a charming little woman, fresh as a daisy, despite years in a manufacturing town; supremely neat in dress, and supremely happy in look, with smiling eyes and ready laugh. They had been married ten years, and were lovers still, though she was a good twenty-five years his junior.
"You are wanted, dear."
"Generally the case on Monday."
"I know. You ought to be left in peace. But I did not like to suggest another time. Girls are cranky beings."
"You speak of them from personal experience."
"Yes, I do. I was cranky at her age—always ready to be rubbed up the wrong way."
Mr. Miles did not count this conclusive as to girls in general, though he forbore to say so. He seldom argued with a woman.
"And if ever I had screwed up my courage to the point of wanting an interview with a clergyman, and had been turned away, I should never have gone again."
"I see. Who is it?"
"One of the Royston girls. The red-haired one."
"She has asked for me?"
"She brings a packet from her father; and she said—might she give it herself?"
"All right. Send her here."
A very clear sense came over the Vicar that he had had this girl not only in his thoughts but in his prayers.
"My dear—the grass is wet."
"Nothing but dew. It's delicious."
She tripped lightly off; and the Vicar waited till Magda approached—shy at coming, and half disposed to bolt at the last moment. He saw so much. Also, from long experience, he at once recognised that she had something in her mind, which she wanted to bring out.
"How do you do? All well at home?" Though the words were commonplace, his strong hand closed round hers with a fatherly grip which won her confidence on the spot. "I'm glad you have found your way to us. It is time that I should know you better."
She said only "Yes," but there was evident pleasure.
"Fond of flowers?" He drew her attention to a fine bloom. "Is not that a marvel of colouring? Something in the arrangement of those petals speaks of a Mind behind—controlling. A garden has much to say to us, if we will but listen. We don't always."
"I suppose we don't always understand the garden-language," she suggested.
He stooped to gather a daisy from the lawn. "Did you ever come across those lines?—"
"'Small service is true service while it lasts;The daisy by the shadow that it castsProtects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.'"
"And here is the dewdrop—see! Able to last till now, because of the daisy-shelter. I have taken the daisy away for another and a higher purpose. But it did its little work first."
"Why higher?"
"It has sheltered a drop of water. Now it serves to illustrate a great truth. That is the more important."
"I see-yes. Was the other worth doing?"
"Certainly—if that was its appointed task."
"Things like that seem so small—as if it were all the same, whether they are done or not done."
"Ah, that is the mistake often made. Nothing in life is so small, that its doing or not doing does not matter. Everything is part of one grand whole. That gives dignity to the smallest duty."
"I suppose—" and she broke off. "Oh, it doesn't matter."
"Perhaps it does matter. What is your trouble, my child?" And the kind penetrating eyes studied her.
"I can't see what work there is for me. I couldn't take a district. Father says I'm too young—and, besides, I shouldn't know how to manage it. I did think of a class in the Sunday-school. But I hate teaching. And mother is so afraid of infection for Merryl and Frip."
"What about home duties?"
"Pen sees to all that."
"Leaving nothing for you?"
Magda did not at once reply. A recollection came up of sharp complaints from her father.
"I can't see that there is anything for me to do—worth doing!" she said at length. "Nor anything worth living for."
"Child!"—and he spoke in a moved tone. "Life is always worth living—in God! Everything is worth doing—in Christ our Lord."
"But if there really is nothing?" she insisted.
"If you have absolutely no direct work now, you must wait in patience, and train yourself for the future. You must educate your powers—make yourself ready for what may come by-and-by. Preparation for work is, in its way, as important as the work itself. The preparation in some cases lasts for years; the work itself lasts but a short time. That does not matter. All that matters is that we should be doing whatever God gives us to do, in simple obedience and love."
"And suppose one worked hard for years and years—trying to make ready—and nothing ever came of it?"
"Something will certainly come of it—in this life or in the next. No true work for God is ever thrown away."
"I don't see what I'm to do. It all seems so difficult." She sighed despondently.
"Don't be in too much of a hurry to see your way. Only make the best possible use of your days meanwhile. There is always something to be done for somebody. The smallest service may be 'true service while it lasts.'" Mr. Miles pulled out his watch. He knew that he had said enough. "Ah—I must be on the move. But come again soon. You will find my wife indoors."
He went with her; and as they met Mrs. Miles, she said—
"A letter from Lance. He wants to pay us a visit."
"He is always welcome. How soon?"
"In a week or ten days. I'm afraid he'll find it dull."
"Ivor's not given to dulness." The Vicar vanished, and Magda asked in an interested tone—
"Is that the Mr. Ivor who fell into the crevasse? Do you know him? His name is Lancelot, I'm sure."
"We are first cousins; and he has always been like a younger brother to me. He is a dear fellow."
"I've never seen him, but he is Rob's friend."
"Yes, he has spoken of your brother. Come and see his likeness."
She went into the dining-room, and produced a framed photograph, which the girl studied.
"What a fine face!" she said. Then putting it down, she took up a second, asking—"And who is this?"
"Another cousin of mine; on my mother's side. Lance is on my father's."
"He isn't so handsome. I seem to know the face."
"Ned never had much to boast of in the way of looks. He is a dear, kind-hearted fellow; always ready to do anything he can for any human being. So Is Lance, for the matter of that!"
"I wonder if I ever saw him," murmured Magda. "Perhaps he is like somebody I know." She turned away, remarking—"I once had a friend called Ned; but I haven't seen him for years. Not since I was eleven and he was seventeen. He never wrote."
"I'm afraid your friend was rather fickle."
Magda took up the photograph anew, and after a fresh scrutiny she glanced at the back.
"Why!" she cried. "It is! It's the same. It is Ned Fairfax!"
"Certainly; that is Ned Fairfax."
"But he used to be my friend. The only friend I ever made before I went to school. He and I were immense chums. How funny! Oh, how funny! I didn't even know where he was. We were always getting together, and I was a sort of pet of his for more than three years. I told him everything."
"How amusing! Now I think of it, his mother lived here for three or four years, when she first became a widow. He used to go to a school two miles off. I was sorry she did not send him to a public school. Still, he has turned out a good fellow; not so brilliant as Lance."
"We used to write just at first; and then he left off. People said he would, of course, because he was a boy. But it made me miserable. I dare say he has forgotten all about me now. I should like to see him again."
"You are pretty sure to do that. He visits us at least once a year."
"Oh, how droll to come across him like this!" Magda said again.
TAKEN BY SURPRISE
IT had dawned upon Magda that the home-life of Beatrice Major was not quite so smooth and easy, as an outsider might imagine. Bee said nothing to lead to this impression; but it came into being.
Mrs. Major was socially delightful; "so distinguished and patrician!" Somebody said this; and the phrase "caught on." The Burwood ladies went about, remarking one to another—"what a very distinguished person dear Mrs. Major was; so very patrician, you know!"
But to be never so distinguished and patrician does not mean of necessity that the possessor of those adjectives must be always easy to get on with.
She certainly had plenty of originality, with a goodly allowance of brains, and really fine principles. But she was a woman very much accustomed to have her own way; and she expected to have it. She was sensible, even wise; and the "way" that she wanted might, more frequently than not, be both wise and sensible. Yet at times one would rather be free to go one's own foolish way than be forced, against one's will, into paths of wisdom.
If this was the state of things with people in general, much more was it so with her only daughter. She indeed had shaped and ordered Bee's life in true "absolute monarchy" style. Of the mother's devotion to the daughter, there could be no question; and the love was warmly returned. Yet even Bee, with all her innate and cultured gentleness, did crave for a trifle more liberty.
Despite her twenty-one years, she was treated precisely as a child in the school-room. She had an allowance; but she was expected to consult her mother about every shilling that she spent. She might not go out for a walk without asking leave. Her ways of thinking were naturally much the same as Mrs. Major's; but if on any point she differed—and, of course, she did sometimes differ—she was at once suppressed. She might not act for herself, might not think for herself. In Mrs. Major's eyes she was a child still, and likely to remain so.
"Bee, I couldn't stand it in your place! I really couldn't!" Magda broke out one day. Of late Magda had taken to going often in and out of Virginia Villa, where she could always be sure of a welcome. Her friendship with Patricia had dwindled into small dimensions. Patricia had a fancy for Pen, and the two were much together, while Magda was treated with kindness as a younger sister, for whom Patricia found scant leisure. In disgust, she threw up the attempt to see more of her former idol, and fled for comfort to the earlier companionship.
Bee never showed the slightest umbrage at thus acting as a pis-aller. Magda one day tried lamely to explain and excuse her own past conduct; and Bee listened, with patient attention, till the explanation broke down. After all, there was little to be said, except that Magda had not been faithful to her friend. But Bee did not seem to mind. She was gently affectionate as ever, though with a difference. She no longer "worshipped the ground" on which Magda walked. Rather she took her stand as the elder of the two, and was kind, solicitous, sympathetic—but independent. Her happiness rested no longer on Magda's smiles or frowns. While she still loved, it was with love of a different quality. She had been disappointed in Magda; and nothing could reinstate Magda in the old position, for no explanations could do away with facts.
On this particular day, Bee had just had a decided set-down from her mother on some little point of variance; and Mrs. Major, having administered the snub, without any conception that it was a snub, took herself smilingly off. So soon as the two girls were alone Magda broke out as above.
"Yes, you would. What does it matter? Mother is so good to me always. It is only just—not arguing."
"I don't see why you are never to have an opinion of your own."
"Nobody can help my having an opinion of my own."
"Only you've got to smother it down! I've always thought I was pretty closely kept in—but it's nothing to what you are. And you know how girls do have their way now—in some houses."
"I wonder if they are the happier for it—really!"
"Anyhow, they like it. Wouldn't you?"
Bee worked steadily in silence. She had clever hands and often made her own dresses. A half-completed blouse lay on her knees.
"Perhaps I might," she said at length. "But one can't always have everything one likes."
"If you stood up for yourself a little more, things would be different."
Bee shook her head. "It isn't my way," she said.
After a break, she began again—"And, besides, don't you sometimes think, Magda, of how things will look by-and-by—as the years go on?"
"How things will look!"
"Yes. Don't you see what I mean? I'll tell you. I knew a girl near my home, three years ago, who had home troubles. They were real troubles—not easy to bear, I dare say. But she fought for her own way; and she said hard things to her mother, and was so cold to her—I've seen her refuse to give a kiss! And then, quite suddenly, the mother died. There was no warning at all—it was all in a moment. No time for any last words or explanations. And I never can forget that girl's misery—how she reproached herself, and how she would have given all she had for just one word—just to be able to have one kiss, and to beg for forgiveness. For she knew then what the mother's love had really been all through—even though there had been little difficulties, and perhaps some things rather hard to bear. And I made up my mind that I would never be in her position—that I wouldn't let myself mind too much about little worries—and most of all that I would never, never treat my mother coldly. For I know how she loves me."
"I suppose one ought to feel like that—more than one does," observed Magda. Conscience gave a sharp little prick. "Well, I must be going. Oh, by-the-by, what do you think Mrs. Miles told me yesterday?"
"I don't know. You like Mrs. Miles?"
"I like her immensely. And him too. They are dears!" Magda spoke with enthusiasm. Bee had noted the beginning of this new friendship; and not being of a jealous temperament, she was honestly pleased at what seemed likely to make Magda more happy. The last two or three weeks a change had been visible in the latter, a return of vitality, a dawning of fresh interests, and a lessening of the dull indifference which had followed upon Rob's engagement.
"Mother thinks them delightful," she said.
"Oh, they are. I've been twice to tea lately, and I'm going again to-morrow—to help Mrs. Miles with some work. And only think, Bee—she is a cousin of that Mr. Ivor who fell into the chasm last summer. And he is coming to pay them a visit."
Bee, taken by surprise, sent up a startled glance, and flushed brightly. She so seldom changed colour, that Magda came to a stop, with arrested attention.
"Is he? How curious!"
"Why—curious? Quite natural that he should come, if they are cousins."
"Yes. I meant, it is curious that they should be related."
"Mrs. Miles is very fond of him. She says he is such a good fellow—always so kind and thoughtful about other people, and he never minds what trouble he takes to help anybody. She has always been his favourite cousin—a sort of elder sister, because he never had any sisters of his own. She must be a good many years older than he is."
"She will be very pleased to have him." Bee spoke the words quietly, but she did not feel quiet. Her pulse and her thoughts were running riot together.
Was he coming—could he be coming—because he knew that she was here? Did he care—ever so little—for seeing her again? No—no—she answered resolutely—no chance of such a thing! He had given her no reason whatever to think so, when they were together. He had made no effort to see more of her. He had shown no particular feeling beyond simple gratitude for what she had done. She might not allow herself to indulge in dreams. Yet, even as she so replied, the eager questioning leapt up anew, asking with insistent loudness—was it, was it, quite impossible that he might find a pleasure in meeting her once more? She had tried so hard not to dwell upon recollections of him, and had counted herself successful on the whole. Yet now, at the first mention of his name, at the mere thought of seeing his face, she was stirred to the depths.
"Bee, what are you thinking about? You have such a colour! I never saw you look so pretty."
Bee woke up to the fact that she was not alone. Actually, she had forgotten Magda's presence. The latter was examining her with puzzled eyes.
"What are you thinking about? Are you so glad that Mr. Ivor is coming?"
Bee pulled herself together instantly. She did wish that every pulse in her frame would not clang at such a furious rate; yet she spoke in a voice of entire composure.
"I've met him twice. He was very pleasant both times. Of course, it will be nice to see him again—and nice for you too, as he is your brother's friend. Did I tell you that Amy Smith is coming to us?"
"No, I don't remember?"
"We expect her early next week."
"Why Mr. Ivor comes next week too. I'm not sure which day. The place will be quite lively. Well, I suppose I ought to be off. Mother told me to be back early."
Magda vanished; and Bee sat deep in thought, thankful to be alone.
Would the two visits clash—that of Ivor and that of Amy? Bee shivered under the possibility. It was one thing to turn aside Magda's attention. It would be quite another thing to encounter Amy's preternaturally sharp observation.
She might meet Mr. Ivor happily alone, when Amy was not there! But suppose he should come to call, and Amy should be present!—noting her every look, her every change of expression!
The Hut scene was again before her mind's eyes, vividly as if at that moment it was being enacted. She heard again her own talk with Amy; saw herself stand up in displeasure; caught afresh the words called out as she retreated—
"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive! I have it now! Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched man, to rob me of my Bee!"
Words which—if Ivor chanced to be awake—could not fail to reach his ears! In which case he could say nothing!
At the time she had met this knowledge calmly. The after terror for his life had dwarfed its importance; and when he was safe, the after joy and relief carried her through their first meeting.
But now, at the thought of again seeing him, she was far more keenly affected by this realisation of what he might have overheard. Fear had her in its grip lest, when in his presence, she should fail to hold herself well in leash. How if he were indifferent, and if she should betray the fact that she was not indifferent? How if some look or word of hers should reveal that Amy's utterance had been true, while yet he could not respond? It would be too dreadful.
Extreme care would be necessary, not to go one inch farther than she intended—or than he would go. She Would have to be simple, natural, easy, kind—no more. And with Amy present, the difficulty would be magnified tenfold.
Till this hour she had not known the strength of the hold that he had upon her; the overwhelming intensity of her love for him. Would she have power to go through such an ordeal, and to emerge triumphant?
Bee almost felt that she could not endure the strain—that she must somehow make her escape.
But if he did care—if he were coming with the expectation of seeing her—how could she be absent?
IF HE SHOULD COME!
"BEE, I'm wondering—is it one-tenth, one-hundredth part as much to you as it is to me—my being here?"
The words broke into a long silence, rousing Beatrice out of her dream; by no means the first of the kind since Amy Smith's arrival two days before.
They were together in the little morning-room of Virginia Villa, sometimes called "The Green Room," because of its prevailing tint. It was a foggy afternoon, not tempting out-of-doors. Mrs. Major had an engagement, so the two were alone; and in the midst of a lengthy talk about "old days," Bee had dropped out of it, forgetting to answer Amy's last remark, leaning a little forward, her eyes fixed on the fire, lost in a vision, which seemed to be half-sad, half-glad, but certainly profound.
Amy knew that she herself had no share in this dream. Somebody else reigned there, and she was forgotten. She saw far more than Magda in her place would have seen. In her passionate devotion to Bee, she had accustomed herself to read each turn of expression, each inflection of voice. It was pathetic, this intensity of her love for the younger girl; for she paid away her whole self, and Bee could not give back an equivalent. Amy Smith, however estimable and good and unselfish—and in the main she was all these,—just did not possess that undefinable gift, the power to win great love. All that Bee was able to give in return was a kind and sincere affection.
Perhaps for the first time, as she sat gazing this afternoon upon Bee's absorbed face, Amy realised it. As the outcome of her troubled realisation, she broke into the above words. Bee, wrenched back to the present, lifted startled eyes.
"Why—of course—"
"There's no 'of course' in the matter. Are you glad to have me? Do you really care? Would it have been better, if I had not come? Tell me—truly. Shall I go back to-morrow?"
"Amy, what nonsense! How can you say such things?"
"Because I think them! Because I never have any secrets from you. Because I don't choose to live in a Fool's Paradise! There are fifty 'becauses,' any one of which will do. But most of all, because it is so much to me to be with you again; and I should like—foolishly, perhaps—selfishly no doubt—to be sure that you are the least little bit glad to be with me. Are you glad—honestly glad? I want the truth, please."
An embarrassing question! Bee had so wished that Amy's visit could have been delayed, just until Ivor's was over. Only that; no more. It was not that she did not wish to have her old friend, but that she dreaded the conjunction of the two. All day she saw Ivor with her mental vision, pictured their first encounter, and longed-for, yet feared the moment. And Amy was here—to look on! That alone was what she craved to alter. She was not and could not be glad to have Amy this particular week. Any other week—only not this. For sole answer, she put her hand on Amy's arm.
"Yes; I know. I'm unreasonable. All the same, remember—I had you for years and years; and nothing ever came between us. If ever the Green-eyed Monster had a valid excuse, I do think he has with me. It isn't as if I had dozens of friends, like some people,—or as if new ones with me could be more than the old ones. But circumstances are different. Once in love, I suppose everything else goes down before it. Do you think I don't know what is in your mind, when you look as you did just now? Know! I should think I did. It's—Mr. Ivor!"
"I would rather talk of something else, please."
"No earthly use. You can't think of anything else."
"You make me sorry I ever let you know that I had any sort of feeling—of that kind!"
"You didn't, my dear child! I found it out for myself—in spite of all you could do."
Bee's pale cheeks were slightly flushed. "And if I had not found it out before, I should find it out now. You are different—different altogether from the Bee of old. Do you think I don't see? Do you think I don't feel? You are away from us all—living in a separate world of your own. Oh, I don't complain. It's natural, I suppose,—and you are just as sweet and kind and thoughtful as ever. There's nothing to complain of—only—you are not here! Nothing is anything to you, except—Of course I see! Bee—look at me." She took possession of the slight hand, lying near, and was instantly aware of the hurried throb of Bee's pulse. "Look at me! I want to see into your eyes."
Bee obeyed gravely, but withdrew her hand. "Amy, if you want to make me really sorry to have you—you will go on saying this sort of thing."
There was a short silence. Amy was a good deal surprised, and her little snub nose reddened.
"You are developing," she said at length, with a touch of constraint. "I never knew you to take quite such a tone before."
"Was I unkind? I am sorry." Bee spoke with difficulty. "I did not mean to give you pain."
"I suppose all is fair in love and war—but you are older."
"Of course I am older. What else can you expect?"
"I didn't expect that, somehow. I thought my Bee would be my Bee still. And she isn't. She is—some one else's Bee now. There's nothing of you left for me."
"Indeed there is, Amy. I never could alter to old friends. How can you suspect me of such a thing?"
"I don't suspect. I know. It's not that you are changed to me, but that you are changed in yourself. You can't help it. You are another being. Quite as dear and sweet as the old Bee, but not the same."
"I'm sorry. I'll try to be my old self. We'll go back to what we were talking about. It was—" She stopped, in perplexity.
"Yes. Go on. It was—"
"I don't quite remember."
"No, of course you don't. Well—if we are to drop the subject of that individual—how I detest the man! Suppose you tell me about your friend, Magda. Are you as absorbed in her as ever?"
"Was I absorbed in her?"
"Every letter that you wrote from school rang with 'Magda' all through. I don't notice her name so often now. But then—you are no longer a school-girl. Do you like her as much as ever?"
"I'm very fond of Magda—really. There's so much that is fine in her. I think she's going through a sort of phase that girls do go through—she's unsettled, and never certain what to do with herself or her time. But she will come through. She does really wish to be useful."
"You might be King Solomon, my dear! It wasn't your way in the past to analyse her, as if you were her granny. You tried to give me the impression that she was a perfectly angelic being. I have always wanted to make her acquaintance."
"So you can. There she is!"
"Not coming here! What a plague! I did think I should have you to myself for this one afternoon."
Bee did not echo the regret.
Magda entered briskly, looking her best. She had for once arranged well her mass of reddish-gold hair; and the quick walk had given her a bright colour; and her golden-brown eyes had their happy light, often lacking in less cheerful moods.
"Bee—" she cried, and stopped at sight of a stranger. "Oh, I forgot!" As it recurred to her mind that Bee had expected a friend.
Bee performed the introduction, and the two shook hands, each critically scanning the other.
"What a plain uninteresting person!" was Magda's inward comment.
"Shouldn't have thought her the sort of girl to suit Bee!" Amy voicelessly said.
"I'm afraid I'm interrupting."
"Not at all. Do stay to tea with us. Mother is out for the afternoon." The words had no sooner passed Bee's lips than she wished them unsaid. She had carefully refrained from saying aught to Amy about Ivor's presence at the Vicarage; and Magda might bring it up. But the thing was done. Already Magda was accepting the invitation.
Bent on keeping clear of the one topic, Bee threw herself into conversation, taking the lead in an unwonted fashion, bringing up everything she could think of to interest her companions. For a time she was successful, though Amy looked curiously at her, and Magda more than once sought to introduce something of which her mind was full. Three times she tried in vain. But a slight pause at length occurred, when tea was brought in, and Magda used her chance.
"I've just been to the Vicarage, Bee. I had to leave some cards that I had been copying out for Mrs. Miles. And—"
"You are always going there now, dear, are you not?"
"Well, sometimes. Not always. I like going, and I like them. And I saw your friend. He arrived late last night."
"Did you? What will you have? Cake or bread-and-butter? Did I show you this photo of our house, Magda? It was taken the other day by a passing photographer—as a specimen of Burwood architecture." She tried to laugh.
Magda glanced casually at the proffered view. "Yes—very good. Bee, I like your friend. He is a handsome man. I never saw a handsomer, I do think. And awfully nice too!"
It was useless to resist. The situation had to be accepted. But Bee found it difficult. She was seated facing the light; and she knew that Amy's eyes were full upon her.
"Yes, he is nice," she said quietly. "You don't take sugar, do you, Amy? I haven't quite forgotten your tastes, you see. I can recommend these cakes."
"So—that is the meaning of the dreaminess," thought Amy, in a flash of comprehension. She instantly recognised that the 'friend' must be Ivor. But she would not spare Bee, feeling vexed that she had not been told of his coming, and she asked pointedly: "A friend! What friend? Who did you say it was?"
Magda answered this. "Why—Mr. Ivor. The one who fell into the bergshrund last summer—don't you remember? Rob always declares that Bee saved his life; and Mr. Ivor says the same. He says that but for her he wouldn't be alive now. I should be awfully proud in your place, Bee."
"I don't see what I have to be proud of. It was little enough that I did."
"Other folks didn't think so at the time," remarked Amy. "If you had seen her, Miss Royston—simply glued to the telescope for hours! Nothing would induce her to budge, till she had spotted the climbers. I should never have thought of staying. But then—they were not friends of mine! Don't you see? That makes all the difference."
"How horrid of me! How small of me!" Amy said to herself, as these words slipped out. She knew that she had said them in revenge, because Bee had not informed her of Ivor's coming.
"But, Bee—that was before you had seen Rob. You didn't know him then!"
A slight clash of the milk-jug against a cup showed that Bee's hand was trembling. It seemed hard that Amy, her own old friend, should make things more difficult for her!
"No," she said. "But I knew that he was your brother!"
"And you knew Mr. Ivor?"
"I had met him—once."
At this moment, of all moments, came a ring at the front door. Bee instantly guessed—nay, knew, as a matter of certainty—who the caller was; and her inward trembling increased. She was not surprised when the door opened, and the little maid announced—
"Mr. Ivor."
THROUGH AN ORDEAL
IT was a severe trial for Bee. Amy there—Magda there—both looking on critically; one certainly knowing, and the other possibly half-suspecting, what she felt for him; while she had no knowledge whether his feelings for her went beyond ordinary friendliness, and gratitude for the part she had played in his rescue. That in some measure, he owed his life to her, none seemed to question. Under the circumstances, a call from him, when he happened to be in the place, was only to be expected, and might mean absolutely nothing.
Had she been alone, or with her mother only, she could have met him again as before—perhaps not quite so easily as then, yet with much the same simplicity. But Amy had been putting her to a severe strain. Already her heart beat fast, and her cheeks were flushed. If she allowed herself to show pleasure, there was danger that she might show overmuch pleasure; and those watching eyes would see! If she smiled in his face, she would be taxed afterwards with undue warmth. Besides—if he indeed had overheard Amy's words outside the Hut, he would understand only too well.
These thoughts rushed pell-mell through her mind, as she stood up to greet him. She knew that there was nothing for the emergency but self-restraint and composure. And in her present condition of overstrain, such composure could hardly fail to be over-done.
He came in quickly; looking well and handsome; and very glad, it would seem, to see her again. If so, he met with an immediate check. Bee received him coldly, distantly, as she might have received the veriest stranger. As he passed the door, the pretty flush in her cheeks died out, leaving her pale and apparently unmoved; and her chill quiet might easily be mistaken for utter indifference. Could he have seen the surge of joy which swelled below at the first glimpse of his face, he would not have been so taken in. Yet her eyes scarcely met his; and his warm grasp found limp fingers.
She overdid it completely, as many a woman in like circumstances is apt to do. And he had not the clue.
His own mind by this time was made up. He had thought incessantly of Bee, had grown more and more impatient to see her again, had craved to know her better. For the purpose of so doing, he had proposed this visit to the Vicarage. Her gentleness, her thought for others, had left a powerful impression; and he had begun to know that she was necessary to his happiness. More perhaps than aught else, the semi-consciousness that he might already be enshrined in that girlish heart recurred again and again, with an ever-growing sense of restful delight.
And now he was flung back on himself, and was made to feel that he had been all along cherishing a delusion.
She introduced him to her friends, then returned to the tea-tray, and busied herself with downcast eyes, leaving Magda to do the entertaining—a task which Magda was not slow to take up. Ivor submitted to what Bee apparently desired, though he sent more than one questioning glance towards that still face, wondering what it meant. Once she met his gaze; and a throbbing tide of joy swelled up, so fiercely that she dared not let herself meet it a second time.
She found him suddenly by her side, holding a cup and saucer. "For Miss Royston," he said. And then—"Are you thinking of Switzerland again next summer?"
"No—I am afraid not." She spoke in a low suppressed voice. "Not—likely. I hope you have quite got over—that night—no ill effects!"
"None at all, thanks."
"No sugar, I suppose," Bee remarked, with a glance towards Magda. Then she felt that she was restraining herself too much, was going farther than necessity imposed, and she lifted one eager wistful look—but too late. He had turned away, and was carrying the tea to Magda, beside whom he again seated himself.
The two were soon in a full swing of talk; for Magda liked Ivor, and found him entertaining. Besides, he was Rob's particular friend, which made a link and supplied a topic; and she could talk well enough, when she chose to take the trouble. She did choose to-day.
They got upon the subject of mountain-climbing; and since most of his ascents had been done in company with Rob, she was delighted to draw from him tales of difficult passages and hair-breadth escapes. He was not a man to say much ordinarily about his own doings; but this meant telling about Rob to Rob's sister, which made a difference.
Amy listened with dissatisfied annoyance. She might be vexed and jealous with Bee; she might even stoop to a momentary revenge; but she did not wish her darling to be unhappy, or to be ousted by "this red-haired upstart of a school-girl," as she contemptuously stigmatised Magda in her mind. Yet, looking on, she knew that the "red-haired school-girl" was not without charm, and also that Ivor was not unconscious of that charm. There was a touch of unwonted brightness about Magda, both in colouring and in manner; and the contrast of Bee's impassive pallor was marked.
Now and again the latter made some slight remark, just enough for politeness, and no more. Amy grew annoyed. Why did not Bee exert herself to be agreeable? Why leave the field clear for "that conceited child"? Amy had abundance of adjectives at command, and she often found them a relief to her feelings.
"I should just love to go up a Swiss mountain," Magda was saying. "No, I've never been to Switzerland. I've done some scrambling on English cliffs and places, with Rob—and once he took me to Scotland, and we had some real climbs there. That was three years ago. Only rocky places—not ice and snow."
"Rock-climbing may be quite as difficult, and may need as much care. There is many an English rock-face, where a slip might be as fatal as on a Swiss mountain."
"Only it doesn't sound so grand. That climb of Bee and Miss Smith last year sounds much more than what I did with Rob in Scotland—but I don't believe it was really. When they went to the Hut, I mean."
They both looked towards Bee, and she said mechanically—
"No, I dare say not."
"It was fortunate for me that Miss Major should have undertaken the expedition," observed Ivor.
"If I had not, somebody else would have been there," Bee murmured; and Amy put in an impulsive word, kindly meant—
"My dear, nobody else would have been likely to glue herself to the telescope for hours, as you did: You should have seen her—" this was addressed direct to Ivor—"hour after hour, watching and watching. Nothing would make her stir, when once she settled in her mind that you were in danger. She held on 'like grim death,' no matter what the guides or I might say." It suddenly dawned upon Amy that the "you" which she perhaps meant in the plural might be taken as in the singular; and she made matters worse by hastily adding, as an after-thought, and with a little laugh—"Of course I mean—you both—you and Mr. Royston."
Then she knew that she had doubly blundered; that it would have been far better if she had said nothing. Ivor for a moment was perfectly still, looking down; and it was Bee who broke silence, in her quietest tones—
"I don't see that any one else in my place could have done differently."
"No—perhaps not! Oh, well—I suppose it was just a sort of instinct," explained Amy, feeling guilty.
"And a most kind benevolence towards two fellow-climbers in difficulties," Ivor added.
He stood up then to say good-bye; and Bee did not relax. She longed to do so, longed at this last moment to infuse some warmth into her manner. But Amy's latest interference had made it impossible. She felt frozen and rigid. Good-byes were quickly over; and he spoke no word of seeing her again. His manner too was cold by this time.
As he walked back to the Vicarage, he was conscious of deep disappointment. Bee had been perpetually in his thoughts of late. He had dwelt upon her constantly in imagination; and—much more than he was aware of till this hour—he had counted on the truth of Amy Smith's assertion. He had believed that Bee would be easily won, that she was at least disposed to care for him.
All that was at an end. She did not care; she felt no pleasure in meeting him. Recalling again the Hut scene, he realised how easily he might have misunderstood or exaggerated the meaning of the speech he had overheard—also how, even if Bee had been a trifle touched, she might by this time have lost the slight impression once made.
It was quite evident that she did not care any longer. No girl could put on so icy a manner towards a man whom she loved. So he told himself—little knowing! He could imagine no cause for such a manner, save one—indifference! Probably, she felt that she had been too kind to him at the time of his accident, and she wished to make him see that clearly.
If so, she had succeeded. He did see. He had no further expectations. The dream was dead. He wished that he had not come to Burwood.
AND AFTERWARDS
BEE went quietly through the rest of the day, saying little, doing all that was needful. She looked white, Amy thought. But any attempt at confidential talk, any reference to the past scene, on the part of the elder, was decisively checked by the younger girl. For once, Amy found herself powerless.
Mrs. Major did not seem to remark anything unusual; and the hours wore away tardily. How tardily, how drearily, with Bee, Amy might have seen. She was no longer a young girl herself; but she had known something of life. She had had her own love-affair, many years back, caring too much for one who did not care for her; and this ought to have given her power, to read and sympathise. But she had found consolation in that past trouble, by pouring her rejected devotion upon Bee; and somehow, though she did see something, she failed to estimate fully.
Bedtime came; and Bee was alone. At last!
She had longed for this moment, through those leaden hours of the interminable evening. Till now she had not dared to let herself think. A heavy weight pressed upon her; but she might not analyse it. She could only struggle on, minute by minute, holding herself in with a firm hand.
The others had gone to bed; and her door was locked; and she no longer feared interruption. She stood in the middle of her pretty room, dazed and motionless; her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on a far distance.
She was seeing again, hearing again, all that had gone on that afternoon; feeling again her own coldness to him; enduring again that terrible strain, and the sense that she might not, could not, let herself go—that she might not, could not, let him see what his coming was to her.
And she had driven him away; had rebuffed and repelled him; had made him think that she did not care, that he was nothing to her. She had read in his face, that he understood it so. He would never get over it. He would never again come forward. She had ruined her happiness, once and for all!
It had been unavoidable. Not knowing what he felt, and recalling what he might have overheard, how could she take any forward step? Things might have been so different—but for Amy! Magda mattered less. Magda saw little below the surface. She could have managed Magda. But Amy—her life-long friend and devotee, Amy who professed to love her more than any other—Amy had done this. Amy had worked the mischief. Amy had laughed at her; had twice said the wrong thing at the critical moment; had upset her self-control; had interfered unkindly, when she might have helped; had driven her into doing that which had destroyed her hope, that which had spoilt her life. If Amy had not been there, or if Amy had acted otherwise, when he came in, she might have met him so differently!
Bee was startled at the force of her own passionate resentment, under this consciousness. Hers was not a resentful nature. That, is to say, it was not one of those natures which are for ever taking offence at nothings, being annoyed at little things. But if resentment were once aroused in her, it was no light matter—just because such arousing was so rare, and would never be without some real cause. To-day it had been aroused, intensely, deeply. Her whole being as she stood in the centre of her room, seemed to swell and surge in vehement bitter wrath. How could she ever forgive this—this which meant the wrecking of her life's happiness?
Somebody turned the handle of her door—in vain. Bee held her breath. She guessed it to be Amy; and she did not want Amy. She wanted nobody,—Amy least of all. Now that she had let herself go, she could not regain the dropped reins.
"If Amy comes, I shall show her—I can't help it!" she muttered despairingly.
Again the handle rattled, and a tap was followed by—
"Please, Bee—please!"
Bee moved nearer to the door, and said in a distinct tone—
"Good-night."
"I want to speak to you."
"No use. I'd rather not. It is too late."
"You are not in bed yet."
"I shall be—soon."
"But I want a word with you first . . . Let me in, please. I must, Bee!"
The wave of resentment again rose high, and Bee pressed both hands on her chest, as if to hold it down. But she had always given way to the elder girl; and habit is strong. After some further hesitation, she very slowly withdrew the bolt. Amy opened, and hurriedly entered.
"What is it that you want?" Bee asked icily.
"I want you. What made you keep me out? That is not like my darling."
She came close, and folded both arms round Bee; but there was no response. Bee seemed an image of snow; as white, as chill; not resisting, but simply enduring the embrace. Never, in all the years that they had known one another, had Amy seen her like this.
Releasing the passive figure, she stood looking, with troubled eyes—herself a small being, in a crude red dressing-gown, her limp light hair hanging loose in rats' tails.
"Bee dear—what is it?"