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."