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.