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?"
"Will you please leave me alone!"
"Why were you so stiff to him this afternoon?"
The question was unexpected, and heavy throbbing in Bee's throat
answered quickly to it. She said only—
"You made me."
"I! But of course I didn't mean—"
"How could I be anything else—after all you said! With Magda there! It
was—impossible! You did it!"
Amy caught one of Bee's hands, and it hung in her grasp like a thing
without life.
"I was wrong—I knew I was wrong at the time," she said penitently. "It
was horrid of me. That was why I couldn't sleep without seeing you
again. I suppose—I suppose it was jealousy. Just a touch of it, you
know. Bee—" and she caressed the cold fingers—"of course jealousy is
always horrid. But don't you think there is just some little excuse for
me? You have always been mine, and nothing before has ever come between
us. And now—Oh, I see, it has to be. I see you can't help it. Nothing
and nobody is anything to you, in comparison with—him! I must make up
my mind to it, and learn to play second fiddle. Or rather—to play no
fiddle at all. That's what it really means—" and she tried to laugh. "I
shall be out of the orchestra altogether. But it isn't quite easy for
me—is it, darling? You'll forgive—won't you? Though I was rather horrid
this afternoon. I'll never do it again. And things will soon come
right."
"Please leave me alone!" was all that she had in reply.
"Won't you just say first that you forgive me?"
The silence following seemed long. Bee's head dropped.
"I—can't!" came at length. "I—can't—yet! If only you would go!"
"It makes me wretched to think of leaving you like this."
"Why should it? You can do nothing for me—now. You could have helped
this afternoon—and you did not! You spoilt everything—made me drive him
away—for ever! It was so cruel—so cruel! And now—to pretend—"
"Oh, Bee! Pretend!"
"I can't help it. You must give me time. I can't forgive you yet."
Bee turned away, with a low moan, and went towards the window.
Amy came close behind.
"Listen to me, dear. I promise you that I'll put it right. I'll
explain—"
Bee turned fiercely, gripping her wrist. No limpness about her now!
"Never! Never! Not one word. Amy—if you dare—" and her breath grew
short. "Have you no sense? Don't you see what it would mean for me,
if—if he doesn't care? Promise—promise faithfully—that you never, never
will say a single word to anybody about it. Promise!"
"Can't you trust me?"
"No, I can't—after to-day!—after what you did say! You must promise.
Amy, I tell you plainly—if ever—ever!—you interfere again—it will be
the end of our friendship."
The usually gentle girl was strangely wrought up; and Amy, quite
subdued, gave the required promise. She had to repeat it three times,
before Bee was satisfied.
"And now will you go to bed? Will you try to rest, darling? And do
believe that things are not so bad as you fancy. You will see it
to-morrow morning."
"Oh yes,"—came languidly, not in assent.
"And I do think you will soon believe that I did not mean to be cruel!"
That word had gone deep. "Bee darling, if you only knew one-half of
how I love you, I think you could not suspect me of ever meaning to be
unkind."
Bee was listlessly silent.
"One kiss," pleaded Amy. She folded the other in a warm grasp, and Bee
again submitted; no more. Amy released her, sighing.
"Well, good-night, poor darling. I'm much more to be pitied than you
are. I've done the harm, and that is worse than only having to bear it."
Met again by uncompromising silence, Amy stole away, closing the door
with circumspection, lest Mrs. Major should hear. She lay awake in bed,
tears dropping at intervals. Had she indeed forfeited Bee's love by her
folly?
Sleep under the circumstances lay outside the range of possibilities.
An hour passed; and another hour.
The house was very still. A tiny creak startled her; and then a soft
footfall.
"Bee!"—she said instantly.
A slight figure bent over her in the darkness, and a smothered voice
murmured—
"I'm come—to say—good-night."
Amy held her in a long close clasp. Neither could speak at first; and
one tiny sob might be heard from Bee.
"And you forgive me, my darling!"
"I—had to! I—couldn't say my prayers. I couldn't say—Forgive me—as—"
Bee broke down.