This communication made a little breach between Bee and her mother and
planted a thorn in Mrs. Kingsward’s breast. She had been getting on so
well; the quiet (which meant the riot of the seven nursery children and
all their troublesome ways) had been doing her so much good, and the
absence of every care save that Johnny should not take cold, and Lucy
eat enough dinner--that it was hard upon her thus to be brought back in
a moment to another and a more pressing kind of care. However, after an
hour or two’s estrangement from Bee, which ended in a fuller expansion
than ever of sympathy between them--and a morning or two in which Mrs.
Kingsward remembered as soon as she awoke that it would be her duty to
tell her husband and break up the pleasant peace and harmony of the
household--the sweetness of that _dolce far niente_ swept over her again
and obliterated or at least blurred the outline of all such troublous
thoughts. Colonel Kingsward sent a hasty telegram to say that he was
going on somewhere else for another ten days’ shooting, and that, though
she exclaimed at first with a countenance of dismay, “Oh, children, papa
is not coming home for another week!” in reality gave a pang of relief
to her mind. Gliding into her being, she scarcely knew how, was an
inclination to take every day as it came without thinking of
to-morrow--which was perfectly natural, no doubt, and yet was an
unconscious realisation of the fact, which as yet she had never put into
words, nor had suggested to her, that those gentle days were numbered.
Her husband’s delay was in one way like a reprieve to her. She had, like
all simple natures, a vague faith in accident, in something that might
turn up--“perhaps the world may end to-night”--something at least might
happen in another ten days to make it unnecessary for her to disturb
the existing state of affairs and throw new trouble into the house. She
did not waver at first as to her duty, though nothing in the world could
be more painful; and Bee did not say a word to change her mother’s
resolution. Bee had always been aware that as soon as it was known the
matter must come to another crisis--and the scorn with which she
regarded the idea of doing anything clandestine prevented her even from
asking that her secret should be kept. It was not in her mind but in her
mother’s that those faint doubtings at last arose--those half
entertained thoughts that a letter or two could do no harm; that the
correspondence would drop of itself when it was seen between the two
that there was no hope in it; and that almost anything would be better
than a storm of domestic dispeace and the open rebellion in which Mrs.
Kingsward felt with a shudder Bee would place herself. How are you to
break the will of a girl who will not be convinced, who says it is not
your, but her affair?
No doubt that was true enough. It was Bee, not Colonel Kingsward, whose
happiness was concerned. According to all the canons of poetry and
literature in general, which in such matters permeate theoretically the
general mind when there is no strong personal instinct to crush them,
Bee had right on her side--and her mother’s instinct was all on the side
of poetry and romance and Bee. She had not the courage to cut short that
correspondence, not clandestine though unrevealed, which kept the girl’s
heart alive, and was not without attractions to the mother also, into
whose ear it might be whispered now and then (with always a faint
protest on her part) that Aubrey had better hopes, that he had a
powerful friend who was going to speak for him. If they really meant to
be faithful to each other--and there was no doubt that was what they
meant--they must win the day in the end; and what harm would it do in
the meantime that they should hear of each other from time to time?
Whereas, if she betrayed the secret, there would at once be a dreadful
commotion in the house, and Bee would confront her father and tell him
with those blazing eyes, so like his, that it was her affair. Mrs.
Kingsward knew that her husband would never stoop to the manœuvre of
intercepting letters, or keeping a watch upon those that his daughter
received; and what can you do to a girl who says that? She shrank more
than any words could say from the renewal of the conflict. She had been
so thankful to believe that it had passed over and all things settled
into peace while she was ill. Now that she was better her heart sank
within her at the thought of bringing it all on again, which would also
make her ill again she was convinced. Yet, at the same time, if she
could not persuade Bee to give it up of herself (of which there was no
hope whatever), then she must, it was her duty, inform her husband. But
her heart rose a little at that ten days’ reprieve. Perhaps the world
might end to-night. Something might happen to make it unnecessary in
those ten days.
And something did happen, though not in any way what Mrs. Kingsward
could have wished.
Colonel Kingsward’s return was approaching very near when on one of
those bright October afternoons a lady from the neighbourhood--nay, it
was the clergywoman of the parish, the Rector of Kingswarden’s wife, the
very nearest of all neighbours--came to call. She had just returned from
that series of visits which in the autumn is--with all who respect
themselves--the natural course of events. Mrs. Chichester was a woman of
good connection, of “private means,” and more or less “in society,” so
that she carried out this programme quite as if she had been a great
lady. She had an air of importance about her, which seemed to shadow
forth from her very entrance something that she had to say--an unusual
gravity, a look of having to make up her mind to a certain action which
was not without difficulty. There passed a glance between Mrs. Kingsward
and Bee, in which they said to each other, “What is it this time?” as
clearly as words could have said; for, to be sure, they were well
acquainted with this lady’s ways. She sat for a little, and talked of
their respective travels since they had last met; and of the pleasant
weeks she had passed at Homburg, where so many pleasant people were
always to be met after the London season; and then she lightly touched
on the fact that she had come over early in September, and since then
had been staying at a number of country places, with the dear Bishop,
and at Lady Grandmaison’s, and with old Sir Thomas down in Devonshire,
and so on.
“Or,” she concluded, with a disproportionate emphasis on that apparently
unimportant word, “I should have been to see you long ago.”
There was a significance in this which again made Mrs. Kingsward and Bee
exchange a look--a laughing glance--as of those who had heard the phrase
before. When, however, she had asked some questions about Mrs.
Kingsward’s health, and expressed the proper feeling--sorry to hear she
had been so poorly; delighted that she was so much better--Mrs.
Chichester departed from her established use and wont. Instead of
beginning upon the real object of her visit, after she had taken her cup
of tea, with a “Now,” (also very emphatic) “I want to interest you in
something I have very much at heart,”--which was generally a
subscription, a society, a bazaar, a missionary meeting, or something of
the sort--Mrs. Chichester bent forward and said, in a half whisper, “I
have something I want very much to talk to you about. Could I speak to
you for a moment--alone?”
Bee was much surprised, but took her part with promptitude. “You want to
get rid of me,” she said. “I shall go out on to the terrace, mamma, and
you can call me from the window when you want me. I shall be sure to
hear.”
There was another look between them, always with a laugh in it, as she
stepped out of the open window, with a book in her hand, a look which
repeated, “What can it be, now?” with the same amusement as at first,
but with more surprise. Bee made a circuit round the lawn with her book,
one finger shut in it to mark the place; looking at the flowers, as one
does who knows every plant individually, and notes each bud that is
opening, and which are about to fall. She calculated within herself how
long the dahlias would last, and that the Gloire de Dijon roses must be
cut to-morrow, as she pursued her way towards the walnut tree, under
which she meant to place herself. But Bee had not been there many
minutes before she felt a little shiver creep over her. It was getting
rather cold in this late October to sit out of doors, when the sun was
already off the garden, and she had, as girls say, “nothing on.” She got
up again, and made her way round to a garden bench which was set against
the wall of the house, at the spot where the sunshine lasted longest.
There was still a level ray of ruddy light pouring on that seat, and Bee
forgot, or rather never thought, that it was close to the drawing-room
window. Her mind was not much exercised about Mrs. Chichester’s secret,
which probably concerned the mothers and babies of the parish, and which
she certainly had no curiosity to hear. Besides, no doubt, the visitor
had told by this time all the private details there were to tell. Bee
sat down upon the bench, taking no precautions to disguise the sound of
her footsteps, and opened her book. She was not an enthusiastic student,
though she liked a novel as well as anyone; but her eyes strayed from
it to the great width of the horizon in front of her, and the ruddy
glory in the west, in which was just about to disappear that last long
golden ray of the sun.
Then she heard a low cry--an exclamation, stifled, yet full of horror.
Was it mamma? What could the clergywoman be saying to bring from mamma’s
lips such a cry? Bee--I cannot blame her--pricked up her ears. Mrs.
Kingsward was not strong enough to be disturbed by horrors with which
she had nothing to do.
“Oh, I cannot believe it; I cannot believe it!” she said.
“But,” said the other voice, with that emphasis at which Bee had laughed
so often, “I can assure you it is true. I saw him myself shaking hands
with the woman at the station. I might not have believed Miss Tatham’s
story, but I saw with my own eyes that it was Mr. Leigh. I had met him
at Sir Thomas’s the year before--when he was still in deep mourning for
his wife, you know.”
“Mr. Leigh! So it was something about Aubrey! Then it was Bee’s
business still more than her mother’s, and she listened without any
further thought.
“But,” said Mrs. Kingsward, as if taking courage, “you must be mistaken;
oh, not about seeing him shake hands with a woman--why shouldn’t he
shake hands with a woman? He is very friendly with everybody. Perhaps he
knew her, and there is nothing to find fault with in that.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Chichester, solemnly, “should I have mentioned it had
it been confined to that? I only told you of that as a proof. The thing
is that he put in this woman--a common woman, like a servant--into a
sleeping carriage--you know what those sleeping carriages cost; a
perfect fortune; far too much for any comfort there is in them--in the
middle of the night, with her two children. The woman behaved quite
nicely, Miss Tatham says, and looked shocked to be put in with a lady,
and blushed all over her face, and told that ridiculous story to account
for it. Poor thing! One can only be sorry for her. Probably some poor
thing deceived, and thinking she was to be made a lady of. But I know
what you must think of the man, Mrs. Kingsward, who could do such a
thing on his way from staying with your own family, even if there had
been no more in it than that.”
“But Mr. Leigh is very kind--kind to everybody--it might have been
nothing but charity.”
“Charity--in an express train sleeping carriage! Well, I confess I never
heard of charity like that. Gentlemen generally know better than to
compromise themselves for nothing in that sort of way. They are more
afraid of risking themselves in railway carriages and that kind of thing
than girls are--much more afraid. And if you remember, Mrs. Kingsward,
what kind of reputation Mr. Leigh had in his poor wife’s time--keeping
that Miss Lance all the time in her very house under her eyes.”
“I have always heard that it was Mrs. Leigh who insisted upon keeping
Miss Lance----”
“Is it likely?” said Mrs. Chichester. “I ask you, knowing what you do of
human nature? And then a thing to happen like this on his very way
home--when he had just left you and poor little Bee. Oh, it is
shameless, shameless! I could not contain myself when I heard of it. And
then it was said that the Colonel had broken off the engagement, and I
thought it would be a comfort to you to know that other things were
occurring every day, and that it was the only thing to do.”
“It is no comfort to me--and I cannot--I cannot believe it!”
“Dear Mrs. Kingsward, you always take the best view; but if you had seen
him, as I did, holding the woman’s hand, bending over her with such a
look!--I was afraid he would kiss her, there, before everybody. And I,
knowing of the engagement, and that he had just left you--before Miss
Tatham said a word--I sat and stared, and couldn’t believe my eyes. It
was the tenth of September, and he had left Bee, hadn’t he, the night
before?”
“I never remember dates,” said Mrs. Kingsward, querulously.
“I do,” replied the visitor, “and I took the trouble to find out. At
least, I found out by accident, through someone who saw him at the
club, and who had just discovered the rights of that story about Miss
Lance. Oh, I trust you will not be beguiled by his being a good _parti_,
or that sort of thing, to trust dear Bee in such hands! Marriage is
always rather a disenchantment; but think what it would be in such a
case--a man that can’t be trusted to travel between Cologne and London
without----”
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” said Mrs. Kingsward; and Bee
heard that her mother had melted into tears.
“That is as good as saying you don’t believe me, who saw it with my own
eyes,” said the visitor, getting up. “Indeed, I didn’t mean at all to
distress you, for I thought that, as everything was broken off--I
thought only if you had any doubts, as one has sometimes after one has
settled a thing--that to know he was a man like that, with no respect
for anything, who could leave his _fiancée_, and just plunge,
plunge--there is no other word for it----”
It was evident that Mrs. Kingsward, reduced to helplessness, here made
no effort either to detain her visitor or to contradict her further, or
indeed to make any remark. There was a step or two across the room, and
then Mrs. Chichester said again--“Good-bye, dear. I am very sorry to
have distressed you--but I couldn’t leave you in ignorance of such a
thing for dear Bee’s sake; that is the one thing to be thankful for in
the whole matter, that Bee doesn’t seem to mind a bit! She looks just as
bright and just as nice as if nothing had happened. She can’t have cared
for him! Only flattered, I suppose, and pleased to have a proposal--as
those little things are, poor things. We should all thank heaven on our
knees that there’s no question of a broken heart in Bee’s case----”
She might not have been so sure of that had she seen the figure which
came through the window the moment the door had closed upon her--Bee
with her blue eyes blazing wildly out of her white face, and strange
passion in every line both of features and form.
“What is the meaning of it?” she said, briefly, with dry lips.
“Oh, Bee, you have heard it all!”
“I have heard enough--what does it mean, mamma?”
Mrs. Kingsward roused herself, dried her eyes, and went forward to Bee
with outstretched arms; but the girl turned away. “I don’t want to be
petted. I want to know what--what it means,” she said.
“I don’t believe it,” cried Mrs. Kingsward.
“Give a reason; don’t say things to quiet me. Oh, keep your arms away,
mamma! Don’t pet me as if I wanted that! Why don’t you believe it? And
if you did believe it--what does it mean--what does it mean?”