THIS made, however, but a very temporary breach between Bee and her
brother. They were a little stiff next morning at breakfast, and
elaborately refrained from talking on any but the most trivial things,
but by noon this reserve had broken down, and in the evening, though Bee
proudly refrained from any reference to Laura, they were as confidential
as ever. Bee’s mind had passed through various vicissitudes in respect
to the object of Charlie’s adoration. Her first overwhelming interest
had given way to a little doubt, and this was naturally strengthened by
the overweaning estimate of the unknown which Charlie thrust upon her. A
girl is very willing to admire at second-hand her brother’s love, but
when she is told that it is presumption to compare herself with that
divinity, her sympathy is strained too far. Bee began to have an uneasy
feeling about this unknown Laura. It was one thing to stimulate Charlie
to work, to stir up all that was best in him, to urge him to distinguish
himself, for Charlie’s sake or for their joint sakes, if they married
and became one--which was the only thing that could happen in Bee’s
idea--but it was quite another thing to pretend an enthusiasm for this
in order that Charlie should be kept within her reach and at her feet
during that quiet time of the long vacation. Bee knew enough to know
that severe work is not compatible with much love-making. She imagined
her brother strolling away from his books to take Laura out on the
river, or lie at her feet in the garden, which had become the habit of
his life, as he betrayed to her accidentally. Bee thought, with a little
indignation, that the lofty intentions which would probably end in these
proceedings were of the nature of false pretences, and that the girl
whom Charlie endowed with the most superlative qualities should not
attempt to take him from his home for such reason; or, at least, if she
did should do it frankly for love’s sake--which was always a thing to be
forgiven--and not on any fictitious pretence.
For Charlie, being refused that heroic way of working, “going up to
read,” did not read at all, as was apparent to his sister’s keen eyes.
He did not attempt to do the best he could, being prevented from doing
what he desired. He settled himself, it is true, in the library after
breakfast, with his books, as if with the intention of working, but
before Bee got through the little lesson which she gave every morning to
the little ones, Charlie was out strolling about the garden, or lying on
the grass in the shade with a book, which was usually a novel, or one
which lay closed by his side while he abandoned himself to thought--to
thought, not about his books it was to be feared, for Bee, with tremors
of sympathy in her heart, recognised too well the dreamy look, the
drooped eyelids, the air astray from anything going on around. From
questions of study, as far as Bee had perceived in her short experience,
the merest footstep on a path, the dropping of a leaf, was enough to
rouse the student. Charlie’s thoughts were of a far more absorbing kind.
Colonel Kingsward suggested once more the week in town, when he came on
another Saturday evening to Kingswarden. He was a man not very open to a
perception of the wants of others, but as time went on, and he himself
became more and more sensible of the ameliorating influences of society
and occupation, the stagnant atmosphere at home, where his two elder
children were vegetating, so much against all their previous habits,
struck him with a sensation which he could not wholly get the better of.
It was only right that Bee, at least, should remain in the country and
in retirement the first summer after her mother’s death. It would have
been most unbecoming had she been in town seeing people, and
necessarily, more or less, been seen by the world. But yet he felt the
stillness close round him like a sensible chill, and was aware of the
great quiet--aggravated by his own presence, though of this he was
scarcely aware--as if it had been a blight in the air. It made him angry
for the moment. In other times his house in the country had always been
refreshing and delightful to him. Now, the air, notwithstanding that it
was full summer, chilled him to the bone.
When you are escaping from the atmosphere of grief, anything that draws
you back to it feels like an injury. He was very cross, very impatient
with the silence at table, the subdued looks of the young people, and
that they had nothing to say. Was it not worse for him than for them? He
was the one who had lost the most, and to whom all ministrations were
due, to soften the smart of sorrow. But afterwards his thoughts towards
his children softened. It was very dull for them. On the Sunday evening
he took the trouble to press that week in town upon Charlie. “There’s a
spare closet you can have at my rooms at the office,” he said. “It’s
very central if not much else, and I daresay your friends will ask you
out quietly as they do me. I think even you might bring up Bee for the
day to see the pictures. She could stay the night with the Hammonds and
see Betty.”
“Oh, don’t think of me, papa,” cried Bee. “I would rather, far rather,
stay at home. I don’t care for the pictures--this year.”
“That is foolish, my dear,” said the Colonel. “There is nothing in the
least unbecoming to your mourning in going there. Indeed, I wish you to
go. You ought not to miss the pictures, and it will be a little change.
Of course, I cannot go with you myself, but Charlie will take you, and
you can go to Portman Square to sleep. You will see Betty, who must be
thinking of coming home about now; indeed, it is quite necessary you
should settle that with her. She can’t stay there all the season, and it
is rather heartless leaving you like this alone.”
“Oh, no, papa. It is I that wish her to stay. She would have come back
long ago but for me.”
Bee’s generous assumption of the blame, if there was any blame, excited
her father’s suspicion rather than admiration. He looked at her somewhat
severely. “I cannot conceive what object you can have in preferring to
be alone,” he said. “It is either morbid, or--In either case it makes it
more desirable that Betty should come back. You can arrange that. We
will say Wednesday. I suppose you will not be nervous about returning
home alone?”
“But, papa--”
“I consider the question settled, Bee,” said Colonel Kingsward, and
after that there was nothing more to be said.
Poor Bee wept many tears over this compulsory first step back into the
world--without her mother, without---- She did not mean (as she said in
her inmost thoughts) _anyone else_; but it made the whole world vacant
around her to think that neither on one side nor the other was there
anyone to walk by her side, to take her hand, to make her feel that she
was not alone. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that, in the morning,
this was the first thought that came into her mind, with a faint
expansion of her young being. The change, though it was not joyful, was
still something; and when she set out with Charlie on Wednesday morning
her heart, in spite of herself, rose a little. To see the pictures! The
pictures are not generally very exciting, and there was not, as it
happened, a sensation in any one of them in this particular year, even
had Bee been capable of it, which she was not. But yet she had a
sensation, and one of the most startling description. As she was going
languidly along, looking at one picture after another, mechanically
referring to the catalogue, which conveyed very little idea to her mind,
her attention was suddenly attracted by a lady standing in front of one
of the chief pictures of the year. She was talking with great animation
to some friends who surrounded her, pointing out the qualities and
excellencies (or non-excellencies, for Bee was not near enough to hear)
of the picture. She was picturesquely dressed in black, a tall and
commanding figure, with a great deal of lace about her, and a fine
profile, clearly cut and impressive. Bee’s whole attention was called to
her as by a charm. Where had she seen her before? She seemed acquainted
with every detail of her figure, and penetrated by a vague reminiscence
as of someone who had been of personal importance to herself, though she
could not tell when or how. “Who is she? Oh, who is she?” Bee asked
herself. She was very handsome--indeed Bee thought her a beautiful
woman; not young, which is a thing always noted with a certain pain and
compassion by a young girl--but full of grace and interest. While Bee
gazed, open-eyed, forgetful of herself--a young figure, very
interesting, too, to behold, in her deep mourning, and with the complete
forgetfulness of herself involved in that wistful, inquiring, and
admiring gaze--the lady turned round, presenting her full face to the
girl’s troubled vision. Bee felt her breath come short, her heart beat.
She fell back hurriedly upon a vacant place on one of the benches which
someone had charitably left empty. Bee did not know who the woman was,
nor what possible connections she could have with her own fate, and yet
there was a conviction in the girl’s heart that she had to do with it,
that somehow or other her life was in this woman’s hands. It was the
lady whom she had met that autumn morning last year in the firwoods
round the Baths, where Bee had gone to finish her sketch--the lady who
had appeared suddenly from among the trees, who had sat down by her, and
pointed out the errors in the little picture, and advised her how to
put them right. The black lace which was so conspicuous in the
stranger’s dress, seemed to sweep over Bee as she passed, with the same
faint, penetrating odour, the same thrill of unaccountable sensation.
Bee could not take her eyes from this figure as it moved slowly along,
pausing here and there with the air of a connoisseur. Who was she? Who
was she? Bee turned as she turned, following her with her eyes.
And then there occurred the most wonderful incident, so strange, so
unsuspected, so unaccountable, that Bee could scarcely suppress a cry of
astonishment. Charlie had been “doing” the pictures in his way, going
faster than his sister, and had been roaming down the whole side of the
long gallery while Bee occupied herself with one or two favourites. He
appeared now at a little distance, having made the round of the room,
and Bee was the involuntary, much surprised witness of the effect
produced upon Charlie by the sudden appearance which had so much excited
herself. He stopped short, with it seemed a sudden exclamation, let the
book in his hands drop in his amazement, then, cleaving the crowd,
precipitated himself upon the group in which the lady stood. Bee watched
with consternation the hurried, eager greeting, the illumination of his
boyish face, even the gesture--both hands put forth, and the quiver of
his whole eager figure. She even heard a little cry of surprise from the
lady, who presently separated herself from her friends and went on with
Charlie in the closest conversation. It seemed to Bee as she watched,
following them as well as she could through the crowd which got between
her and these two figures, that there were no two heads so close
together in all the throng. They seemed to drift into a corner where the
pictures were of no importance, where they were comparatively
undisturbed as if for the most confidential talk. It was not mere
acquaintanceship, a chance meeting with some one he knew, it was utter
forgetfulness of everything else, complete absorption in this new
interest that seemed to move her brother. For a time Bee formed no
conclusion, thought of no explanation, but watched them only with all
her faculties. The catalogue which Charlie had dropped was shuffled and
kicked to her feet by the passers by, a visible sign that something
unusual had happened. What was it? Who was she?
And then there darted into Bee’s mind a suggestion, an idea which she
could not, would not entertain. Laura! Was it possible that this could
be Laura? The thought sent a thrill through and through her. But no! no!
no! she cried within herself; impossible! This lady was years older than
Charlie--of another generation altogether--not a girl at all. She gazed
through the crowd at the two heads in the corner of the room, standing
as if they were looking at the pictures. They had their backs to Bee,
and she could see nothing but occasionally a side glimpse of Charlie’s
cheek and the lace bonnet, with the unusual accompaniment of a floating
veil, which covered his companion’s head. She had remembered the veil at
once--not primly fastened over her face, as most ladies wore them, but
thrown back and falling behind, a head-dress such as nobody else wore.
It distinguished from every other head that of the woman who, Bee now
felt sure, was like somebody in a tragedy of Fate--somebody who had to
do, she could not tell how, with the shipwreck of her own life--for had
she not appeared mysteriously, from she knew not where, on the very eve
of misery and ruin?--and now was overshadowing Charlie’s, bringing him
some calamity. Bee shivered and trembled among all the crowding people
on the seat which so many people envied her, and felt that she was
retaining far longer than her share. She was too much frightened to do
as she could have wished to do, to rush after them, to draw her brother
away, to break the spell. Such a dark lady had been known in story long
before Bee was born. Could it be true that hateful beings were permitted
to stray about even in the brightest scenes, bringing evil augury and
all kinds of trouble with them? Many a time had Bee thought of this
lady--of her sudden appearance, and of her questions about the Leighs;
of something in her look, an air of meaning which even at the moment had
confused the unsuspicious, unalarmed girl. And now, What was she? Who
was she? Laura? Oh, no, no; a hundred times no. If Bee could have
supposed that her respectable father or any member of her innocent
family could have wronged anyone, she would have thought it was a
ghost-lady ominous of trouble. Oh, what a silly thought in broad
daylight, in the Academy of all places in the world! There was very
little that was visionary or superstitious in such a place.
Charlie came back to join his sister after a considerable time with a
glowing face. “Oh, you are there!” he cried. “I’ve been looking
everywhere for you. I couldn’t think where you could have gone----”
“I should have seen you had you been looking for me,” said Bee.
“Well, never mind, now that I have found you. Have you seen as much as
you wish? It’s time to be moving off if you mean to get to Portman
Square in time for tea.”
“Charlie,” said Bee, very gravely, getting up and moving with him
towards the door, “who is that lady you were talking to with the black
lace about her head?”
“What lady?” said Charlie, with a very fictitious look of surprise, and
the colour mounting all over his face. “Oh, the lady I met--that lady?
Well, she is a lady--whom I have met elsewhere----”
“I have met her, too,” cried Bee, breathless, “down at the Baths just
before---- Oh, who is she--who is she, Charlie? I think she is one of
the Fates.”
“You little goose,” cried her brother, and then he laughed in an
unsteady way. “Perhaps she is--if there was a good one,” he cried. “She
is,” he added, in a different tone, and then paused again; “but I
couldn’t tell you half what she is if I were to talk till next week--and
never in such a noisy, vulgar place as this.”
Then Bee’s mind, driven from one thought to another, came suddenly back
with a jar and strain of her nerves to the question about Laura; was it
possible that this should be she?--for it was the tone sacred to Laura
in which her brother now spoke. “Oh! tell me about her, tell me about
her!” she cried, involuntarily clasping her hands--“she isn’t--is she?
Oh, Charlie, you will have time to tell me when we get into the park.
Didn’t she want to speak to me? Why didn’t you introduce me to her if
she is such a great friend of yours?”
“Hush! for goodness’ sake, now; you are making people stare,” said
Charlie. He hurried down the stairs and across the road outside, making
her almost run to keep up with him. “I say, Bee,” he cried hurriedly,
when he had signalled to a hansom, “should you mind going by yourself? I
hate driving when I can walk. Why, you’ve been in a hansom by yourself
before! You’re not going to be such a little goose as to make a fuss
about it now.”
“Oh, but Charlie--I’d rather walk too, and then you can tell me--”
“Oh, nonsense,” he cried, “you’re tired already. It would be too much
for you. Portman Square, No.--. Good-bye, Bee. I’ll look up later,” he
cried, as, to Bee’s consternation, the wheels of the hansom jarred upon
the curb and she felt herself carried rapidly away.