WHILE all these things were going on, Bee was left at Kingswarden alone.
That is to say, she was so far from being alone that her solitude was
absolute. She had all the children and was very busy among them. She had
the two boys home for the Easter holidays; the house was full of the
ordinary noise, mirth and confusion natural to a large young family
under no more severe discipline than that exercised by a young elder
sister. The big boys, were in their boyish way, gentlemen, and deferred
to Bee more or less--which set a good example to the younger ones; but
she was enveloped in a torrent of talk, fun, games and jest, which raged
round her from before she got up in the morning till at least the
twilight, when the nursery children got tired, and the big boys having
exhausted every method of amusement during the day, began to feel the
burden of nothing to do, and retired into short-lived attempts at
reading, or games of beggar-my-neighbour, or any other simple mode of
possible recreation--descending to the level of imaginary football with
an old hat through the corridor before it was time to go to bed.
In the evening Bee was thus completely alone, listening to the distant
bumps in the passage, and the voices of the players. The drawing-room
was large, but it was indifferently lighted, which is apt to make a
country drawing-room gloomy in the evening. There was one shaded lamp on
a writing-table, covered at this moment with colour boxes and rough
drawings of the boys, who had been constructing a hut in the grounds,
and wasting much vermillion and Prussian blue on their plans for it; and
near the fireplace, in which the chill of the Spring still required a
little fire, was another lamp, shining silently upon Bee’s white dress
and her hands crossed in her lap. Her face and all its thoughts were in
the shade, nobody to share, nobody to care what they were.
Betty was in town. Her one faithful though not always entirely
sympathetic companion, the aunt--at all times not much more than a piece
of still life--was unwell and had gone to bed; Charlie was lost in the
great depth and silence of the world; Bee was thus alone. She had been
working for the children, making pinafores or some other necessary, as
became her position as sister-mother; for where there are so many
children there is always a great deal to do; but she had grown tired of
the pinafores. If it were not a hard thing to say she was a little tired
of the children too, tired of having to look after them perpetually, of
the nurse’s complaints, and the naughtiness of baby who was spoilt and
unmanageable--tired of the bumping and laughing of the boys, and tired
too of bidding them be quiet, not to rouse the children.
All these things had suddenly become intolerable to Bee. She had a great
many times expressed her thankfulness that she had so much to do, and no
time to think--and probably to-morrow morning she would again be of
that opinion; but in the meantime she was very tired of it all--tired of
a position which was too much for her age, and which she was not able to
bear. She was only a speck in the long, empty drawing-room, her white
skirts and her hands crossed in her lap being all that showed
distinctly, betraying the fact that someone was there, but with her face
hidden in the rosy shade, there was nobody to see that tears had stolen
up into Bee’s eyes. Her hands were idle, folded in her lap. She was
tired of being dutiful and a good girl, as the best of girls are
sometimes. It seemed to her for the moment a dreary world in which she
was placed, merely to take care of the children, not for any pleasure of
her own. She felt that she could not endure for another moment the
bumping in the passage, and the distant voices of the boys. Probably if
they went on there would be a querulous message from Aunt Helen, or
pipings from the nursery of children woke up, and a furious descent of
nurse, more than insinuating that Miss Bee did not care whether baby’s
sleep was broken or not. But even with this certainty before her, Bee
did not feel that she had energy to get up from her chair and interfere;
it was too much. She was too solitary, left alone to bear all the
burden.
Then the habitual thought of Charlie returned to her mind. Poor Charlie!
Where was he, still more alone than she. Perhaps hidden away in the
silence of the seas, or tossing in a storm, going away, away where no
one who cared for him would ever see him more. The tears which had come
vaguely to her eyes dropped, making a mark upon her dress, legitimatised
by this thought. Bee would have been ashamed had they fallen for
herself; but for Charlie--Charlie lost!--none of his family knowing
where he was--she might indeed be allowed to cry. Where was he? Where
was he? If he had been here he would have been sitting with her, making
things more possible. Bee knew very well in her heart that if Charlie
had been with her he would not have been much help to her, that he would
have been grumbling over his own hard fate, and calling upon her to pity
him; but the absent, if they are sometimes wronged, have, on the other
hand, the privilege of being remembered in their best aspect. Then Bee’s
thoughts glided on from Charlie to someone else whom she had for a long
time refused to think of, or tried to refuse to think of. She was so
solitary to-night, with all her doors open to recollections, that he had
stolen in before she knew, and now there was quite a shower of round
blots upon her white dress. Aubrey--oh, Aubrey! who had betrayed her
trust so, who had done her such cruel wrong!--but yet, but yet----
She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the evening post.
Kingswarden was near enough to town to have an evening post, which is a
privilege not always desirable. But any incident was a good thing for
poor Bee. She drew the pinafore, at which she had been working, hastily
over her knee to hide the spots of moisture, and dashed the tears from
her eyes with a rapid hand. In the shade of the lamp not even the most
keen eyes could see that she had been crying. She even paused as she
took the letter to say, “Will you please tell the boys not to make so
much noise?” There were three letters on the tray--one for her father,
one for her aunt, one Betty’s usual daily rigmarole of little news and
nonsense which she never failed to send when she was away. Betty’s
letter was very welcome to her sister. But as Bee read it her face began
to burn. It became more and more crimson, so that the rose shade of the
lamp was overpowered by a deeper and hotter colour. Betty to turn upon
her, to take up the other side, to cast herself under that dreadful new
banner of Fate! Bee’s breath came quickly, her heart beat with anger and
trouble. She got up from her chair and began to walk quickly about the
room, a sudden passion sweeping away all the forlorn sentiment of her
previous thoughts. Betty! in addition to all the rest. Bee felt like the
forlorn _chatelaine_ of a besieged castle alone to defend the walls
against the march of a destroying invader. The danger which had been far
off was coming--it was coming! And the castle had no garrison at all--if
it were not perhaps those dreadful boys making noise enough to bring
down the house, who were precisely the partisans least to be depended
upon, who would probably throw down their arms without striking a blow.
And Bee was alone, the captain deserted of all her forces to defend the
sacred hearth and the little children. The little children! Bee stamped
her foot upon the floor in an appeal, not to heaven, but to all the
powers of Indignation, Fury, War, War! She would defend those walls to
her last gasp. She would not give way, she would fight it out step by
step, to keep the invader from the children. The nursery should be her
citadel. Oh, she knew what would happen, she cried to herself
inconsequently! Baby, who was spoilt, would be twisted into rigid shape,
the little girls would be subdued like little mice--the boys--
At this moment the old hat which served as a football came with a thump
from the corridor into the hall, followed by a louder shout than ever
from Arthur and Rex. Bee rushed forth upon them flinging the door open,
with her blue eyes blazing.
“Do you mean to bring down the house?” she said, in a sudden outburst.
“Do you mean to break the vases and the mirror and wake up the whole
nursery and bring Aunt Helen down upon us? For goodness sake try to
behave like reasonable creatures, and don’t drive me out of my senses!”
cried Bee.
The boys were so startled by this onslaught that Rex, with a final kick
sent the wretched old hat flying to the end of the passage which led to
the servants’ hall, as if it were that harmless object that was to
blame--while Arthur covered the retreat sulkily by a complaint that
there was nothing to do in this beastly old hole, and that a fellow
couldn’t read books all the day long. Bee was so inspired and thrilling
with the passion in her, that she went further than any properly
constituted female creature knowing her own position ought to do.
“You have a great deal more to do than I have,” she said, “far, far more
to do and to amuse yourselves with. Why should you expect so much more
than I do, because you are boys and I am a girl? Is it fair? You’re
always talking of things being fair. It isn’t fair that you should
disturb the whole house, the little babies, and everyone for your
pleasure; and I’m not so very much older than you are, and what
pleasure have I?”
The boys were very much cast down by this fiery remonstrance. There had
been a squall as of several babies from the upper regions, and they had
already been warned of the consequence of their horseplay. But Bee’s
representation touched them in their tenderest point. Was it fair? Well,
no, perhaps it was not quite fair. They went back after her, humbled,
into the drawing-room, and besought her to join them in a game. After
they had finally retired, having finished the evening to their own
partial content, Bee took out again Betty’s letter and read it with less
excitement than at first--or at least with less demonstration of
excitement; this was what it said--
“Bee, such a delightful woman, a friend of her papa’s! So handsome, so
nice, so clever, so well dressed, everything you can think except young,
which of course she is not--nor anything silly. Papa told me to get
ready to come out with him to see an old friend of his and I wasn’t at
all willing, didn’t like it, I thought it must be some old image like
old Mrs. Mackinnon or Nancy Eversfield, don’t you know. Mrs. Lyon had
settled to take me out to see some pictures, and Gerald was coming, and
we were to have a turn in the park after, and I had put on my new frock
and was looking forward to it, when papa came in with this order: ‘Get
on your things and come with me, I want to take you to see an old
friend.’ Of course I had to go, for Mrs. Lyon will never allow me to
shirk anything. But I was not in a very good humour, though they called
me as fresh as a rose and all that--to please papa; as if he cared how
we look! He took me to George Street, Hanover Square, a horrid little
lodging, such as people come to when they come up from the country. And
I had to look as serious and as steady as possible for the sake of the
old lady; when there rose up from the chair, oh, such a different
person, tall, but as slight as you are, with such a handsome face and
such a manner. She might have been--let us say a nice, sweet aunt--but
aunt is not a name that means anything delightful; and mother I must not
say, for there is only one mother in the whole world; oh, but something
I cannot give a name, so understanding, so kind, so nice, for that means
everything. She kissed me, and then she began to talk to me as if she
knew everyone of us and was very fond of us all. And then about Charlie,
whom she seemed to know very well. She called him dear Charlie, and
I wonder if it is she who has persuaded papa that he is with
the Mackinnons, in Scotland. But I know he is not with the
Mackinnons--however, I will tell you about this after.
“Dear Bee, what will you say when I tell you that this delightful woman
is Miss Lance? You will say I have no heart, or no spirit, and am not
sticking to you through thick and thin as I ought; but you must hear
first what I have got to say. Had I known it was Miss Lance I should
have shut myself close up, and whatever she had done or however nice she
had been, I should have had nothing to say to her. If she had been an
angel under that name I should have remembered what you had said, and I
should not have seen any good in her. But I never heard what her name
was till we were all in Mr. Revel’s studio, quite a long time after.
Papa did as he always does, introduced me to her, but not her to me. He
said: “My daughter Betty,” as if I must have known by instinct who she
was. And, dear Bee, though I acknowledge you have every reason not to
believe it, she is delightful, she is, she is! She may have done wrong.
I can’t tell, of course; but I don’t believe she ever meant it, or to
harm you, or Charlie, or anyone. Everybody is delighted with her. Mrs.
Lyon, who you know is very particular, says she has the manners of a
duchess--and that she is such a handsome, distinguished-looking woman.
She is coming to dine here next Saturday. The only one who does not seem
to be quite charmed with her is Gerald, who is prejudiced like you.
“Do try to get over your prejudice, Bee, dear--she is, she is, indeed
delightful! You only want to know her. By the way, about the Mackinnons:
papa has got it firmly into his head that Charlie is there; he says his
mind is quite relieved about him, and that the more he thinks of it, the
more he is certain it is so; now I know that it is not so. I got a
letter from Helen Mackinnon the day I came here, and there is not a
word about Charlie--and she would have been certain to have mentioned
him had he been there. I tried to say this to papa, but his head was so
full of the other idea that he did not hear me at first, and I couldn’t
go on. I whispered to Miss Lance in the studio, and asked her what I
should do? She was so troubled and distressed about Charlie that the
tears came into her eyes, but, after thinking a moment, she said, ‘Oh,
dear child, don’t say anything. Your young friend might have been in a
hurry, she might not have thought it necessary to speak of your brother.
Oh, don’t let us worry him now! Bad news always comes soon enough, and,
of course, he will find it out if it is so.’ Do you think she was right?
But, oh Bee, dear Bee, I am afraid you will not think anything she says
is right; and yet she is _delightful_. If only you knew her! Write
directly, and tell me all you think.”
Bee was not excited on this second reading. She did not spring to her
feet, nor stamp on the floor, or feel inclined to call upon all the
infernal gods. But her heart sank down as if it would never rise again,
and a great pain took possession of her. Who was this witch, this
magician, that everyone who belonged to Bee should be drawn into her
toils--even Betty. What could she want with Betty, who was only a little
girl, who was her sister’s natural second and support? Bee sat a long
time with her head in her hands, letting the fire go out, feeling cold
and solitary and miserable, and frightened to death.