Chapter XVIII: Taken by Surprise

IT had dawned upon Magda that the home-life of Beatrice Major was not quite so smooth and easy, as an outsider might imagine. Bee said nothing to lead to this impression; but it came into being.

Mrs. Major was socially delightful; "so distinguished and patrician!" Somebody said this; and the phrase "caught on." The Burwood ladies went about, remarking one to another—"what a very distinguished person dear Mrs. Major was; so very patrician, you know!"

But to be never so distinguished and patrician does not mean of necessity that the possessor of those adjectives must be always easy to get on with.

She certainly had plenty of originality, with a goodly allowance of brains, and really fine principles. But she was a woman very much accustomed to have her own way; and she expected to have it. She was sensible, even wise; and the "way" that she wanted might, more frequently than not, be both wise and sensible. Yet at times one would rather be free to go one's own foolish way than be forced, against one's will, into paths of wisdom.

If this was the state of things with people in general, much more was it so with her only daughter. She indeed had shaped and ordered Bee's life in true "absolute monarchy" style. Of the mother's devotion to the daughter, there could be no question; and the love was warmly returned. Yet even Bee, with all her innate and cultured gentleness, did crave for a trifle more liberty.

Despite her twenty-one years, she was treated precisely as a child in the school-room. She had an allowance; but she was expected to consult her mother about every shilling that she spent. She might not go out for a walk without asking leave. Her ways of thinking were naturally much the same as Mrs. Major's; but if on any point she differed—and, of course, she did sometimes differ—she was at once suppressed. She might not act for herself, might not think for herself. In Mrs. Major's eyes she was a child still, and likely to remain so.

"Bee, I couldn't stand it in your place! I really couldn't!" Magda broke out one day. Of late Magda had taken to going often in and out of Virginia Villa, where she could always be sure of a welcome. Her friendship with Patricia had dwindled into small dimensions. Patricia had a fancy for Pen, and the two were much together, while Magda was treated with kindness as a younger sister, for whom Patricia found scant leisure. In disgust, she threw up the attempt to see more of her former idol, and fled for comfort to the earlier companionship.

Bee never showed the slightest umbrage at thus acting as a pis-aller. Magda one day tried lamely to explain and excuse her own past conduct; and Bee listened, with patient attention, till the explanation broke down. After all, there was little to be said, except that Magda had not been faithful to her friend. But Bee did not seem to mind. She was gently affectionate as ever, though with a difference. She no longer "worshipped the ground" on which Magda walked. Rather she took her stand as the elder of the two, and was kind, solicitous, sympathetic—but independent. Her happiness rested no longer on Magda's smiles or frowns. While she still loved, it was with love of a different quality. She had been disappointed in Magda; and nothing could reinstate Magda in the old position, for no explanations could do away with facts.

On this particular day, Bee had just had a decided set-down from her mother on some little point of variance; and Mrs. Major, having administered the snub, without any conception that it was a snub, took herself smilingly off. So soon as the two girls were alone Magda broke out as above.

"Yes, you would. What does it matter? Mother is so good to me always. It is only just—not arguing."

"I don't see why you are never to have an opinion of your own."

"Nobody can help my having an opinion of my own."

"Only you've got to smother it down! I've always thought I was pretty closely kept in—but it's nothing to what you are. And you know how girls do have their way now—in some houses."

"I wonder if they are the happier for it—really!"

"Anyhow, they like it. Wouldn't you?"

Bee worked steadily in silence. She had clever hands and often made her own dresses. A half-completed blouse lay on her knees.

"Perhaps I might," she said at length. "But one can't always have everything one likes."

"If you stood up for yourself a little more, things would be different."

Bee shook her head. "It isn't my way," she said.

After a break, she began again—"And, besides, don't you sometimes think, Magda, of how things will look by-and-by—as the years go on?"

"How things will look!"

"Yes. Don't you see what I mean? I'll tell you. I knew a girl near my home, three years ago, who had home troubles. They were real troubles—not easy to bear, I dare say. But she fought for her own way; and she said hard things to her mother, and was so cold to her—I've seen her refuse to give a kiss! And then, quite suddenly, the mother died. There was no warning at all—it was all in a moment. No time for any last words or explanations. And I never can forget that girl's misery—how she reproached herself, and how she would have given all she had for just one word—just to be able to have one kiss, and to beg for forgiveness. For she knew then what the mother's love had really been all through—even though there had been little difficulties, and perhaps some things rather hard to bear. And I made up my mind that I would never be in her position—that I wouldn't let myself mind too much about little worries—and most of all that I would never, never treat my mother coldly. For I know how she loves me."

"I suppose one ought to feel like that—more than one does," observed Magda. Conscience gave a sharp little prick. "Well, I must be going. Oh, by-the-by, what do you think Mrs. Miles told me yesterday?"

"I don't know. You like Mrs. Miles?"

"I like her immensely. And him too. They are dears!" Magda spoke with enthusiasm. Bee had noted the beginning of this new friendship; and not being of a jealous temperament, she was honestly pleased at what seemed likely to make Magda more happy. The last two or three weeks a change had been visible in the latter, a return of vitality, a dawning of fresh interests, and a lessening of the dull indifference which had followed upon Rob's engagement.

"Mother thinks them delightful," she said.

"Oh, they are. I've been twice to tea lately, and I'm going again to-morrow—to help Mrs. Miles with some work. And only think, Bee—she is a cousin of that Mr. Ivor who fell into the chasm last summer. And he is coming to pay them a visit."

Bee, taken by surprise, sent up a startled glance, and flushed brightly. She so seldom changed colour, that Magda came to a stop, with arrested attention.

"Is he? How curious!"

"Why—curious? Quite natural that he should come, if they are cousins."

"Yes. I meant, it is curious that they should be related."

"Mrs. Miles is very fond of him. She says he is such a good fellow—always so kind and thoughtful about other people, and he never minds what trouble he takes to help anybody. She has always been his favourite cousin—a sort of elder sister, because he never had any sisters of his own. She must be a good many years older than he is."

"She will be very pleased to have him." Bee spoke the words quietly, but she did not feel quiet. Her pulse and her thoughts were running riot together.

Was he coming—could he be coming—because he knew that she was here? Did he care—ever so little—for seeing her again? No—no—she answered resolutely—no chance of such a thing! He had given her no reason whatever to think so, when they were together. He had made no effort to see more of her. He had shown no particular feeling beyond simple gratitude for what she had done. She might not allow herself to indulge in dreams. Yet, even as she so replied, the eager questioning leapt up anew, asking with insistent loudness—was it, was it, quite impossible that he might find a pleasure in meeting her once more? She had tried so hard not to dwell upon recollections of him, and had counted herself successful on the whole. Yet now, at the first mention of his name, at the mere thought of seeing his face, she was stirred to the depths.

"Bee, what are you thinking about? You have such a colour! I never saw you look so pretty."

Bee woke up to the fact that she was not alone. Actually, she had forgotten Magda's presence. The latter was examining her with puzzled eyes.

"What are you thinking about? Are you so glad that Mr. Ivor is coming?"

Bee pulled herself together instantly. She did wish that every pulse in her frame would not clang at such a furious rate; yet she spoke in a voice of entire composure.

"I've met him twice. He was very pleasant both times. Of course, it will be nice to see him again—and nice for you too, as he is your brother's friend. Did I tell you that Amy Smith is coming to us?"

"No, I don't remember?"

"We expect her early next week."

"Why Mr. Ivor comes next week too. I'm not sure which day. The place will be quite lively. Well, I suppose I ought to be off. Mother told me to be back early."

Magda vanished; and Bee sat deep in thought, thankful to be alone.

Would the two visits clash—that of Ivor and that of Amy? Bee shivered under the possibility. It was one thing to turn aside Magda's attention. It would be quite another thing to encounter Amy's preternaturally sharp observation.

She might meet Mr. Ivor happily alone, when Amy was not there! But suppose he should come to call, and Amy should be present!—noting her every look, her every change of expression!

The Hut scene was again before her mind's eyes, vividly as if at that moment it was being enacted. She heard again her own talk with Amy; saw herself stand up in displeasure; caught afresh the words called out as she retreated—

"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive! I have it now! Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched man, to rob me of my Bee!"

Words which—if Ivor chanced to be awake—could not fail to reach his ears! In which case he could say nothing!

At the time she had met this knowledge calmly. The after terror for his life had dwarfed its importance; and when he was safe, the after joy and relief carried her through their first meeting.

But now, at the thought of again seeing him, she was far more keenly affected by this realisation of what he might have overheard. Fear had her in its grip lest, when in his presence, she should fail to hold herself well in leash. How if he were indifferent, and if she should betray the fact that she was not indifferent? How if some look or word of hers should reveal that Amy's utterance had been true, while yet he could not respond? It would be too dreadful.

Extreme care would be necessary, not to go one inch farther than she intended—or than he would go. She Would have to be simple, natural, easy, kind—no more. And with Amy present, the difficulty would be magnified tenfold.

Till this hour she had not known the strength of the hold that he had upon her; the overwhelming intensity of her love for him. Would she have power to go through such an ordeal, and to emerge triumphant?

Bee almost felt that she could not endure the strain—that she must somehow make her escape.

But if he did care—if he were coming with the expectation of seeing her—how could she be absent?