Chapter XIX: If He Should Come!

"BEE, I'm wondering—is it one-tenth, one-hundredth part as much to you as it is to me—my being here?"

The words broke into a long silence, rousing Beatrice out of her dream; by no means the first of the kind since Amy Smith's arrival two days before.

They were together in the little morning-room of Virginia Villa, sometimes called "The Green Room," because of its prevailing tint. It was a foggy afternoon, not tempting out-of-doors. Mrs. Major had an engagement, so the two were alone; and in the midst of a lengthy talk about "old days," Bee had dropped out of it, forgetting to answer Amy's last remark, leaning a little forward, her eyes fixed on the fire, lost in a vision, which seemed to be half-sad, half-glad, but certainly profound.

Amy knew that she herself had no share in this dream. Somebody else reigned there, and she was forgotten. She saw far more than Magda in her place would have seen. In her passionate devotion to Bee, she had accustomed herself to read each turn of expression, each inflection of voice. It was pathetic, this intensity of her love for the younger girl; for she paid away her whole self, and Bee could not give back an equivalent. Amy Smith, however estimable and good and unselfish—and in the main she was all these,—just did not possess that undefinable gift, the power to win great love. All that Bee was able to give in return was a kind and sincere affection.

Perhaps for the first time, as she sat gazing this afternoon upon Bee's absorbed face, Amy realised it. As the outcome of her troubled realisation, she broke into the above words. Bee, wrenched back to the present, lifted startled eyes.

"Why—of course—"

"There's no 'of course' in the matter. Are you glad to have me? Do you really care? Would it have been better, if I had not come? Tell me—truly. Shall I go back to-morrow?"

"Amy, what nonsense! How can you say such things?"

"Because I think them! Because I never have any secrets from you. Because I don't choose to live in a Fool's Paradise! There are fifty 'becauses,' any one of which will do. But most of all, because it is so much to me to be with you again; and I should like—foolishly, perhaps—selfishly no doubt—to be sure that you are the least little bit glad to be with me. Are you glad—honestly glad? I want the truth, please."

An embarrassing question! Bee had so wished that Amy's visit could have been delayed, just until Ivor's was over. Only that; no more. It was not that she did not wish to have her old friend, but that she dreaded the conjunction of the two. All day she saw Ivor with her mental vision, pictured their first encounter, and longed-for, yet feared the moment. And Amy was here—to look on! That alone was what she craved to alter. She was not and could not be glad to have Amy this particular week. Any other week—only not this. For sole answer, she put her hand on Amy's arm.

"Yes; I know. I'm unreasonable. All the same, remember—I had you for years and years; and nothing ever came between us. If ever the Green-eyed Monster had a valid excuse, I do think he has with me. It isn't as if I had dozens of friends, like some people,—or as if new ones with me could be more than the old ones. But circumstances are different. Once in love, I suppose everything else goes down before it. Do you think I don't know what is in your mind, when you look as you did just now? Know! I should think I did. It's—Mr. Ivor!"

"I would rather talk of something else, please."

"No earthly use. You can't think of anything else."

"You make me sorry I ever let you know that I had any sort of feeling—of that kind!"

"You didn't, my dear child! I found it out for myself—in spite of all you could do."

Bee's pale cheeks were slightly flushed. "And if I had not found it out before, I should find it out now. You are different—different altogether from the Bee of old. Do you think I don't see? Do you think I don't feel? You are away from us all—living in a separate world of your own. Oh, I don't complain. It's natural, I suppose,—and you are just as sweet and kind and thoughtful as ever. There's nothing to complain of—only—you are not here! Nothing is anything to you, except—Of course I see! Bee—look at me." She took possession of the slight hand, lying near, and was instantly aware of the hurried throb of Bee's pulse. "Look at me! I want to see into your eyes."

Bee obeyed gravely, but withdrew her hand. "Amy, if you want to make me really sorry to have you—you will go on saying this sort of thing."

There was a short silence. Amy was a good deal surprised, and her little snub nose reddened.

"You are developing," she said at length, with a touch of constraint. "I never knew you to take quite such a tone before."

"Was I unkind? I am sorry." Bee spoke with difficulty. "I did not mean to give you pain."

"I suppose all is fair in love and war—but you are older."

"Of course I am older. What else can you expect?"

"I didn't expect that, somehow. I thought my Bee would be my Bee still. And she isn't. She is—some one else's Bee now. There's nothing of you left for me."

"Indeed there is, Amy. I never could alter to old friends. How can you suspect me of such a thing?"

"I don't suspect. I know. It's not that you are changed to me, but that you are changed in yourself. You can't help it. You are another being. Quite as dear and sweet as the old Bee, but not the same."

"I'm sorry. I'll try to be my old self. We'll go back to what we were talking about. It was—" She stopped, in perplexity.

"Yes. Go on. It was—"

"I don't quite remember."

"No, of course you don't. Well—if we are to drop the subject of that individual—how I detest the man! Suppose you tell me about your friend, Magda. Are you as absorbed in her as ever?"

"Was I absorbed in her?"

"Every letter that you wrote from school rang with 'Magda' all through. I don't notice her name so often now. But then—you are no longer a school-girl. Do you like her as much as ever?"

"I'm very fond of Magda—really. There's so much that is fine in her. I think she's going through a sort of phase that girls do go through—she's unsettled, and never certain what to do with herself or her time. But she will come through. She does really wish to be useful."

"You might be King Solomon, my dear! It wasn't your way in the past to analyse her, as if you were her granny. You tried to give me the impression that she was a perfectly angelic being. I have always wanted to make her acquaintance."

"So you can. There she is!"

"Not coming here! What a plague! I did think I should have you to myself for this one afternoon."

Bee did not echo the regret.

Magda entered briskly, looking her best. She had for once arranged well her mass of reddish-gold hair; and the quick walk had given her a bright colour; and her golden-brown eyes had their happy light, often lacking in less cheerful moods.

"Bee—" she cried, and stopped at sight of a stranger. "Oh, I forgot!" As it recurred to her mind that Bee had expected a friend.

Bee performed the introduction, and the two shook hands, each critically scanning the other.

"What a plain uninteresting person!" was Magda's inward comment.

"Shouldn't have thought her the sort of girl to suit Bee!" Amy voicelessly said.

"I'm afraid I'm interrupting."

"Not at all. Do stay to tea with us. Mother is out for the afternoon." The words had no sooner passed Bee's lips than she wished them unsaid. She had carefully refrained from saying aught to Amy about Ivor's presence at the Vicarage; and Magda might bring it up. But the thing was done. Already Magda was accepting the invitation.

Bent on keeping clear of the one topic, Bee threw herself into conversation, taking the lead in an unwonted fashion, bringing up everything she could think of to interest her companions. For a time she was successful, though Amy looked curiously at her, and Magda more than once sought to introduce something of which her mind was full. Three times she tried in vain. But a slight pause at length occurred, when tea was brought in, and Magda used her chance.

"I've just been to the Vicarage, Bee. I had to leave some cards that I had been copying out for Mrs. Miles. And—"

"You are always going there now, dear, are you not?"

"Well, sometimes. Not always. I like going, and I like them. And I saw your friend. He arrived late last night."

"Did you? What will you have? Cake or bread-and-butter? Did I show you this photo of our house, Magda? It was taken the other day by a passing photographer—as a specimen of Burwood architecture." She tried to laugh.

Magda glanced casually at the proffered view. "Yes—very good. Bee, I like your friend. He is a handsome man. I never saw a handsomer, I do think. And awfully nice too!"

It was useless to resist. The situation had to be accepted. But Bee found it difficult. She was seated facing the light; and she knew that Amy's eyes were full upon her.

"Yes, he is nice," she said quietly. "You don't take sugar, do you, Amy? I haven't quite forgotten your tastes, you see. I can recommend these cakes."

"So—that is the meaning of the dreaminess," thought Amy, in a flash of comprehension. She instantly recognised that the 'friend' must be Ivor. But she would not spare Bee, feeling vexed that she had not been told of his coming, and she asked pointedly: "A friend! What friend? Who did you say it was?"

Magda answered this. "Why—Mr. Ivor. The one who fell into the bergshrund last summer—don't you remember? Rob always declares that Bee saved his life; and Mr. Ivor says the same. He says that but for her he wouldn't be alive now. I should be awfully proud in your place, Bee."

"I don't see what I have to be proud of. It was little enough that I did."

"Other folks didn't think so at the time," remarked Amy. "If you had seen her, Miss Royston—simply glued to the telescope for hours! Nothing would induce her to budge, till she had spotted the climbers. I should never have thought of staying. But then—they were not friends of mine! Don't you see? That makes all the difference."

"How horrid of me! How small of me!" Amy said to herself, as these words slipped out. She knew that she had said them in revenge, because Bee had not informed her of Ivor's coming.

"But, Bee—that was before you had seen Rob. You didn't know him then!"

A slight clash of the milk-jug against a cup showed that Bee's hand was trembling. It seemed hard that Amy, her own old friend, should make things more difficult for her!

"No," she said. "But I knew that he was your brother!"

"And you knew Mr. Ivor?"

"I had met him—once."

At this moment, of all moments, came a ring at the front door. Bee instantly guessed—nay, knew, as a matter of certainty—who the caller was; and her inward trembling increased. She was not surprised when the door opened, and the little maid announced—

"Mr. Ivor."