Chapter XX: Through an Ordeal

IT was a severe trial for Bee. Amy there—Magda there—both looking on critically; one certainly knowing, and the other possibly half-suspecting, what she felt for him; while she had no knowledge whether his feelings for her went beyond ordinary friendliness, and gratitude for the part she had played in his rescue. That in some measure, he owed his life to her, none seemed to question. Under the circumstances, a call from him, when he happened to be in the place, was only to be expected, and might mean absolutely nothing.

Had she been alone, or with her mother only, she could have met him again as before—perhaps not quite so easily as then, yet with much the same simplicity. But Amy had been putting her to a severe strain. Already her heart beat fast, and her cheeks were flushed. If she allowed herself to show pleasure, there was danger that she might show overmuch pleasure; and those watching eyes would see! If she smiled in his face, she would be taxed afterwards with undue warmth. Besides—if he indeed had overheard Amy's words outside the Hut, he would understand only too well.

These thoughts rushed pell-mell through her mind, as she stood up to greet him. She knew that there was nothing for the emergency but self-restraint and composure. And in her present condition of overstrain, such composure could hardly fail to be over-done.

He came in quickly; looking well and handsome; and very glad, it would seem, to see her again. If so, he met with an immediate check. Bee received him coldly, distantly, as she might have received the veriest stranger. As he passed the door, the pretty flush in her cheeks died out, leaving her pale and apparently unmoved; and her chill quiet might easily be mistaken for utter indifference. Could he have seen the surge of joy which swelled below at the first glimpse of his face, he would not have been so taken in. Yet her eyes scarcely met his; and his warm grasp found limp fingers.

She overdid it completely, as many a woman in like circumstances is apt to do. And he had not the clue.

His own mind by this time was made up. He had thought incessantly of Bee, had grown more and more impatient to see her again, had craved to know her better. For the purpose of so doing, he had proposed this visit to the Vicarage. Her gentleness, her thought for others, had left a powerful impression; and he had begun to know that she was necessary to his happiness. More perhaps than aught else, the semi-consciousness that he might already be enshrined in that girlish heart recurred again and again, with an ever-growing sense of restful delight.

And now he was flung back on himself, and was made to feel that he had been all along cherishing a delusion.

She introduced him to her friends, then returned to the tea-tray, and busied herself with downcast eyes, leaving Magda to do the entertaining—a task which Magda was not slow to take up. Ivor submitted to what Bee apparently desired, though he sent more than one questioning glance towards that still face, wondering what it meant. Once she met his gaze; and a throbbing tide of joy swelled up, so fiercely that she dared not let herself meet it a second time.

She found him suddenly by her side, holding a cup and saucer. "For Miss Royston," he said. And then—"Are you thinking of Switzerland again next summer?"

"No—I am afraid not." She spoke in a low suppressed voice. "Not—likely. I hope you have quite got over—that night—no ill effects!"

"None at all, thanks."

"No sugar, I suppose," Bee remarked, with a glance towards Magda. Then she felt that she was restraining herself too much, was going farther than necessity imposed, and she lifted one eager wistful look—but too late. He had turned away, and was carrying the tea to Magda, beside whom he again seated himself.

The two were soon in a full swing of talk; for Magda liked Ivor, and found him entertaining. Besides, he was Rob's particular friend, which made a link and supplied a topic; and she could talk well enough, when she chose to take the trouble. She did choose to-day.

They got upon the subject of mountain-climbing; and since most of his ascents had been done in company with Rob, she was delighted to draw from him tales of difficult passages and hair-breadth escapes. He was not a man to say much ordinarily about his own doings; but this meant telling about Rob to Rob's sister, which made a difference.

Amy listened with dissatisfied annoyance. She might be vexed and jealous with Bee; she might even stoop to a momentary revenge; but she did not wish her darling to be unhappy, or to be ousted by "this red-haired upstart of a school-girl," as she contemptuously stigmatised Magda in her mind. Yet, looking on, she knew that the "red-haired school-girl" was not without charm, and also that Ivor was not unconscious of that charm. There was a touch of unwonted brightness about Magda, both in colouring and in manner; and the contrast of Bee's impassive pallor was marked.

Now and again the latter made some slight remark, just enough for politeness, and no more. Amy grew annoyed. Why did not Bee exert herself to be agreeable? Why leave the field clear for "that conceited child"? Amy had abundance of adjectives at command, and she often found them a relief to her feelings.

"I should just love to go up a Swiss mountain," Magda was saying. "No, I've never been to Switzerland. I've done some scrambling on English cliffs and places, with Rob—and once he took me to Scotland, and we had some real climbs there. That was three years ago. Only rocky places—not ice and snow."

"Rock-climbing may be quite as difficult, and may need as much care. There is many an English rock-face, where a slip might be as fatal as on a Swiss mountain."

"Only it doesn't sound so grand. That climb of Bee and Miss Smith last year sounds much more than what I did with Rob in Scotland—but I don't believe it was really. When they went to the Hut, I mean."

They both looked towards Bee, and she said mechanically—

"No, I dare say not."

"It was fortunate for me that Miss Major should have undertaken the expedition," observed Ivor.

"If I had not, somebody else would have been there," Bee murmured; and Amy put in an impulsive word, kindly meant—

"My dear, nobody else would have been likely to glue herself to the telescope for hours, as you did: You should have seen her—" this was addressed direct to Ivor—"hour after hour, watching and watching. Nothing would make her stir, when once she settled in her mind that you were in danger. She held on 'like grim death,' no matter what the guides or I might say." It suddenly dawned upon Amy that the "you" which she perhaps meant in the plural might be taken as in the singular; and she made matters worse by hastily adding, as an after-thought, and with a little laugh—"Of course I mean—you both—you and Mr. Royston."

Then she knew that she had doubly blundered; that it would have been far better if she had said nothing. Ivor for a moment was perfectly still, looking down; and it was Bee who broke silence, in her quietest tones—

"I don't see that any one else in my place could have done differently."

"No—perhaps not! Oh, well—I suppose it was just a sort of instinct," explained Amy, feeling guilty.

"And a most kind benevolence towards two fellow-climbers in difficulties," Ivor added.

He stood up then to say good-bye; and Bee did not relax. She longed to do so, longed at this last moment to infuse some warmth into her manner. But Amy's latest interference had made it impossible. She felt frozen and rigid. Good-byes were quickly over; and he spoke no word of seeing her again. His manner too was cold by this time.

As he walked back to the Vicarage, he was conscious of deep disappointment. Bee had been perpetually in his thoughts of late. He had dwelt upon her constantly in imagination; and—much more than he was aware of till this hour—he had counted on the truth of Amy Smith's assertion. He had believed that Bee would be easily won, that she was at least disposed to care for him.

All that was at an end. She did not care; she felt no pleasure in meeting him. Recalling again the Hut scene, he realised how easily he might have misunderstood or exaggerated the meaning of the speech he had overheard—also how, even if Bee had been a trifle touched, she might by this time have lost the slight impression once made.

It was quite evident that she did not care any longer. No girl could put on so icy a manner towards a man whom she loved. So he told himself—little knowing! He could imagine no cause for such a manner, save one—indifference! Probably, she felt that she had been too kind to him at the time of his accident, and she wished to make him see that clearly.

If so, she had succeeded. He did see. He had no further expectations. The dream was dead. He wished that he had not come to Burwood.