Chapter XXI: And Afterwards

BEE went quietly through the rest of the day, saying little, doing all that was needful. She looked white, Amy thought. But any attempt at confidential talk, any reference to the past scene, on the part of the elder, was decisively checked by the younger girl. For once, Amy found herself powerless.

Mrs. Major did not seem to remark anything unusual; and the hours wore away tardily. How tardily, how drearily, with Bee, Amy might have seen. She was no longer a young girl herself; but she had known something of life. She had had her own love-affair, many years back, caring too much for one who did not care for her; and this ought to have given her power, to read and sympathise. But she had found consolation in that past trouble, by pouring her rejected devotion upon Bee; and somehow, though she did see something, she failed to estimate fully.

Bedtime came; and Bee was alone. At last!

She had longed for this moment, through those leaden hours of the interminable evening. Till now she had not dared to let herself think. A heavy weight pressed upon her; but she might not analyse it. She could only struggle on, minute by minute, holding herself in with a firm hand.

The others had gone to bed; and her door was locked; and she no longer feared interruption. She stood in the middle of her pretty room, dazed and motionless; her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on a far distance.

She was seeing again, hearing again, all that had gone on that afternoon; feeling again her own coldness to him; enduring again that terrible strain, and the sense that she might not, could not, let herself go—that she might not, could not, let him see what his coming was to her.

And she had driven him away; had rebuffed and repelled him; had made him think that she did not care, that he was nothing to her. She had read in his face, that he understood it so. He would never get over it. He would never again come forward. She had ruined her happiness, once and for all!

It had been unavoidable. Not knowing what he felt, and recalling what he might have overheard, how could she take any forward step? Things might have been so different—but for Amy! Magda mattered less. Magda saw little below the surface. She could have managed Magda. But Amy—her life-long friend and devotee, Amy who professed to love her more than any other—Amy had done this. Amy had worked the mischief. Amy had laughed at her; had twice said the wrong thing at the critical moment; had upset her self-control; had interfered unkindly, when she might have helped; had driven her into doing that which had destroyed her hope, that which had spoilt her life. If Amy had not been there, or if Amy had acted otherwise, when he came in, she might have met him so differently!

Bee was startled at the force of her own passionate resentment, under this consciousness. Hers was not a resentful nature. That, is to say, it was not one of those natures which are for ever taking offence at nothings, being annoyed at little things. But if resentment were once aroused in her, it was no light matter—just because such arousing was so rare, and would never be without some real cause. To-day it had been aroused, intensely, deeply. Her whole being as she stood in the centre of her room, seemed to swell and surge in vehement bitter wrath. How could she ever forgive this—this which meant the wrecking of her life's happiness?

Somebody turned the handle of her door—in vain. Bee held her breath. She guessed it to be Amy; and she did not want Amy. She wanted nobody,—Amy least of all. Now that she had let herself go, she could not regain the dropped reins.

"If Amy comes, I shall show her—I can't help it!" she muttered despairingly.

Again the handle rattled, and a tap was followed by—

"Please, Bee—please!"

Bee moved nearer to the door, and said in a distinct tone—

"Good-night."

"I want to speak to you."

"No use. I'd rather not. It is too late."

"You are not in bed yet."

"I shall be—soon."

"But I want a word with you first . . . Let me in, please. I must, Bee!"

The wave of resentment again rose high, and Bee pressed both hands on her chest, as if to hold it down. But she had always given way to the elder girl; and habit is strong. After some further hesitation, she very slowly withdrew the bolt. Amy opened, and hurriedly entered.

"What is it that you want?" Bee asked icily.

"I want you. What made you keep me out? That is not like my darling."

She came close, and folded both arms round Bee; but there was no response. Bee seemed an image of snow; as white, as chill; not resisting, but simply enduring the embrace. Never, in all the years that they had known one another, had Amy seen her like this.

Releasing the passive figure, she stood looking, with troubled eyes—herself a small being, in a crude red dressing-gown, her limp light hair hanging loose in rats' tails.

"Bee dear—what is it?"

"Will you please leave me alone!"

"Why were you so stiff to him this afternoon?"

The question was unexpected, and heavy throbbing in Bee's throat answered quickly to it. She said only—

"You made me."

"I! But of course I didn't mean—"

"How could I be anything else—after all you said! With Magda there! It was—impossible! You did it!"

Amy caught one of Bee's hands, and it hung in her grasp like a thing without life.

"I was wrong—I knew I was wrong at the time," she said penitently. "It was horrid of me. That was why I couldn't sleep without seeing you again. I suppose—I suppose it was jealousy. Just a touch of it, you know. Bee—" and she caressed the cold fingers—"of course jealousy is always horrid. But don't you think there is just some little excuse for me? You have always been mine, and nothing before has ever come between us. And now—Oh, I see, it has to be. I see you can't help it. Nothing and nobody is anything to you, in comparison with—him! I must make up my mind to it, and learn to play second fiddle. Or rather—to play no fiddle at all. That's what it really means—" and she tried to laugh. "I shall be out of the orchestra altogether. But it isn't quite easy for me—is it, darling? You'll forgive—won't you? Though I was rather horrid this afternoon. I'll never do it again. And things will soon come right."

"Please leave me alone!" was all that she had in reply.

"Won't you just say first that you forgive me?"

The silence following seemed long. Bee's head dropped.

"I—can't!" came at length. "I—can't—yet! If only you would go!"

"It makes me wretched to think of leaving you like this."

"Why should it? You can do nothing for me—now. You could have helped this afternoon—and you did not! You spoilt everything—made me drive him away—for ever! It was so cruel—so cruel! And now—to pretend—"

"Oh, Bee! Pretend!"

"I can't help it. You must give me time. I can't forgive you yet."

Bee turned away, with a low moan, and went towards the window.

Amy came close behind.

"Listen to me, dear. I promise you that I'll put it right. I'll explain—"

Bee turned fiercely, gripping her wrist. No limpness about her now!

"Never! Never! Not one word. Amy—if you dare—" and her breath grew short. "Have you no sense? Don't you see what it would mean for me, if—if he doesn't care? Promise—promise faithfully—that you never, never will say a single word to anybody about it. Promise!"

"Can't you trust me?"

"No, I can't—after to-day!—after what you did say! You must promise. Amy, I tell you plainly—if ever—ever!—you interfere again—it will be the end of our friendship."

The usually gentle girl was strangely wrought up; and Amy, quite subdued, gave the required promise. She had to repeat it three times, before Bee was satisfied.

"And now will you go to bed? Will you try to rest, darling? And do believe that things are not so bad as you fancy. You will see it to-morrow morning."

"Oh yes,"—came languidly, not in assent.

"And I do think you will soon believe that I did not mean to be cruel!" That word had gone deep. "Bee darling, if you only knew one-half of how I love you, I think you could not suspect me of ever meaning to be unkind."

Bee was listlessly silent.

"One kiss," pleaded Amy. She folded the other in a warm grasp, and Bee again submitted; no more. Amy released her, sighing.

"Well, good-night, poor darling. I'm much more to be pitied than you are. I've done the harm, and that is worse than only having to bear it."

Met again by uncompromising silence, Amy stole away, closing the door with circumspection, lest Mrs. Major should hear. She lay awake in bed, tears dropping at intervals. Had she indeed forfeited Bee's love by her folly?

Sleep under the circumstances lay outside the range of possibilities. An hour passed; and another hour.

The house was very still. A tiny creak startled her; and then a soft footfall.

"Bee!"—she said instantly.

A slight figure bent over her in the darkness, and a smothered voice murmured—

"I'm come—to say—good-night."

Amy held her in a long close clasp. Neither could speak at first; and one tiny sob might be heard from Bee.

"And you forgive me, my darling!"

"I—had to! I—couldn't say my prayers. I couldn't say—Forgive me—as—"

Bee broke down.