Life's little stage

by Agnes Giberne

He recognised now well enough that soft voice. The only marvel was that he had not instantly known it. He had seen much of Bee during three weeks, had liked her much. If the impression made by him upon her was deep, the impression made by her upon him was not slight. He admired her; he enjoyed intercourse with her; he hoped some day before long to meet her again; he had even recognised as a possibility that he might by-and-bye find himself in love with her.

But he was not yet in love. He told himself so, almost angrily, as he clutched the blanket round his head. And of all wretched contretemps, what could be worse than this? That he and she should have come together, high in the mountains, away from the crowds, neither knowing of the other's presence, and that he should have overheard, without intending it, words which—whether truly or falsely—no doubt implied that he had somehow captured her heart! It was appalling!

Of course it might be all a mistake. Probably it was all a mistake. The girl was joking, teasing her companion, trying to get a rise out of her, as girls will; and Beatrice might never give the careless words another thought, if—it all hung upon that!—if she did not discover that he had been close at hand, and that he had or might have overheard. But if she did find this out—his whole being rose in revolt for Bee's sake. What would she not think? What would she not feel?

Small chance of sleep remained to him. He lay thinking the matter over, worrying himself, and planning how to escape in the early morning, before she should become aware of his presence.

An odd realisation crept over him, as he tossed and turned, that—if it were true—and no doubt it was not true, it was mere nonsense!—but if it were, then to be so loved would be a new and beautiful thing. Through his twenty-five years of life he had never yet known what it was to be first in a woman's heart. His mother had died in his infancy, and he had no sisters. He was well off, successful, and popular. Match-making mothers had courted him; and girls of a sort—the sort he would never dream of marrying, for he held a high ideal of what a woman should be—had flirted with him. But he knew Bee well enough to grasp that this would be altogether different. If Bee Major loved, hers would be a love worth having.

Of course it was all nonsense; a silly joke of that other unpleasant girl. Only—if it were—

He knew himself to be companionable and agreeable, liked by people in general, one who made and kept friends. But to be utterly and absolutely first with another—to be the one and only man to one only woman—that would put him on a new level, would give to life a fresh colouring.

No use dwelling on all that, he told himself impatiently. Bee Major had probably laughed at the silly words; and he himself was not in love. He was, however, very much concerned to prevent her from becoming aware of his presence in the Hut; and when one o'clock arrived, he wakened Robert, and impressed on him the need for abnormal caution, lest they should disturb two lady-climbers, sleeping on the ground-floor.

With exaggerated care, he set the example, creeping down the ladder like a mouse, and keeping as much as possible in shadow behind the stove, lest they also should have planned an early start, and should arouse themselves. Not likely, at one o'clock in the morning; but on such occasions nothing is impossible.

Besides, Beatrice might be awake, despite her stillness; and though she should catch no glimpse of his face, she might recognise his voice. So, in sombre silence, and not without some nervous glances towards the lower shelf, on which lay two dimly-outlined figures rolled in rugs, he drank his coffee. Rob kept equal silence.