"Can't you answer me properly? Tell me what happened."
"He asked me to marry him."
Mrs. Cary first gasped, and then burst into a loud, cackling laugh.
"He asked you to marry him! That colored man! I hope you laughed in his face?"
Beatrice turned, one clenched hand resting on the table.
"No," she said, "I did not laugh—there was nothing to laugh at. I have kept my promise to you." Then, unexpectedly she buried her face in her arms and burst into tears.
Mrs. Cary stood there thunderstruck, her mouth open, her eyes wide with alarm. For one moment she was incapable of reasoning out this catastrophe. She had never seen Beatrice cry—her tears, because of their rarity, were as terrible as a man's, and could not be explained away by nerves or fatigue. This was something else. Mrs. Cary crossed the room. She laid a fat, trembling hand on her daughter's shoulder.
"Beaty, what's the matter?" she asked uneasily. "What is it? Are you ill?—or—or—Beaty!"—a light dawning across her dull face—"good heavens! you don't love that man?" There was no answer. After a long moment, Mrs. Cary's hand fell to her side. "You couldn't!" she muttered. "It wouldn't do. Think of what people would say! Our position!" Still no answer. She turned and stumbled toward the door. "I will tell the captain—you are ill," she said.
Beatrice did not move.