Bébée; Or, Two Little Wooden Shoes

by Ouida

  CHAPTER XXV.

  The winter went by, and the snow-drops and crocus and pale hepaticasmiled at her from the black clods. Every other springtime Bebee had runwith fleet feet under the budding trees down into the city, and had soldsweet little wet bunches of violets and brier before all the snow wasmelted from the eaves of the Broodhuis.

  "The winter is gone," the townspeople used to say; "look, there is Bebeewith the flowers."

  But this year they did not see the little figure itself like a rosycrocus standing against the brown timbers of the Maison de Roi.

  Bebee had not heart to pluck a single blossom of them all. She let themall live, and tended them so that the little garden should look its bestand brightest to him when his hand should lift its latch.

  Only he was so long coming--so very long; the violets died away, and thefirst rosebuds came in their stead, and still Bebee looked every dawn andevery nightfall vainly down the empty road.

  Nothing kills young creatures like the bitterness of waiting.

  Pain they will bear, and privation they will pass through, fire and waterand storm will not appall them, nor wrath of heaven and earth, butwaiting--the long, tedious, sickly, friendless days, that drop one by onein their eternal sameness into the weary past, these kill slowlybut surely, as the slow dropping of water frets away rock.

  The summer came.

  Nearly a year had gone by. Bebee worked early and late. The gardenbloomed like one big rose, and the neighbors shook their heads to see theflowers blossom and fall without bringing in a single coin.

  She herself spoke less seldom than ever; and now when old Jehan, whonever had understood the evil thoughts of his neighbors, asked herwhat ailed her that she looked so pale and never stirred down to thecity, now her courage failed her, and the tears brimmed over her eyes,and she could not call up a brave brief word to answer him. For the timewas so long, and she was so tired.

  Still she never doubted that her lover would comeback: he had said hewould come: she was as sure that he would come as she was sure that Godcame in the midst of the people when the silver bell rang and the Hostwas borne by on high.

  Bebee did not heed much, but she vaguely-felt the isolation she was leftin: as a child too young to reason feels cold and feels hunger.

  "No one wants me here now that Annemie is gone," she thought to herself,as the sweet green spring days unfolded themselves one by one like thebuds of the brier-rose hedges.

  And now and then even the loyal little soul of her gave way, and sobbingon her lonely bed in the long dark nights, she would cry out against him,"Oh, why not have left me alone? I was so happy--so happy!"

  And then she would reproach herself with treason to him and ingratitude,and hate herself and feel guilty in her own sight to have thus sinnedagainst him in thought for one single instant.

  For there are natures in which the generosity of love is so strong thatit feels its own just pain to be disloyalty; and Bebee's was one of them.And if he had killed her she would have died hoping only that no moan hadescaped her under the blow that ever could accuse him.

  These natures, utterly innocent by force of self-accusation andself-abasement, suffer at once the torment of the victim and thecriminal.