a little stiffly.
Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning.
“And, do you know? Aunt Hannah’s clock _has_ done a good turn, at last, and justified its existence. Listen,” she cried gayly. “Marie had a letter from her mother’s Cousin Jane. Cousin Jane couldn’t sleep nights, because she was always lying awake to find out just what time it was; so Marie had written her about Aunt Hannah’s clock. And now this Cousin Jane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because she knows there’ll never be but half an hour that she doesn’t know what time it is!”
Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite “Well, I’m sure that’s fine!”; but the words were plainly abstracted, and the frown had not left his brow. Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to a question of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder:
“Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don’t want to _hear_ the word `operetta’ again for a year!”
Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied not to hear the word “operetta” for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meant interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change wigs–all of which Bertram
abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he saw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself.
As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found them to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with its rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming seriously troubled about Billy.
Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; and he breathed more freely, telling himself that his fears were groundless. Then would come the haunting shadow to her eyes, the droop to her mouth, and the nervousness to her manner that he so dreaded. Worse
yet, all this seemed to be connected in some strange way with Arkwright. He found this out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing brightly about something, when he chanced to introduce Arkwright’s name.
“By the way, where is Mary Jane these days?” he asked then.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. He hasn’t been here lately,” murmured Billy, reaching for a book on the table.
At a peculiar something in her voice, he had looked up quickly, only to find, to his great surprise, that her face showed a painful flush as she bent over the book in her hand.
He had said nothing more at the time, but he had not forgotten. Several times, after that, he had introduced the man’s name, and never had it failed to bring a rush of color, a biting of the lip, or a quick change of position followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner that he had learned to dread. He noticed then that never, of her own free will, did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him with the old frank lightness as “Mary Jane.”
By casual questions asked from time to time, Bertram had learned that Arkwright never came there now, and that the song-writing together had been given up. Curiously enough, this discovery, which would once have filled Bertram with joy, served now only to deepen his distress. That there was anything inconsistent in the fact that he was more frightened now at the man’s absence than he had been before at his presence, did not occur to him. He knew only that he was frightened, and badly frightened.
Bertram had not forgotten the evening after the operetta, and Billy’s tear-stained face on that occasion. He dated the whole thing, in fact, from that evening. He fell to wondering one day if that, too, had anything to do with Arkwright. He determined then to find out. Shamelessly– for the good of the cause–he set a trap for Billy’s unwary feet.
Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then he asked abruptly:
“Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn’t shown up once since the operetta, has he?”
Billy, always truthful,–and just now always embarrassed when Arkwright’s name was mentioned,– walked straight into the trap.
“Oh, yes; well, he was here once–the day after the operetta. I haven’t seen him since.”
Bertram answered a light something, but his face grew a little white. Now that the trap had been sprung and the victim caught, he almost wished that he had not set any trap at all.
He knew now it was true. Arkwright had been with Billy the day after the operetta, and her tears and her distress that evening had been caused by something Arkwright had said. It was Arkwright’s secret that she could not tell. It was
Arkwright to whom she must be fair. It was Arkwright’s sorrow that she “could not help–now.”
Naturally, with these tools in his hands, and aided by days of brooding and nights of sleeplessness, it did not take Bertram long to fashion The Thing that finally loomed before him as The Truth.
He understood it all now. Music had conquered. Billy and Arkwright had found that they loved each other. On the day after the operetta, they had met, and had had some sort of scene together –doubtless Arkwright had declared his love. That was the “secret” that Billy could not tell and be “fair.” Billy, of course,–loyal little soul that she was,–had sent him away at once. Was her hand not already pledged? That was why she could not “help it-now.” (Bertram writhed in agony at the thought.) Since that meeting Arkwright had not been near the house. Billy had found, however, that her heart had gone with Arkwright; hence the shadow in her eyes, the nervousness in her manner, and the embarrassment that she always showed at the mention of his name.
That Billy was still outwardly loyal to himself, and that she still kept to her engagement, did not surprise Bertram in the least. That was like Billy. Bertram had not forgotten how, less than a year before, this same Billy had held herself loyal and true to an engagement with William, because a wretched mistake all around had caused her to give her promise to be William’s wife under the impression that she was carrying out William’s dearest wish. Bertram remembered her face as it had looked all those long summer days while her heart was being slowly broken; and he thought he could see that same look in her eyes now. All of which only goes to prove with what woeful skill Bertram had fashioned this Thing that was looming before him as The Truth.
The exhibition of “The Bohemian Ten” was to open with a private view on the evening of the twentieth of March. Bertram Henshaw’s one contribution was to be his portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop–the piece of work that had come to mean so much to him; the piece of work upon which already he felt the focus of multitudes of eyes.
Miss Winthrop was in Boston now, and it was during these early March days that Bertram was supposed to be putting in his best work on the portrait; but, unfortunately, it was during these same early March days that he was engaged, also, in fashioning The Thing–and the two did not harmonize.
The Thing, indeed, was a jealous creature, and would brook no rival. She filled his eyes with horrid visions, and his brain with sickening thoughts. Between him and his model she flung a veil of fear; and she set his hand to trembling, and his brush to making blunders with the paints on his palette.
Bertram saw The Thing, and saw, too, the grievous result of her presence. Despairingly he fought against her and her work; but The Thing had become full grown now, and was The Truth. Hence she was not to be banished. She even, in a taunting way, seemed sometimes to be justifying her presence, for she reminded him:
“After all, what’s the difference? What do you care for this, or anything again if Billy is lost to you?”
But the artist told himself fiercely that he did care–that he must care–for his work; and he struggled–how he struggled!–to ignore the horrid visions and the sickening thoughts, and to pierce the veil of fear so that his hand might be steady and his brush regain its skill.
And so he worked. Sometimes he let his work remain. Sometimes one hour saw only the erasing of what the hour before had wrought. Sometimes the elusive something in Marguerite Winthrop’s face seemed right at the tip of his brush–on the canvas, even. He saw success then so plainly that for a moment it almost–but not quite– blotted out The Thing. At other times that elusive something on the high-bred face of his model was a veritable will-o’-the-wisp, refusing to be caught and held, even in his eye. The artist knew then that his picture would be hung with Anderson’s and Fullam’s.
But the portrait was, irrefutably, nearing completion, and it was to be exhibited the twentieth of the month. Bertram knew these for facts.
CHAPTER XXVIII
BILLY TAKES HER TURN
If for Billy those first twenty days of March did not carry quite the tragedy they contained for Bertram, they were, nevertheless, not really happy ones. She was vaguely troubled by a curious something in Bertram’s behavior that she could not name; she was grieved over Arkwright’s sorrow, and she was constantly probing
her own past conduct to see if anywhere she could find that she was to blame for that sorrow. She missed, too, undeniably, Arkwright’s cheery presence, and the charm and inspiration of his music. Nor was she finding it easy to give satisfactory answers to the questions Aunt Hannah, William, and Bertram so often asked her as to where Mary Jane was.
Even her music was little comfort to her these days. She was not writing anything. There was no song in her heart to tempt her to write. Arkwright’s new words that he had brought her were out of the question, of course. They had been put away with the manuscript of the completed song, which had not, fortunately, gone to the publishers. Billy had waited, intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that she had waited. Just once, since Arkwright’s last call, she had tried to sing that song. But she had stopped at the end of the first two lines. The full meaning of those words, as coming from Arkwright, had swept over her then, and she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden it under the bottom pile of music in her cabinet . . . And she had presumed to sing that love song to Bertram!
Arkwright had written Billy once–a kind, courteous, manly note that had made her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he had said that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to call occasionally– if she were willing–and renew their pleasant hours with their music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing for him to do but to stay away. He had signed himself “Michael Jeremiah Arkwright”; and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter–it sounded so hopeless and dreary to one who knew the jaunty
“M. J.”
Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were great friends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys’ ten-days’ visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentle tap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody’s heart the very first day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunny friendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness.
Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was no longer trying to play Cupid’s assistant. The Cause, for which she had so valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright’s own hand–but that there were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced by Billy’s secret delight when one day Alice Greggory chanced to mention that Arkwright had called the night before upon her and her mother.
“He brought us news of our old home,” she explained a little hurriedly, to Billy. “He had heard from his mother, and he thought some things she said would be interesting to us.”
“Of course,” murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hint of the delight she felt, but hoping, all the while, that Alice would continue the subject.
Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left in entire ignorance of what the news was that Arkwright had brought. She suspected, though, that it had something to do with Alice’s father–certainly she hoped that it had; for if Arkwright had called to tell it, it must be good.
Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they had drawn sensitively back, and had said that they preferred to remain where they were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple from South Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks’ outing the summer before, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They had two extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let for light house- keeping, if only they knew just the right people to take into such close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of the Greggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and the Greggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced that only a very little more money than they were already paying would give themselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a real boon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the change was made, and general happiness all round had resulted–so much so, that Bertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:
“It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on both sides.”
“Nonsense! This isn’t frosting–it’s business,” Billy had laughed.
“And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice–they’re business, too, I suppose?”
“Certainly,” retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low laugh and said: “Mercy! If Alice Greggory thought it was anything _but_ business, I verily believe she would refuse every one of the new pupils, and begin to-night to carry back the tables and chairs herself to those wretched rooms she left last month!”
Bertram had smiled, but the smile had been a fleeting one, and the brooding look of gloom that Billy had noticed so frequently, of late, had come back to his eyes.
Billy was not a little disturbed over Bertram these days. He did not seem to be his natural, cheery self at all. He talked little, and what he did say seldom showed a trace of his usually whimsical way of putting things. He was kindness itself to her, and seemed particularly anxious to please her in every way; but she frequently found his eyes fixed on her with a sombre questioning that almost frightened her. The more she thought of it, the more she wondered what the question was, that he did not dare to ask; and whether it was of herself or himself that he would ask it–if he did dare. Then, with benumbing force, one day, a possible solution of the mystery came to her, he had found out that it was true (what all his friends had declared of him)–he did not really love any girl, except to paint!
The minute this thought came to her, Billy thrust it indignantly away. It was disloyal to Bertram and unworthy of herself, even to think such a thing. She told herself then that it was only the portrait of Miss Winthrop that was troubling him. She knew that he was worried over that. He had confessed to her that actually sometimes he was beginning to fear his hand had lost its cunning. As if that were not enough to bring the gloom to any man’s face–to any artist’s!
No sooner, however, had Billy arrived at this point in her mental argument, than a new element entered–her old lurking jealousy, of which she was heartily ashamed, but which she had never yet been able quite to subdue; her jealousy of the beautiful girl with the beautiful name (not Billy), whose portrait had needed so much time and so many sittings to finish. What if Bertram had found that he loved _her?_ What if that were why his hand had lost its cunning–because, though loving her, he realized that he was bound to another, Billy herself?
This thought, too, Billy cast from her at once as again disloyal and unworthy. But both thoughts, having once entered her brain, had made for themselves roads over which the second passing was
much easier than the first–as Billy found to her sorrow. Certainly, as the days went by, and as Bertram’s face and manner became more and more a tragedy of suffering, Billy found it increasingly difficult to keep those thoughts from wearing their roads of suspicion into horrid deep ruts of certainty.
Only with William and Marie, now, could Billy escape from it all. With William she sought new curios and catalogued the old. With Marie she beat eggs and whipped cream in the shining kitchen, and tried to think that nothing in the world mattered except that the cake in the oven should not fall.
CHAPTER XXIX
KATE WRITES A LETTER
Bertram feared that he knew, before the portrait was hung, that it was a failure. He was sure that he knew it on the evening of the twentieth when he encountered the swiftly averted eyes of some of his artist friends, and saw the perplexed frown on the faces of others. But he knew, afterwards, that he did not really know it–till he read the newspapers during the next few days.
There was praise–oh, yes; the faint praise that kills. There was some adverse criticism, too; but it was of the light, insincere variety that is given to mediocre work by unimportant artists. Then, here and there, appeared the signed critiques of the men whose opinion counted– and Bertram knew that he had failed. Neither as a work of art, nor as a likeness, was the portrait the success that Henshaw’s former work would seem to indicate that it should have been. Indeed, as one caustic pen put it, if this were to be taken as a sample of what was to follow–then the famous originator of “The Face of a Girl” had “a most distinguished future behind him.”
Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so much attention. As Bertram had said, uncounted eyes were watching for it before it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty, Marguerite Winthrop, and because two other well-known artists had failed where he, Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to succeed. After it was hung, and the uncounted eyes had seen it–either literally, or through the eyes of the critics–interest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for other uncounted eyes wanted to see what all the fuss was about, anyway. And when these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by any means, all talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise as were others in its condemnation; all of which, of course, but helped to attract more eyes to the cause of it all.
For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones. William finally dreaded to open his newspaper. (It had become the fashion, when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to “feature” somebody’s opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the first page–something that had almost never been known to happen before.) Cyril, according to Marie, played “perfectly awful things on his piano every day, now.” Aunt Hannah had said “Oh, my grief and conscience!” so many times that it melted now into a wordless groan whenever a new unfriendly criticism of the portrait met her indignant eyes.
Of all Bertram’s friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was the angriest. Not only did she, after a time, refuse to read the papers, but she refused even to allow certain ones to be brought into the house, foolish and unreasonable as she knew this to be.
As to the artist himself, Bertram’s face showed drawn lines and his eyes sombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifference that to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening.
“But, Bertram, why don’t you do something? Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you act something?” she burst out one day.
The artist shrugged his shoulders.
“But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?” he asked.
“I don’t know, of course,” sighed Billy. “But I know what I’d like to do. I should like to go out and–fight somebody!”
So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair of gentle eyes ablaze and two soft little hands doubled into menacing fists, that Bertram laughed.
“What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure,” he said tenderly. “But as if fighting could do any good–in this case!”
Billy’s tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears.
“No, I don’t suppose it would,” she choked, beginning to cry, so that Bertram had to turn comforter.
“Come, come, dear,” he begged; “don’t take it so to heart. It’s not so bad, after all. I’ve still my good right hand left, and we’ll hope there’s something in it yet–that’ll be worth while.”
“But _this_ one isn’t bad,” stormed Billy. “It’s splendid! I’m sure, I think it’s a b-beautiful portrait, and I don’t see _what_ people mean by talking so about it!”
Bertram shook his head. His eyes grew sombre again.
“Thank you, dear. But I know–and you know, really–that it isn’t a splendid portrait. I’ve done lots better work than that.”
“Then why don’t they look at those, and let this alone?” wailed Billy, with indignation.
“Because I deliberately put up this for them to see,” smiled the artist, wearily.
Billy sighed, and twisted in her chair.
“What does–Mr. Winthrop say?” she asked at last, in a faint voice.
Bertram lifted his head.
“Mr. Winthrop’s been a trump all through, dear. He’s already insisted on paying for this– and he’s ordered another.”
“Another!”
“Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He came to me one day, put his hand on my shoulder, and said tersely: `Will you give me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show ’em! I lost the first ten thousand I made. I didn’t the next!’ That’s all he said. Before I could even choke out an answer he was gone. Gorry! talk about his having a `heart of stone’! I don’t believe another man in the country would have done that–and done it in the way he did–in the face of all this talk,” finished Bertram, his eyes luminous with feeling.
Billy hesitated.
“Perhaps–his daughter–influenced him–some.”
“Perhaps,” nodded Bertram. “She, too, has been very kind, all the way through.”
Billy hesitated again.
“But I thought–it was going so splendidly,” she faltered, in a half-stifled voice.
“So it was–at the first.”
“Then what–ailed it, at the last, do you suppose?” Billy was holding her breath till he should answer.
The man got to his feet.
“Billy, don’t–don’t ask me,” he begged. “Please don’t let’s talk of it any more. It can’t do any good! I just flunked–that’s all. My hand failed me. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I was tired. Maybe something–troubled me. Never mind, dear, what it was. It can do no good even to think of that–now. So just let’s –drop it, please, dear,” he finished, his face working with emotion.
And Billy dropped it–so far as words were concerned; but she could not drop it from her thoughts–specially after Kate’s letter came.
Kate’s letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking of various other matters:
“And now about poor Bertram’s failure.” (Billy frowned. In Billy’s presence no one was allowed to say “Bertram’s failure”; but a letter has a most annoying privilege of saying what it pleases without let or hindrance, unless one tears it up–and a letter destroyed unread remains always such a tantalizing mystery of possibilities! So Billy let the letter talk.) “Of course we have heard of it away out here. I do wish if Bertram _must_ paint such famous people, he would manage to flatter them up–in the painting, I mean, of course–enough so that it might pass for a success!
“The technical part of all this criticism I don’t pretend to understand in the least; but from what I hear and read, he must, indeed, have made a terrible mess of it, and of course I’m very sorry –and some surprised, too, for usually he paints such pretty pictures!
“Still, on the other hand, Billy, I’m not surprised. William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an owl, for weeks past; and of course, under those circumstances, the poor boy could not be expected to do good work. Now William, being a man, is not supposed to understand what the trouble is. But I, being a woman, can see through a pane of glass when it’s held right up before me; and I can guess, of course, that a woman is at the bottom of it–she always is!–and that you, being his special fancy at the moment” (Billy almost did tear the letter now–but not quite), “are that woman.
“Now, Billy, you don’t like such frank talk, of course; but, on the other hand, I know you do not want to ruin the dear boy’s career. So, for heaven’s sake, if you two have been having one of those quarrels that lovers so delight in–do, please, for the good of the cause, make up quick, or else quarrel harder and break it off entirely–which, honestly, would be the better way, I think, all around.
“There, there, my dear child, don’t bristle up! I am very fond of you, and would dearly love to have you for a sister–if you’d only take William, as you should! But, as you very well know, I never did approve of this last match at all, for either of your sakes.
“He can’t make you happy, my dear, and you can’t make him happy. Bertram never was– and never will be–a marrying man. He’s too temperamental–too thoroughly wrapped up in his Art. Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will. They can’t. He’s made that way. Listen! I can prove it to you. Up to this winter he’s always been a care-free, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied himself to any one girl till last fall. Then you two entered into this absurd engagement.
“Now what has it been since? William wrote me himself not a fortnight ago that he’d been worried to death over Bertram for weeks past, he’s been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself. And his picture has _failed_ dismally. Of course William doesn’t understand; but I do. I know you’ve probably quarrelled, or something. You know how flighty and
unreliable you can be sometimes, Billy, and I don’t say that to mean anything against you, either– that’s _your_ way. You’re just as temperamental in your art, music, as Bertram is in his. You’re utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry _anybody_, it should be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be a _help_ to him. But when I think of you two flyaway flutterbudgets marrying–!
“Now, for heaven’s sake, Billy, _do_ make up or something–and do it now. Don’t, for pity’s sake, let Bertram ever put out another such a piece of work to shame us all like this. Do you want to ruin his career?
“Faithfully yours,
“KATE HARTWELL.
“P. S. _I_ think William’s the one for you. He’s devoted to you, and his quiet, sensible affection is just what your temperament needs. I _always_ thought William was the one for you. Think it over.
“P. S. No. 2. You can see by the above that it isn’t you I’m objecting to, my dear. It’s just _you- and-Bertram_. “K.”
CHAPTER XXX
“I’VE HINDERED HIM”
Billy was shaking with anger and terror by the time she had finished reading Kate’s letter. Anger was uppermost at the moment, and with one sweeping wrench of her trembling fingers she tore the closely written sheets straight through the middle, and flung them into the little wicker basket by her desk. Then she went down-stairs and played her noisiest, merriest Tarantella, and tried to see how fast she could make her fingers fly.
But Billy could not, of course, play tarantellas all day; and even while she did play them she could not forget that waste-basket up-stairs, and the horror it contained. The anger was still uppermost, but the terror was prodding her at every turn, and demanding to know just what it was that Kate had written in that letter, anyway. It is not strange then, perhaps, that before two hours passed, Billy went up-stairs, took the letter from the basket, matched together the torn half-sheets and forced her shrinking eyes to read every word again-just to satisfy that terror which would not be silenced.
At the end of the second reading, Billy reminded herself with stern calmness that it was only Kate, after all; that nobody ought to mind what Kate said; that certainly _she_, Billy, ought not–after the experience she had already had with her unpleasant interference! Kate did not know what she was talking about, anyway. This was only another case of her trying “to manage.” She did so love to manage–everything!
At this point Billy got out her pen and paper and wrote to Kate.
It was a formal, cold little letter, not at all the sort that Billy’s friends usually received. It thanked Kate for her advice, and for her “kind willingness” to have Billy for a sister; but it hinted that perhaps Kate did not realize that as long as Billy was the one who would have to _live_ with the chosen man, it would be pleasanter to take the one Billy loved, which happened in this case to be Bertram–not William. As for any “quarrel” being the cause of whatever fancied trouble there was with the new picture– the letter scouted that idea in no uncertain terms. There had been no suggestion of a quarrel even once since the engagement.
Then Billy signed her name and took the letter out to post immediately.
For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into the green box at the corner, Billy held her head high, and told herself that the matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified, conclusive, effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction of the things she had said.
Very soon, however, she began to think–not so much of what _she_ had said–but of what Kate had said. Many of Kate’s sentences were
unpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out in letters of flame, and they began to burn, and burn, and burn. These were some of them:
“William says that Bertram has been
completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past.”
“A woman is at the bottom of it–. . . you are that woman.”
“You can’t make him happy.”
“Bertram never was–and never will be–a marrying man.”
“Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will.”
“Up to this winter he’s always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied himself to any one girl until last fall.”
“Now what has it been since?”
“He’s been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself; and his picture has failed, dismally.”
“Do you want to ruin his career?”
Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate’s letter at all. The matter was not closed. Her reply had been, perhaps, courteous and dignified–but it had not been conclusive nor effectual.
Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ acted strangely, of late. Bertram _had_ seemed troubled over something. His picture _had_– With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these thoughts, and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she told herself that the matter _was_ settled. Very scornfully she declared that it was “only Kate,”
after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate make her unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current magazine and began to read.
As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the first article she opened to was headed in huge black type:
“MARRIAGE AND THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT.”
With a little cry Billy flung the magazine far from her, and picked up another. But even “The Elusiveness of Chopin,” which she found here, could not keep her thoughts nor her eyes from wandering to the discarded thing in the corner, lying ignominiously face down with crumpled, out-flung leaves.
Billy knew that in the end she should go over and pick that magazine up, and read that article from beginning to end. She was not surprised, therefore, when she did it–but she was not any the happier for having done it.
The writer of the article did not approve of marriage and the artistic temperament. He said the artist belonged to his Art, and to posterity through his Art. The essay fairly bristled with many-lettered words and high-sounding phrases, few of which Billy really understood. She did understand enough, however, to feel, guiltily, when the thing was finished, that already she had married Bertram, and by so doing had committed a Crime. She had slain Art, stifled Ambition, destroyed Inspiration, and been a nuisance generally. In consequence of which Bertram would henceforth and forevermore be doomed to Littleness.
Naturally, in this state of mind, and with this vision before her, Billy was anything but her bright, easy self when she met Bertram an hour or two later. Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of the bugaboo his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood to place the worst possible construction on his sweetheart’s very evident unhappiness. With sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently averted eyes, therefore, the wretched evening passed, a pitiful misery to them both.
During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itself must be in league with Kate, so often did she encounter Kate’s letter masquerading under some thin disguise. She did not stop to realize that because she was so afraid she _would_ find it, she _did_ find it. In the books she read, in the plays she saw, in the chance words she heard spoken by friend or stranger– always there was something to feed her fears in one way or another. Even in a yellowed newspaper that had covered the top shelf in her closet she found one day a symposium on whether or not an artist’s wife should be an artist; and she shuddered–but she read every opinion given.
Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended–on the artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some for amusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the whole it opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon finishing it she almost sobbed:
“One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I was going to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and no buttons on his clothes!”
It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there she did not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite to the woeful whole.
Billy found Marie in tears.
“Why, Marie!” she cried in dismay.
“Sh-h!” warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of Cyril’s den.
“But, dear, what is it?” begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with greater caution.
“Sh-h!” admonished Marie again.
On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tiny apartment. Once there; she explained in a more natural tone of voice:
“Cyril’s at work on a new piece for the piano.”
“Well, what if he is?” demanded Billy. “That needn’t make you cry, need it?”
“Oh, no–no, indeed,” demurred Marie, in a shocked voice.
“Well, then, what is it?”
Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for sympathy, she sobbed:
“It–it’s just that I’m afraid, after all, that I’m not good enough for Cyril.”
Billy stared frankly.
“Not _good_ enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?”
“Well, not good _for_ him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots of ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I’d darned. They were the first since our marriage that I’d found to darn, and I’d been so proud and–and happy while I _was_ darning them. But–but he took ’em off right after breakfast and threw ’em in a corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I–I needn’t darn any more; that it made–bunches. Billy, _my darns–bunches!_” Marie’s face and voice were tragic.
“Nonsense, dear! Don’t let that fret you,” comforted Billy, promptly, trying not to laugh too hard. “It wasn’t _your_ darns; it was just darns–anybody’s darns. Cyril won’t wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told me so long ago, and I said then there’d be a tragedy when _you_ found it out. So don’t worry over that.”
“Oh, but that isn’t all,” moaned Marie. “Listen! You know how quiet he must have everything when he’s composing–and he ought to
have it, too! But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn’t have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and asked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the–the confounded dirt go, and didn’t I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that abominable tin s-stuff,” she finished in a wail of misery.
Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie’s aghast face and upraised hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle.
“You dear child! Cyril’s always like that when he’s composing,” soothed Billy. “I supposed you knew it, dear. Don’t you fret! Run along and make him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgotten there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet sweepers that clatter.”
Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax.
“You don’t understand,” she moaned. “It’s myself. I’ve _hindered_ him!” She brought out the word with an agony of slow horror. “And only to-day I read-here, look!” she faltered, going to the table and picking up with shaking hands a magazine.
Billy recognized it by the cover at once–another like it had been flung not so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised, therefore, to see very soon at the end of Marie’s trembling finger:
“Marriage and the Artistic Temperament.”
Billy did not give a ringing laugh this time. She gave an involuntary little shudder, though she tried valiantly to turn it all off with a light word of scorn, and a cheery pat on Marie’s heaving shoulders. But she went home very soon; and it was plain to be seen that her visit to Marie had not brought her peace.
Billy knew Kate’s letter, by heart, now, both in the original, and in its different versions, and she knew that, despite her struggles, she was being forced straight toward Kate’s own verdict: that she, Billy, _was_ the cause, in some way, of the deplorable change in Bertram’s appearance, manner, and work. Before she would quite surrender to this heart-sickening belief, however, she determined to ask Bertram himself. Falteringly, but resolutely, therefore, one day, she questioned him.
“Bertram, once you hinted that the picture did not go right because you were troubled over something; and I’ve been wondering–was it about–
me, in any way, that you were troubled?”
Billy had her answer before the man spoke. She had it in the quick terror that sprang to his eyes, and the dull red that swept from his neck to his forehead. His reply, so far as words went did not count, for it evaded everything and told nothing. But Billy knew without words. She knew, too, what she must do. For the time being she took Bertram’s evasive answer as he so evidently wished it to be taken; but that evening, after he had gone, she wrote him a little note and broke the engagement. So heartbroken was she–and so fearful was she that he should suspect this–that her note, when completed, was a cold little thing of few words, which carried no hint that its very coldness was but the heart-break in the disguise of pride.
This was like Billy in all ways. Billy, had she lived in the days of the Christian martyrs, would have been the first to walk with head erect into the Arena of Sacrifice. The arena now was just everyday living, the lions were her own devouring misery, and the cause was Bertram’s best good.
From Bertram’s own self she had it now–that she had been the cause of his being troubled; so she could doubt no longer. The only part that was uncertain was the reason why he had been troubled. Whether his bond to her had become irksome because of his love for another, or because of his love for no girl–except to paint, Billy did not know. But that it was irksome she did not doubt now. Besides, as if she were going to slay his Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally just so that _she_ might be happy! Indeed, no! Hence she broke the engagement.
This was the letter:
“DEAR BERTRAM:–You won’t make the
move, so I must. I knew, from the way you spoke to-day, that it _was_ about me that you were troubled, even though you generously tried to make me think it was not. And so the picture did not go well.
“Now, dear, we have not been happy together lately. You have seen it; so have I. I fear our engagement was a mistake, so I’m going to send back your ring to-morrow, and I’m writing this letter to-night. Please don’t try to see me just yet. You _know_ what I am doing is best–all round.
“Always your friend,
“BILLY.”
CHAPTER XXXI
FLIGHT
Billy feared if she did not mail the letter at once she would not have the courage to mail it at all. So she slipped down-stairs very quietly and went herself to the post box a little way down the street; then she came back and sobbed herself to sleep– though not until after she had sobbed awake for long hours of wretchedness.
When she awoke in the morning, heavy-eyed and unrested, there came to her first the vague horror of some shadow hanging over her, then the sickening consciousness of what that shadow was. For one wild minute Billy felt that she must run to the telephone, summon Bertram, and beseech him to return unread the letter he would receive from her that day. Then there came to her the memory of Bertram’s face as it had looked the night before when she had asked him if she were the cause of his being troubled. There came, too, the memory of Kate’s scathing “Do you want to ruin his career?” Even the hated magazine article and Marie’s tragic “I’ve _hindered_ him!” added their mite; and Billy knew that she should not go to the telephone, nor summon Bertram.
The one fatal mistake now would be to let Bertram see her own distress. If once he should suspect how she suffered in doing this thing, there would be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. She must, therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertram–not to let him see her until she felt more sure of her self-control no matter what he said. The easiest way to do this was, of course, to go away. But where? How? She must think. Meanwhile, for these first few hours, she would not tell any one, even Aunt Hannah, what had happened. There must _no one_ speak to her of it, yet. That she could not endure. Aunt Hannah would, of course, shiver, groan “Oh, my grief and conscience!” and call for another shawl; and Billy just now felt as if she should scream if she heard Aunt Hannah say “Oh, my grief and conscience!”–over that. Billy went down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactly as usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know–yet.
When people try to “act exactly as usual,” they generally end in acting quite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence her attempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter giggles that rang too frequently to be quite sincere–though from Aunt Hannah it all elicited only an affectionate smile at “the dear child’s high spirits.”
A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morning paper–now no longer barred from the door–she gave a sudden cry.
“Billy, just listen to this!” she exclaimed, reading from the paper in her hand. “ `A new tenor in “The Girl of the Golden West.” Appearance of Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House to-night. Owing to the sudden illness of Dubassi, who was to have taken the part of Johnson tonight, an exceptional opportunity has come to a young tenor singer, one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwright is said to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, and a purity of tone and smoothness of execution that few of his age and experience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke at one of the popular-priced Saturday night performances of “Rigoletto”; and his extraordinary success on that occasion, coupled with his familiarity with, and fitness for the part of Johnson in “The Girl of the Golden West,” led to his being chosen to take Dubassi’s place to-night. His performance is awaited with the greatest of interest.’ Now isn’t that splendid for Mary Jane? I’m so glad!” beamed Aunt Hannah.
“Of course we’re glad!” cried Billy. “And didn’t it come just in time? This is the last week of opera, anyway, you know.”
“But it says he sang before–on a Saturday night,” declared Aunt Hannah, going back to the paper in her hand. “Now wouldn’t you have thought we’d have heard of it, or read of it? And wouldn’t you have thought he’d have told us?”
“Oh, well, maybe he didn’t happen to see us so he could tell us,” returned Billy with elaborate carelessness.
“I know it; but it’s so funny he _hasn’t_ seen us,” contended Aunt Hannah, frowning. “You know how much he used to be here.”
Billy colored, and hurried into the fray.
“Oh, but he must have been so busy, with all this, you know. And of course we didn’t see it in the paper–because we didn’t have any paper at that time, probably. Oh, yes, that’s my fault, I know,” she laughed; “and I was silly, I’ll own. But we’ll make up for it now. We’ll go, of course, I wish it had been on our regular season-ticket night, but I fancy we can get seats somewhere; and I’m going to ask Alice Greggory and her mother, too. I’ll go down there this morning to tell them, and to get the tickets. I’ve got it all planned.”
Billy had, indeed, “got it all planned.” She had been longing for something that would take her away from the house–and if possible away from herself. This would do the one easily, and might help on the other. She rose at once.
“I’ll go right away,” she said.
“But, my dear,” frowned Aunt Hannah, anxiously, “I don’t believe I can go to-night–though I’d love to, dearly.”
“But why not?”
“I’m tired and half sick with a headache this morning. I didn’t sleep, and I’ve taken cold somewhere,” sighed the lady, pulling the top shawl a little higher about her throat.
“Why, you poor dear, what a shame!”
“Won’t Bertram go?” asked Aunt Hannah.
Billy shook her head–but she did not meet Aunt Hannah’s eyes.
“Oh, no. I sha’n’t even ask him. He said last night he had a banquet on for to-night–one of his art clubs, I believe.” Billy’s voice was casualness itself.
“But you’ll have the Greggorys–that is, Mrs. Greggory _can_ go, can’t she?” inquired Aunt Hannah.
“Oh, yes; I’m sure she can,” nodded Billy. “You know she went to the operetta, and this is just the same–only bigger.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” murmured Aunt Hannah.
“Dear me! How can she get about so on those two wretched little sticks? She’s a perfect marvel to me.”
“She is to me, too,” sighed Billy, as she hurried from the room.
Billy was, indeed, in a hurry. To herself she said she wanted to get away–away! And she got away as soon as she could.
She had her plans all made. She would go first to the Greggorys’ and invite them to attend the opera with her that evening. Then she would get the tickets. Just what she would do with the rest of the day she did not know. She knew only that she would not go home until time to dress for dinner and the opera. She did not tell Aunt Hannah this, however, when she left the house. She planned to telephone it from somewhere down town, later. She told herself that she _could not_ stay all day under the sharp eyes of Aunt Hannah –but she managed, nevertheless, to bid that lady a particularly blithe and bright-faced good-by.
Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannah answered it.
“Why, Bertram, is that you?” she called, in answer to the words that came to her across the wire. “Why, I hardly knew your voice!”
“Didn’t you? Well, is–is Billy there?”
“No, she isn’t. She’s gone down to see Alice Greggory.”
“Oh!” So evident was the disappointment in the voice that Aunt Hannah added hastily:
“I’m so sorry! She hasn’t been gone ten minutes. But–is there any message?”
“No, thank you. There’s no–message.” The voice hesitated, then went on a little constrainedly. “How–how is Billy this morning? She–she’s all right, isn’t she?”
Aunt Hannah laughed in obvious amusement.
“Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a _long_ time since last evening–when you saw her yourself? Yes, she’s all right. In fact, I was thinking at the breakfast table how pretty she looked with her pink cheeks and her bright eyes. She seemed to be in such high spirits.”
An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catch came across the line; then a somewhat hurried “All right. Thank you. Good-by.”
The next time Aunt Hannah was called to the telephone, Billy spoke to her.
“Aunt Hannah, don’t wait luncheon for me, please. I shall get it in town. And don’t expect me till five o’clock. I have some shopping to do.”
“All right, dear,” replied Aunt Hannah. “Did you get the tickets?”
“Yes, and the Greggorys will go. Oh, and Aunt Hannah!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Please tell John to bring Peggy around early enough to-night so we can go down and get the Greggorys. I told them we’d call for them.”
“Very well, dear. I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you. How’s the poor head?”
“Better, a little, I think.”
“That’s good. Won’t you repent and go, too?”
“No–oh, no, indeed!”
“All right, then; good-by. I’m sorry!”
“So’m I. Good-by,” sighed Aunt Hannah, as she hung up the receiver and turned away.
It was after five o’clock when Billy got home, and so hurried were the dressing and the dinner that Aunt Hannah forgot to mention Bertram’s telephone call till just as Billy was ready to start for the Greggorys’.
“There! and I forgot,” she confessed. “Bertram called you up just after you left this morning, my dear.”
“Did he?” Billy’s face was turned away, but Aunt Hannah did not notice that.
“Yes. Oh, he didn’t want anything special,” smiled the lady, “only–well, he did ask if you were all right this morning,” she finished with quiet mischief.
“Did he?” murmured Billy again. This time there was a little sound after the words, which Aunt Hannah would have taken for a sob if she had not known that it must have been a laugh.
Then Billy was gone.
At eight o’clock the doorbell rang, and a minute later Rosa came up to say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw was down-stairs and wished to see Mrs.
Stetson.
Mrs. Stetson went down at once.
“Why, my dear boy,” she exclaimed, as she entered the room; “Billy said you had a banquet on for to-night!”
“Yes, I know; but–I didn’t go.” Bertram’s face was pale and drawn. His voice did not sound natural.
“Why, Bertram, you look ill! _Are_ you ill?” The man made an impatient gesture.
“No, no, I’m not ill–I’m not ill at all. Rosa says–Billy’s not here.”
“No; she’s gone to the opera with the Greggorys.”
“The _opera!_” There was a grieved hurt in Bertram’s voice that Aunt Hannah quite misunderstood. She hastened to give an apologetic
explanation.
“Yes. She would have told you–she would have asked you to join them, I’m sure, but she said you were going to a banquet. I’m _sure_ she said so.”
“Yes, I did tell her so–last night,” nodded Bertram, dully.
Aunt Hannah frowned a little. Still more anxiously she endeavored to explain to this disappointed lover why his sweetheart was not at home to greet him.
“Well, then, of course, my boy, she’d never think of your coming here to-night; and when she found Mr. Arkwright was going to sing–”
“Arkwright!” There was no listlessness in Bertram’s voice or manner now.
“Yes. Didn’t you see it in the paper? Such a splendid chance for him! His picture was there, too.”
“No. I didn’t see it.”
“Then you don’t know about it, of course,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “But he’s to take the part of Johnson in `The Girl of the Golden West.’ Isn’t that splendid? I’m so glad! And Billy was, too. She hurried right off this morning to get the tickets and to ask the Greggorys.”
“Oh!” Bertram got to his feet a little abruptly, and held out his hand. “Well, then, I might as well say good-by then, I suppose,” he suggested with a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she could remind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for not being there to welcome him, he was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only go up-stairs and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in general, and of Bertram in particular.
Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy came home, so she heard the automobile come to a stop before the door, and she called to Billy when the girl came upstairs.
“Billy, dear, come in here. I’m awake! I want to hear about it. Was it good?”
Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face. There was no brightness in her eyes now, no pink in her cheeks.
“Oh, yes, it was good–very good,” she replied listlessly.
“Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn’t Mary Jane–all right?”
“Mary Jane? Oh!–oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah.”
“ `Very good,’ indeed!” echoed the lady, indignantly. “He must have been!–when you speak as if you’d actually forgotten that he sang at all, anyway!”
Billy had forgotten–almost. Billy had found that, in spite of her getting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, all day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning.
“But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,” she cried, with some show of animation. “And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired,” she broke off wearily.
“You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won’t keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh–Bertram didn’t go to that banquet, after all. He came here,” she added, as Billy turned to go.
“Bertram!” The girl wheeled sharply.
“Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn’t do, at all,” chuckled Aunt Hannah. “Did you suppose I would?”
There was no answer. Billy had gone.
In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had always fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that. Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see her–and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did–Billy knew now how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram’s Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally–if only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a success–because of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl–except to paint.
Very early in the morning a white-faced, red- eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah’s bedside.
“Billy!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled.
Billy sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Aunt Hannah,” she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a lesson she had learned by heart, “please listen, and please try not to be too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like to visit your old home town. Well, I think that’s a very nice idea. If you don’t mind we’ll go to-day.”
Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed.
“_To-day_–child?”
“Yes,” nodded Billy, unsmilingly. “We shall have to go somewhere to-day, and I thought you would like that place best.”
“But–Billy !–what does this mean?”
Billy sighed heavily.
“Yes, I understand. You’ll have to know the rest, of course. I’ve broken my engagement. I don’t want to see Bertram. That’s why I’m going away.”
Aunt Hannah fell nervelessly back on the pillow. Her teeth fairly chattered.
“Oh, my grief and conscience–_Billy!_ Won’t you please pull up that blanket,” she moaned. “Billy, what do you mean?”
Billy shook her head and got to her feet.
“I can’t tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don’t ask me; and don’t–talk. You _will_–go with me, won’t you?” And Aunt Hannah, with her terrified eyes on Billy’s piteously agitated face, nodded her head and choked:
“Why, of course I’ll go–anywhere–with you, Billy; but–why did you do it, why did you do it?”
A little later, Billy, in her own room, wrote this note to Bertram:
“DEAR BERTRAM:–I’m going away to-day. That’ll be best all around. You’ll agree to that, I’m sure. Please don’t try to see me, and please don’t write. It wouldn’t make either one of us any happier. You must know that.
“As ever your friend,
“BILLY.”
Bertram, when he read it, grew only a shade more white, a degree more sick at heart. Then he kissed the letter gently and put it away with the other.
To Bertram, the thing was very clear. Billy had come now to the conclusion that it would be wrong to give herself where she could not give her heart. And in this he agreed with her–bitter as it was for him. Certainly he did not want Billy, if Billy did not want him, he told himself. He would now, of course, accede to her request. He would not write to her–and make her suffer more. But to Bertram, at that moment, it seemed that the very sun in the heavens had gone out.
CHAPTER XXXII
PETE TO THE RESCUE
One by one the weeks passed and became a month. Then other weeks became other months. It was July when Billy, homesick and weary, came back to Hillside with Aunt Hannah.
Home looked wonderfully good to Billy, in spite of the fact that she had so dreaded to see it. Billy had made up her mind, however, that, come sometime she must. She could not, of course, stay always away. Perhaps, too, it would be just as easy at home as it was away. Certainly it could not be any harder. She was convinced of that. Besides, she did not want Bertram to think–
Billy had received only meagre news from Boston since she went away. Bertram had not written at all. William had written twice–hurt, grieved, puzzled, questioning letters that were very hard to answer. From Marie, too, had come letters of much the same sort. By far the cheeriest epistles had come from Alice Greggory. They contained, indeed, about the only comfort Billy had known for weeks, for they showed very plainly to Billy that Arkwright’s heart had been caught on the rebound; and that in Alice Greggory he was finding the sweetest sort of balm for his wounded feelings. From these letters Billy learned, too, that Judge Greggory’s honor had been wholly vindicated; and, as Billy told Aunt Hannah, “anybody could put two and two together and make
four, now.”
It was eight o’clock on a rainy July evening that Billy and Aunt Hannah arrived at Hillside; and it was only a little past eight that Aunt Hannah was summoned to the telephone. When she came back to Billy she was crying and wringing her hands.
Billy sprang to her feet.
“Why, Aunt Hannah, what is it? What’s the matter?” she demanded.
Aunt Hannah sank into a chair, still wringing her hands.
“Oh, Billy, Billy, how can I tell you, how can I tell you?” she moaned.
“You must tell me! Aunt Hannah, what is it?”
“Oh–oh–oh! Billy, I can’t–I can’t!”
“But you’ll have to! What is it, Aunt Hannah?”
“It’s–B-Bertram!”
“Bertram!” Billy’s face grew ashen. “Quick, quick–what do you mean?”
For answer, Aunt Hannah covered her face with her hands and began to sob aloud. Billy, almost beside herself now with terror and anxiety, dropped on her knees and tried to pull away the shaking hands.
“Aunt Hannah, you must tell me! You must –you must!”
“I can’t, Billy. It’s Bertram. He’s–_hurt!_” choked Aunt Hannah, hysterically.
“Hurt! How?”
“I don’t know. Pete told me.”
“Pete!”
“Yes. Rosa had told him we were coming, and he called me up. He said maybe I could do something. So he told me.”
“Yes, yes! But told you what?”
“That he was hurt.”
“How?”
“I couldn’t hear all, but I think ’twas an accident–automobile. And, Billy, Billy–Pete says it’s his arm–his right arm–and that maybe he can’t ever p-paint again!”
“Oh-h!” Billy fell back as if the words had been a blow. “Not that, Aunt Hannah–not that!”
“That’s what Pete said. I couldn’t get all of it, but I got that. And, Billy, he’s been out of his head–though he isn’t now, Pete says–and– and–and he’s been calling for you.”
“For–_me?_” A swift change came to Billy’s face.
“Yes. Over and over again he called for you– while he was crazy, you know. That’s why Pete told me. He said he didn’t rightly understand what the trouble was, but he didn’t believe there was any trouble, _really_, between you two; anyway, that you wouldn’t think there was, if you could hear him, and know how he wanted you, and–why, Billy!”
Billy was on her feet now. Her fingers were on the electric push-button that would summon Rosa. Her face was illumined. The next moment Rosa appeared.
“Tell John to bring Peggy to the door at once, please,” directed her mistress.
“Billy!” gasped Aunt Hannah again, as the maid disappeared. Billy was tremblingly putting on the hat she had but just taken off. “Billy, what are you going to do?”
Billy turned in obvious surprise.
“Why, I’m going to Bertram, of course.”
“To Bertram! But it’s nearly half-past eight, child, and it rains, and everything!”
“But Bertram _wants_ me!” exclaimed Billy. “As if I’d mind rain, or time, or anything else, _now!_”
“But–but–oh, my grief and conscience!” groaned Aunt Hannah, beginning to wring her hands again.
Billy reached for her coat. Aunt Hannah stirred into sudden action.
“But, Billy, if you’d only wait till to-morrow,” she quavered, putting out a feebly restraining hand.
“To-morrow!” The young voice rang with supreme scorn. “Do you think I’d wait till to- morrow–after all this? I say Bertram _wants_ me.” Billy picked up her gloves.
“But you broke it off, dear–you said you did; and to go down there to-night–like this–”
Billy lifted her head. Her eyes shone. Her whole face was a glory of love and pride.
“That was before. I didn’t know. He _wants_ me, Aunt Hannah. Did you hear? He _wants_ me! And now I won’t even–hinder him, if he can’t –p-paint again!” Billy’s voice broke. The glory left her face. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her head was still bravely uplifted. “I’m going to Bertram!”
Blindly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. Still more blindly she reached for her bonnet and cloak on the chair near her.
“Oh, will you go, too?” asked Billy, abstractedly, hurrying to the window to look for the motor car.
“Will I go, too!” burst out Aunt Hannah’s indignant voice. “Do you think I’d let you go alone, and at this time of night, on such a wild- goose chase as this?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” murmured Billy, still abstractedly, peering out into the rain.
“Don’t know, indeed! Oh, my grief and conscience!” groaned Aunt Hannah, setting her bonnet hopelessly askew on top of her agitated head.
But Billy did not even answer now. Her face was pressed hard against the window-pane.
CHAPTER XXXIII
BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS
With stiffly pompous dignity Pete opened the door. The next moment he fell back in amazement before the impetuous rush of a starry-eyed, flushed-cheeked young woman who demanded:
“Where is he, Pete?”
“Miss Billy!” gasped the old man. Then he saw Aunt Hannah–Aunt Hannah with her bonnet askew, her neck-bow awry, one hand bare, and the other half covered with a glove wrong side out. Aunt Hannah’s cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes starry, but with dismay and anger– the last because she did not like the way Pete had said Miss Billy’s name. It was one matter for her to object to this thing Billy was doing–but quite another for Pete to do it.
“Of course it’s she!” retorted Aunt Hannah, testily. “As if you yourself didn’t bring her here with your crazy messages at this time of night!”
“Pete, where is he?” interposed Billy. “Tell Mr. Bertram I am here–or, wait! I’ll go right in and surprise him.”
“_Billy!_” This time it was Aunt Hannah who gasped her name.
Pete had recovered himself by now, but he did not even glance toward Aunt Hannah. His face was beaming, and his old eyes were shining.
“Miss Billy, Miss Billy, you’re an angel straight from heaven, you are–you are! Oh, I’m so glad you came! It’ll be all right now–all right! He’s in the den, Miss Billy.”
Billy turned eagerly, but before she could take so much as one step toward the door at the end of the hall, Aunt Hannah’s indignant voice arrested her.
“Billy-stop! You’re not an angel; you’re a young woman–and a crazy one, at that! Whatever angels do, young women don’t go unannounced and unchaperoned into young men’s
rooms! Pete, go tell your master that _we_ are here, and ask if he will receive _us_.”
Pete’s lips twitched. The emphatic “we” and “us” were not lost on him. But his face was preternaturally grave when he spoke.
“Mr. Bertram is up and dressed, ma’am. He’s in the den. I’ll speak to him.”
Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door of Bertram’s den and threw it wide open.
Opposite the door, on a low couch, lay Bertram, his head bandaged, and his right arm in a sling. His face was turned toward the door, but his eyes were closed. He looked very white, and his features were pitifully drawn with suffering.
“Mr. Bertram,” began Pete–but he got no further. A flying figure brushed by him and fell on its knees by the couch, with a low cry.
Bertram’s eyes flew open. Across his face swept such a radiant look of unearthly joy that Pete sobbed audibly and fled to the kitchen. Dong Ling found him there a minute later polishing a silver teaspoon with a fringed napkin that had been spread over Bertram’s tray. In the hall above Aunt Hannah was crying into William’s gray linen duster that hung on the hall-rack–Aunt Hannah’s handkerchief was on the floor back at Hillside.
In the den neither Billy nor Bertram knew or cared what had become of Aunt Hannah and Pete. There were just two people in their world–two people, and unutterable, incredible, overwhelming rapture and peace. Then, very gradually it dawned over them that there was, after all, something strange and unexplained in it all.
“But, dearest, what does it mean–you here like this?” asked Bertram then. As if to make sure that she was “here, like this,” he drew her even closer–Bertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that was usable.
Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm with a contented little sigh.
“Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to- night that you wanted me, I came,” she said.
“You darling! That was–” Bertram
stopped suddenly. A puzzled frown showed below the fantastic bandage about his head. “ `As soon as,’ ” he quoted then scornfully. “Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I _didn’t_ want you?”
Billy’s eyes widened a little.
“Why, Bertram, dear, don’t you see? When you were so troubled that the picture didn’t go well, and I found out it was about me you were troubled–I–”
“Well?” Bertram’s voice was a little strained.
“Why, of–of course,” stammered Billy, “I couldn’t help thinking that maybe you had found out you _didn’t_ want me.”
“_Didn’t want you!_” groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. “May I ask why?”
Billy blushed.
“I wasn’t quite sure why,” she faltered; “only, of course, I thought of–of Miss Winthrop, you know, or that maybe it was because you didn’t care for _any_ girl, only to paint–oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us,” she broke off wildly, beginning to sob.
“Pete told you that I didn’t care for any girl, only to paint?” demanded Bertram, angry and mystified.
“No, no,” sobbed Billy, “not that. It was all the others that told me that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the accident, you know, and he said– he said– Oh, Bertram, I _can’t_ say it! But that’s one of the things that made me know I _could_ come now, you see, because I–I wouldn’t hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any other of those dreadful things if–if you couldn’t ever–p-paint again,” finished Billy in an uncontrollable burst of grief.
“There, there, dear,” comforted Bertram, patting the bronze-gold head on his breast. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about –except the last; but I know there _can’t_ be anything that ought to make you cry like that. As for my not painting again–you didn’t understand Pete, dearie. That was what they were
afraid of at first–that I’d lose my arm; but that danger is all past now. I’m loads better. Of course I’m going to paint again–and better than ever before–_now!_”
Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. She pulled herself half away from Bertram’s encircling arm.
“Why, Billy,” cried the man, in pained surprise. “You don’t mean to say you’re _sorry_ I’m going to paint again!”
“No, no! Oh, no, Bertram–never that!” she faltered, still regarding him with fearful eyes. “It’s only–for _me_, you know. I _can’t_ go back now, and not have you–after this!–even if I do hinder you, and–”