Miss Billy's Decision by Eleanor H. Porter
CHAPTER XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM
February came The operetta, for which Billy was working so hard, wasto be given the twentieth. The Art Exhibition, for which Bertram waspreparing his four pictures, was to open the sixteenth, with a privateview for specially invited friends the evening before.
On the eleventh day of February Mrs. Greggory and her daughter arrivedat Hillside for a ten-days' visit. Not until after a great deal ofpleading and argument, however, had Billy been able to bring this about.
"But, my dears, both of you," Billy had at last said to them; "justlisten. We shall have numberless rehearsals during those last tendays before the thing comes off. They will be at all hours, and of alllengths. You, Miss Greggory, will have to be on hand for them all, ofcourse, and will have to stay all night several times, probably. You,Mrs. Greggory, ought not to be alone down here. There is no sensible,valid reason why you should not both come out to the house for those tendays; and I shall feel seriously hurt and offended if you do not consentto do it."
"But--my pupils," Alice Greggory had demurred.
"You can go in town from my home at any time to give your lessons, anda little shifting about and arranging for those ten days will enable youto set the hours conveniently one after another, I am sure, so you canattend to several on one trip. Meanwhile your mother will be having alovely time teaching Aunt Hannah how to knit a new shawl; so you won'thave to be worrying about her."
After all, it had been the great good and pleasure which the visit wouldbring to Mrs. Greggory that had been the final straw to tip the scales.On the eleventh of February, therefore, in the company of the oncescorned "Peggy and Mary Jane," Alice Greggory and her mother had arrivedat Hillside.
Ever since the first meeting of Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy hadbeen sorely troubled by the conduct of the two young people. She had,as she mournfully told herself, been able to make nothing of it. The twowere civility itself to each other, but very plainly they were not atease in each other's company; and Billy, much to her surprise, had toadmit that Arkwright did not appear to appreciate the "circumstances"now that he had them. The pair called each other, ceremoniously, "Mr.Arkwright," and "Miss Greggory"--but then, that, of course, did not"signify," Billy declared to herself.
"I suppose you don't ever call him 'Mary Jane,'" she said to the girl, alittle mischievously, one day.
"'Mary Jane'? Mr. Arkwright? No, I don't," rejoined Miss Greggory, withan odd smile. Then, after a moment, she added: "I believe his brothersand sisters used to, however."
"Yes, I know," laughed Billy. "We thought he was a real Mary Jane,once." And she told the story of his arrival. "So you see," shefinished, when Alice Greggory had done laughing over the tale, "healways will be 'Mary Jane' to us. By the way, what is his name?"
Miss Greggory looked up in surprise.
"Why, it's--" She stopped short, her eyes questioning. "Why, hasn't heever told you?" she queried.
Billy lifted her chin.
"No. He told us to guess it, and we have guessed everything we can thinkof, even up to 'Methuselah John'; but he says we haven't hit it yet."
"'Methuselah John,' indeed!" laughed the other, merrily.
"Well, I'm sure that's a nice, solid name," defended Billy, her chinstill at a challenging tilt. "If it isn't 'Methuselah John,' what is it,then?"
But Alice Greggory shook her head. She, too, it seemed, could be firm,on occasion. And though she smiled brightly, all she would say, was:
"If he hasn't told you, I sha'n't. You'll have to go to him."
"Oh, well, I can still call him 'Mary Jane,'" retorted Billy, with airydisdain.
All this, however, so far as Billy could see, was not in the leasthelping along the cause that had become so dear to her--the reuniting ofa pair of lovers. It occurred to her then, one day, that perhaps, afterall, they were not lovers, and did not wish to be reunited. Atthis disquieting thought Billy decided, suddenly, to go almost toheadquarters. She would speak to Mrs. Greggory if ever the opportunityoffered. Great was her joy, therefore, when, a day or two after theGreggorys arrived at the house, Mrs. Greggory's chance reference toArkwright and her daughter gave Billy the opportunity she sought.
"They used to know each other long ago, Mr. Arkwright tells me," Billybegan warily.
"Yes."
The quietly polite monosyllable was not very encouraging, to be sure;but Billy, secure in her conviction that her cause was a righteous one,refused to be daunted.
"I think it was so romantic--their running across each other like this,Mrs. Greggory," she murmured. "And there _was_ a romance, wasn't there?I have just felt in my bones that there was--a romance!"
Billy held her breath. It was what she had meant to say, but now thatshe had said it, the words seemed very fearsome indeed--to say to Mrs.Greggory. Then Billy remembered her Cause, and took heart--Billy wasspelling it now with a capital C.
For a long minute Mrs. Greggory did not answer--for so long a minutethat Billy's breath dropped into a fluttering sigh, and her Cause becamesuddenly "IMPERTINENCE" spelled in black capitals. Then Mrs. Greggoryspoke slowly, a little sadly.
"I don't mind saying to you that I did hope, once, that there would be aromance there. They were the best of friends, and they were well-suitedto each other in tastes and temperament. I think, indeed, that theromance was well under way (though there was never an engagement)when--" Mrs. Greggory paused and wet her lips. Her voice, when sheresumed, carried the stern note so familiar to Billy in her firstacquaintance with this woman and her daughter. "As I presumeMr. Arkwright has told you, we have met with many changes in ourlife--changes which necessitated a new home and a new mode ofliving. Naturally, under those circumstances, old friends--and oldromances--must change, too."
"But, Mrs. Greggory," stammered Billy, "I'm sure Mr. Arkwright wouldwant--" An up-lifted hand silenced her peremptorily.
"Mr. Arkwright was very kind, and a gentleman, always," interposed thelady, coldly; "but Judge Greggory's daughter would not allow herselfto be placed where apologies for her father would be necessary--_ever!_There, please, dear Miss Neilson, let us not talk of it any more,"begged Mrs. Greggory, brokenly.
"No, indeed, of course not!" cried Billy; but her heart rejoiced.
She understood it all now. Arkwright and Alice Greggory had been almostlovers when the charges against the Judge's honor had plunged the familyinto despairing humiliation. Then had come the time when, accordingto Arkwright's own story, the two women had shut themselves indoors,refused to see their friends, and left town as soon as possible. Thushad come the breaking of whatever tie there was between Alice Greggoryand Arkwright. Not to have broken it would have meant, for Alice, theplacing of herself in a position where, sometime, apologies must be madefor her father. This was what Mrs. Greggory had meant--and again, asBilly thought of it, Billy's heart rejoiced.
Was not her way clear now before her? Did she not have it in her power,possibly--even probably--to bring happiness where only sadness wasbefore? As if it would not be a simple thing to rekindle the oldflame--to make these two estranged hearts beat as one again!
Not now was the Cause an IMPERTINENCE in tall black letters. It was,instead, a shining beacon in letters of flame guiding straight tovictory.
Billy went to sleep that night making plans for Alice Greggory andArkwright to be thrown together naturally--"just as a matter of course,you know," she said drowsily to herself, all in the dark.
Some three or four miles away down Beacon Street at that moment BertramHenshaw, in the Strata, was, as it happened, not falling asleep. He waslying broadly and unhappily awake Bertram very frequently lay broadlyand unhappily awake these days--or rather nights. He told himself, onthese occasions, that it was perfectly natural--indeed it was!--thatBilly should be with Arkwright and his friends, the Greggorys, so much.There were the new songs, and the operetta with its rehearsals as acause for it all. At the same time, deep within his fearful soul was theconsciousness that Arkwright, the Greggorys, and the operett
With Billy's behavior toward himself, Bertram could find no fault. Shewas always her sweet, loyal, lovable self, eager to hear of his work,earnestly solicitous that it should be a success. She even--as hesometimes half-irritably remembered--had once told him that she realizedhe belonged to Art before he did to himself; and when he had indignantlydenied this, she had only laughed and thrown a kiss at him, with theremark that he ought to hear his sister Kate's opinion of that matter.As if he wanted Kate's opinion on that or anything else that concernedhim and Billy!
Once, torn by jealousy, and exasperated at the frequent interruptions oftheir quiet hours together, he had complained openly.
"Actually, Billy, it's worse than Marie's wedding," he declared, "_Then_it was tablecloths and napkins that could be dumped in a chair. _Now_it's a girl who wants to rehearse, or a woman that wants a differentwig, or a telephone message that the sopranos have quarrelled again. Iloathe that operetta!"
Billy laughed, but she frowned, too.
"I know, dear; I don't like that part. I wish they _would_ let me alonewhen I'm with you! But as for the operetta, it is really a good thing,dear, and you'll say so when you see it. It's going to be a greatsuccess--I can say that because my part is only a small one, you know.We shall make lots of money for the Home, too, I'm sure."
"But you're wearing yourself all out with it, dear," scowled Bertram.
"Nonsense! I like it; besides, when I'm doing this I'm not telephoningyou to come and amuse me. Just think what a lot of extra time you havefor your work!"
"Don't want it," avowed Bertram.
"But the _work_ may," retorted Billy, showing all her dimples. "Nevermind, though; it'll all be over after the twentieth. _This_ isn't anunderstudy like Marie's wedding, you know," she finished demurely.
"Thank heaven for that!" Bertram had breathed fervently. But even as hesaid the words he grew sick with fear. What if, after all, this _were_an understudy to what was to come later when Music, his rival, hadreally conquered?
Bertram knew that however secure might seem Billy's affection forhimself, there was still in his own mind a horrid fear lest underneaththat security were an unconscious, growing fondness for something hecould not give, for some one that he was not--a fondness that would oneday cause Billy to awake. As Bertram, in his morbid fancy pictured it,he realized only too well what that awakening would mean to himself.