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.
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.
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—”
“Hinder me! What are you talking about, Billy?”
Billy drew a quivering sigh.
“Well, to begin with, Kate said—”
“Good heavens! Is Kate in this, too?” Bertram's voice was savage now.
“Well, she wrote a letter.”
“I'll warrant she did! Great Scott, Billy! Don't you know Kate by this time?”
“Y-yes, I said so, too. But, Bertram, what she wrote was true. I found it everywhere, afterwards—in magazines and papers, and even in Marie.”
“Humph! Well, dearie, I don't know yet what you found, but I do know you wouldn't have found it at all if it hadn't been for Kate—and I wish I had her here this minute!”
Billy giggled hysterically.
“I don't—not right here,” she cooed, nestling comfortably against her lover's arm. “But you see, dear, she never has approved of the marriage.”
“Well, who's doing the marrying—she, or I?” “That's what I said, too—only in another way,” sighed Billy. “But she called us flyaway flutterbudgets, and she said I'd ruin your career, if I did marry you.”
“Well, I can tell you right now, Billy, you will ruin it if you don't!” declared Bertram. “That's what ailed me all the time I was painting that miserable portrait. I was so worried—for fear I'd lose you.”
“Lose me! Why, Bertram Henshaw, what do you mean?”
A shamed red crept to the man's forehead.
“Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scared blue, Billy, with jealousy of—Arkwright.”
Billy laughed gayly—but she shifted her position and did not meet her lover's eyes.
“Arkwright? Nonsense!” she cried. “Why, he's going to marry Alice Greggory. I know he is! I can see it as plain as day in her letters. He's there a lot.”
“And you never did think for a minute, Billy, that you cared for him?” Bertram's gaze searched Billy's face a little fearfully. He had not been slow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked him now straight in the face—it was a level, frank gaze of absolute truth.
“Never, dear,” she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned the question on her love instead of Arkwright's!) “There has never really been any one but you.”
“Thank God for that,” breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright head nearer and held it close.
After a minute Billy stirred and sighed happily.
“Aren't lovers the beat'em for imagining things?” she murmured.
“They certainly are.”
“You see—I wasn't in love with Mr. Arkwright.”
“I see—I hope.”
“And—and you didn't care specially for—for Miss Winthrop?”
“Eh? Well, no!” exploded Bertram. “Do you mean to say you really—”
Billy put a soft finger on his lips.
“Er—'people who live in glass houses,' you know,” she reminded him, with roguish eyes.
Bertram kissed the finger and subsided.
“Humph!” he commented.
There was a long silence; then, a little breathlessly, Billy asked:
“And you don't—after all, love me—just to paint?”
“Well, what is that? Is that Kate, too?” demanded Bertram, grimly.
Billy laughed.
“No—oh, she said it, all right, but, you see, everybody said that to me, Bertram; and that's what made me so—so worried sometimes when you talked about the tilt of my chin, and all that.”
“Well, by Jove!” breathed Bertram.
There was another silence. Then, suddenly, Bertram stirred.
“Billy, I'm going to marry you to-morrow,” he announced decisively.
Billy lifted her head and sat back in palpitating dismay.
“Bertram! What an absurd idea!”
“Well, I am. I don't know as I can trust you out of my sight till then! You'll read something, or hear something, or get a letter from Kate after breakfast to-morrow morning, that will set you 'saving me' again; and I don't want to be saved—that way. I'm going to marry you to-morrow. I'll get—” He stopped short, with a sudden frown. “Confound that law! I forgot. Great Scott, Billy, I'll have to trust you five days, after all! There's a new law about the license. We've got to wait five days—and maybe more, counting in the notice, and all.”
Billy laughed softly.
“Five days, indeed, sir! I wonder if you think I can get ready to be married in five days.”
“Don't want you to get ready,” retorted Bertram, promptly. “I saw Marie get ready, and I had all I wanted of it. If you really must have all those miles of tablecloths and napkins and doilies and lace rufflings we'll do it afterwards,—not before.”
“But—”
“Besides, I need you to take care of me,” cut in Bertram, craftily.
“Bertram, do you—really?”
The tender glow on Billy's face told its own story, and Bertram's eager eyes were not slow to read it.
“Sweetheart, see here, dear,” he cried softly, tightening his good left arm. And forthwith he began to tell her how much he did, indeed, need her.
“Billy, my dear!” It was Aunt Hannah's plaintive voice at the doorway, a little later. “We must go home; and William is here, too, and wants to see you.”
Billy rose at once as Aunt Hannah entered the room.
“Yes, Aunt Hannah, I'll come; besides”—she glanced at Bertram mischievously—“I shall need all the time I've got to prepare for—my wedding.”
“Your wedding! You mean it'll be before—October?” Aunt Hannah glanced from one to the other uncertainly. Something in their smiling faces sent a quick suspicion to her eyes.
“Yes,” nodded Billy, demurely. “It's next Tuesday, you see.”
“Next Tuesday! But that's only a week away,” gasped Aunt Hannah.
“Yes, a week.”
“But, child, your trousseau—the wedding—the—the—a week!” Aunt Hannah could not articulate further.
“Yes, I know; that is a good while,” cut in Bertram, airily. “We wanted it to-morrow, but we had to wait, on account of the new license law. Otherwise it wouldn't have been so long, and—”
But Aunt Hannah was gone. With a low-breathed “Long! Oh, my grief and conscience—William!” she had fled through the hall door.
“Well, it is long,” maintained Bertram, with tender eyes, as he reached out his hand to say good-night.