Miss Billy's Decision

  CHAPTER XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY

  Promptly at the suggested hour on the day after the operetta, Arkwrightrang Billy Neilson's doorbell. Promptly, too, Billy herself came intothe living-room to greet him.

  Billy was in white to-day--a soft, creamy white wool with a touch ofblack velvet at her throat and in her hair. The man thought she hadnever looked so lovely: Arkwright was still under the spell wrought bythe soft radiance of Billy's face the two times he had mentioned his"story."

  Until the night before the operetta Arkwright had been more thandoubtful of the way that story would be received, should he eversummon the courage to tell it. Since then his fears had been changed torapturous hopes. It was very eagerly, therefore, that he turned now togreet Billy as she came into the room.

  "Suppose we don't have any music to-day. Suppose we give the whole timeup to the story," she smiled brightly, as she held out her hand.

  Arkwright's heart leaped; but almost at once it throbbed with a vagueuneasiness. He would have preferred to see her blush and be a little shyover that story. Still--there was a chance, of course, that she did notknow what the story was. But if that were the case, what of the radiancein her face? What of--Finding himself in a tangled labyrinth that ledapparently only to disappointment and disaster, Arkwright pulled himselfup with a firm hand.

  "You are very kind," he murmured, as he relinquished her fingers andseated himself near her. "You are sure, then, that you wish to hear thestory?"

  "Very sure," smiled Billy.

  Arkwright hesitated. Again he longed to see a little embarrassment inthe bright face opposite. Suddenly it came to him, however, that ifBilly knew what he was about to say, it would manifestly not be her partto act as if she knew! With a lighter heart, then, he began his story.

  "You want it from the beginning?"

  "By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek at the ending. I don'tthink it's fair to the author."

  "Then I will, indeed, begin at the beginning," smiled Arkwright, "forI'm specially anxious that you shall be--even more than 'fair' to me."His voice shook a little, but he hurried on. "There's a--girl--in it; avery dear, lovely girl."

  "Of course--if it's a nice story," twinkled Billy.

  "And--there's a man, too. It's a love story, you see."

  "Again of course--if it's interesting." Billy laughed mischievously, butshe flushed a little.

  "Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might aswell own up at the beginning--I'm the man."

  "That will do for you to say, as long as you're telling the story,"smiled Billy. "We'll let it pass for proper modesty on your part. But Ishall say--the personal touch only adds to the interest."

  Arkwright drew in his breath.

  "We'll hope--it'll really be so," he murmured.

  There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what tosay.

  "Well?" prompted Billy, with a smile. "We have the hero and the heroine;now what happens next? Do you know," she added, "I have always thoughtthat part must bother the story-writers--to get the couple to doinginteresting things, after they'd got them introduced."

  Arkwright sighed.

  "Perhaps--on paper; but, you see, my story has been _lived_, so far. Soit's quite different."

  "Very well, then--what did happen?" smiled Billy.

  "I was trying to think--of the first thing. You see it began with apicture, a photograph of the girl. Mother had it. I saw it, and wantedit, and--" Arkwright had started to say "and took it." But he stoppedwith the last two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tellthis girl how much that picture had been to him for so many months past.He hurried on a little precipitately. "You see, I had heard about thisgirl a lot; and I liked--what I heard."

  "You mean--you didn't know her--at the first?" Billy's eyes weresurprised. Billy had supposed that Arkwright had always known AliceGreggory.

  "No, I didn't know the girl--till afterwards. Before that I was alwaysdreaming and wondering what she would be like."

  "Oh!" Billy subsided into her chair, still with the puzzled questioningin her eyes.

  "Then I met her."

  "Yes?"

  "And she was everything and more than I had pictured her."

  "And you fell in love at once?" Billy's voice had grown confident again.

  "Oh, I was already in love," sighed Arkwright. "I simply sank deeper."

  "Oh-h!" breathed Billy, sympathetically. "And the girl?"

  "She didn't care--or know--for a long time. I'm not really sure shecares--or knows--even now." Arkwright's eyes were wistfully fixed onBilly's face.

  "Oh, but you can't tell, always, about girls," murmured Billy,hurriedly. A faint pink had stolen to her forehead. She was thinking ofAlice Greggory, and wondering if, indeed, Alice did care; and if she,Billy, might dare to assure this man--what she believed to be true--thathis sweetheart was only waiting for him to come to her and tell her thathe loved her.

  Arkwright saw the color sweep to Billy's forehead, and took suddencourage. He leaned forward eagerly. A tender light came to his eyes. Theexpression on his face was unmistakable.

  "Billy, do you mean, really, that there is--hope for me?" he beggedbrokenly.

  Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror cameto her eyes. She drew back and would have risen to her feet had thethought not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man wasmaking love to her, when subsequent events proved that she had beenmortifyingly mistaken: once when Cyril had told her of his love forMarie; and again when William had asked her to come back as a daughterto the house she had left desolate.

  Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a "foolishlittle simpleton," she summoned all her wits, forced a cheery smile toher lips, and said:

  "Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, soI'm not the one to give hope; and--"

  "But you are the one," interrupted the man, passionately. "You're theonly one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and--"

  "No, no, not that--not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding whatyou mean," pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now,holding up two protesting hands, palms outward.

  "Miss Neilson, you don't mean--that you haven't known--all thistime--that it was you?" The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt andunbelieving, looking into hers.

  Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed onhis, carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid vision.

  "But you know--you _must_ know that I am not yours to win!" shereproached him sharply. "I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's--_wife_." FromBilly's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force thatwas at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mereutterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a sacred circle about her andplaced herself in sanctuary.

  From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back.

  "Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!" he exclaimed. There was nomistaking the amazed incredulity on his face.

  Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, anda terrified appeal took its place.

  "You don't mean that you _didn't--know?_" she faltered.

  There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy'seyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there fromunbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery.

  "No, I did not know," said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested hisarm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand.

  Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to herthroat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and benthead of the man before her.

  "But I--I don't see how you could have helped--knowing," she stammeredat last. "I don't see how such a thing could have happened that youshouldn't know!"

  "I've been trying to think, myself," returned the man, still in a dull,emotionless voice.

 
"It's been so--so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knewit," maintained Billy.

  "Perhaps that's just it--that it was--so much a matter of course,"rejoined the man. "You see, I know very few of your friends, anyway--whowould be apt to mention it to me."

  "But the announcements--oh, you weren't here then," moaned Billy. "Butyou must have known that--that he came here a good deal--that we weretogether so much!"

  "To a certain extent, yes," sighed Arkwright. "But I took yourfriendship with him and his brothers as--as a matter of course. _That_was _my_ 'matter of course,' you see," he went on bitterly. "I knewyou were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told methe story of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world.Calderwell had said, too, that--" Arkwright paused, then hurried on alittle constrainedly--"well, he said something that led me to think Mr.Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway."

  Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knewvery well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause.Must _always_ she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw tolove any girl--except to paint?

  "But--but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement--now," shestammered.

  "Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrivalin Boston. We do not correspond."

  There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again.

  "I think I understand now--many things. I wonder I did not see thembefore; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being--If Calderwellhadn't said--" Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half complete,and again Billy winced. "I've been a blind fool. I was so intent on myown--I've been a blind fool; that's all," repeated Arkwright, with abreak in his voice.

  Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a chokingsob.

  Arkwright turned sharply.

  "Miss Neilson, don't--please," he begged. "There is no need that youshould suffer--too."

  "But I am so ashamed that such a thing _could_ happen," she faltered."I'm sure, some way, I must be to blame. But I never thought. I wasblind, too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. Inever even _thought_ to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It wasjust the music that brought us together, I supposed; and you werejust like one of the family, anyway. I always thought of you as AuntHannah's--" She stopped with a vivid blush.

  "As Aunt Hannah's niece, Mary Jane, of course," supplied Arkwright,bitterly, turning back to his old position. "And that was my own fault,too. My name, Miss Neilson, is Michael Jeremiah," he went on wearily,after a moment's hesitation, his voice showing his utter abandonment todespair. "When a boy at school I got heartily sick of the 'Mike' andthe 'Jerry' and the even worse 'Tom and Jerry' that my young friendsdelighted in; so as soon as possible I sought obscurity and peace in 'M.J.' Much to my surprise and annoyance the initials proved to be littlebetter, for they became at once the biggest sort of whet to people'scuriosity. Naturally, the more determined persistent inquirers were toknow the name, the more determined I became that they shouldn't. Allvery silly and very foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now," hefinished.

  Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, _anything_, to say,when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless voicethat Billy thought would break her heart.

  "As for the 'Mary Jane'--that was another foolishness, of course. Mysmall brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion,even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, byhis laughing question, 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head thecrazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was areal Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for thechance of meeting and knowing you."

  Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning ofArkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had beentalking then about herself, not Alice Greggory.

  "But you don't mean that you--cared--that I was the--" She could notfinish.

  Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair.

  "Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I wasdetermined to meet you. So I came--and met you. After that I was moredetermined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was soblind to--to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good--to talklike this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself," hebegged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone.

  Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go.