CHAPTER XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH
Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tell--nothingof the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billycarefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name.
Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had beenfrantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that shewould not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been ashe said it was--his foolish blindness. But even when she had partiallycomforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escapethe haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she hadseen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory ofthe words he had said, and at the thought that never again could theirpleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be anyfriendship at all between them.
But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generallytroubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed byher lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken.
"Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter?" demanded Bertram resolutely, atlast, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside."You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because Iknow there is!"
"Well, then, there is, dear," smiled Billy, tearfully; "but please justdon't let us talk of it. I--I want to forget it. Truly I do."
"But I want to know so _I_ can forget it," persisted Bertram. "What isit? Maybe I could help."
She shook her head with a little frightened cry.
"No, no--you can't help--really."
"But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ meabout it?"
Billy looked distressed.
"I can't, dear--truly. You see, it isn't quite mine--to tell."
"Not yours!"
"Not--entirely."
"But it makes you feel bad?"
"Yes--very."
"Then can't I know that part?"
"Oh, no--no, indeed, no! You see--it wouldn't be fair--to the other."
Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines.
"Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know."
Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequitedlove of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell BertramArkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, shemust set Bertram's mind at rest.
"Dearest," she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, "just what itis, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feelthat I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learnedthis afternoon."
"But it has made you cry!"
"Yes. It made me feel very unhappy."
"Then--it was something you couldn't help?"
To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushedscarlet.
"No, I couldn't help it--now; though I might have--once." Billy spokethis last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly:"Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It--it's justspoiling our happy evening together!"
Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh.
"All right, dear; you know best, of course--since I don't know_anything_ about it," he finished 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 aletter 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 CousinJane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because sheknows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what timeit is!"
Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite "Well, I'm sure that's fine!"; butthe 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 aquestion 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 notto hear the word "operetta" for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meantinterruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright,the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or tochange wigs--all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, thathe smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought hesaw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself.
As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw foundthem to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with itsrehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he wasbecoming seriously troubled about Billy.
Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; andhe 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, allthis seemed to be connected in some strange way with Arkwright. He foundthis out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing brightlyabout 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 tofind, to his great surprise, that her face showed a painful flush as shebent over the book in her hand.
He had said nothing more at the time, but he had not forgotten. Severaltimes, after that, he had introduced the man's name, and never had itfailed to bring a rush of color, a biting of the lip, or a quick changeof position followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner thathe had learned to dread. He noticed then that never, of her own freewill, did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him withthe old frank lightness as "Mary Jane."
By casual questions asked from time to time, Bertram had learned thatArkwright never came there now, and that the song-writing together hadbeen given up. Curiously enough, this discovery, which would once havefilled Bertram with joy, served now only to deepen his distress. Thatthere was anything inconsistent in the fact that he was more frightenednow 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 badlyfrightened.
Bertram had not forgotten the evening after the operetta, and Billy'stear-stained face on that occasion. He dated the whole thing, in fact,from that evening. He fell to wondering one day if that, too, hadanything to do with Arkwright. He determined then to find out.Shamelessly--for the good of the cause--he set a trap for Billy's unwaryfeet.
Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then heasked abruptly:
"Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn't shown up once since theoperetta, has he?"
Billy, always truthful,--and just now always embarrassed whenArkwright's name was mentioned,--walked straight into the trap.
"Oh, yes; well, he was here once--the day after the operetta. I haven'tseen 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 almostwished that he had not set any trap at all.
He knew now it was true. Arkwright had been with Billy the day after theoperetta, and her tears and her distress that evening had been caused bysomething Arkwright had said. It was Arkwright's secret that she couldnot tell. It was Arkwright to whom she must be fair. It was Arkwright'ssorrow that she "could not help--now."
Naturally, with these tools in his hands, and aided by days of broodingand nights of sleeplessness, it did not take Bertram long to fashion TheThing that finally loomed before him as The Truth.
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He understood it all now. Music had conquered. Billy and Arkwright hadfound that they loved each other. On the day after the operetta, theyhad met, and had had some sort of scene together--doubtless Arkwrighthad declared his love. That was the "secret" that Billy could not telland be "fair." Billy, of course,--loyal little soul that she was,--hadsent him away at once. Was her hand not already pledged? That was whyshe could not "help it-now." (Bertram writhed in agony at the thought.)Since that meeting Arkwright had not been near the house. Billy hadfound, however, that her heart had gone with Arkwright; hence the shadowin her eyes, the nervousness in her manner, and the embarrassment thatshe always showed at the mention of his name.
That Billy was still outwardly loyal to himself, and that she still keptto her engagement, did not surprise Bertram in the least. That was likeBilly. Bertram had not forgotten how, less than a year before, this sameBilly had held herself loyal and true to an engagement with William,because a wretched mistake all around had caused her to give her promiseto be William's wife under the impression that she was carrying outWilliam's dearest wish. Bertram remembered her face as it had looked allthose long summer days while her heart was being slowly broken; and hethought he could see that same look in her eyes now. All of which onlygoes to prove with what woeful skill Bertram had fashioned this Thingthat was looming before him as The Truth.
The exhibition of "The Bohemian Ten" was to open with a private viewon the evening of the twentieth of March. Bertram Henshaw's onecontribution was to be his portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop--thepiece of work that had come to mean so much to him; the piece of workupon which already he felt the focus of multitudes of eyes.
Miss Winthrop was in Boston now, and it was during these early Marchdays that Bertram was supposed to be putting in his best work on theportrait; but, unfortunately, it was during these same early March daysthat he was engaged, also, in fashioning The Thing--and the two did notharmonize.
The Thing, indeed, was a jealous creature, and would brook no rival.She filled his eyes with horrid visions, and his brain with sickeningthoughts. Between him and his model she flung a veil of fear; and sheset his hand to trembling, and his brush to making blunders with thepaints on his palette.
Bertram saw The Thing, and saw, too, the grievous result of herpresence. Despairingly he fought against her and her work; but The Thinghad become full grown now, and was The Truth. Hence she was not to bebanished. She even, in a taunting way, seemed sometimes to be justifyingher presence, for she reminded him:
"After all, what's the difference? What do you care for this, oranything again if Billy is lost to you?"
But the artist told himself fiercely that he did care--that he mustcare--for his work; and he struggled--how he struggled!--to ignore thehorrid visions and the sickening thoughts, and to pierce the veil offear 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 hoursaw only the erasing of what the hour before had wrought. Sometimes theelusive something in Marguerite Winthrop's face seemed right at the tipof his brush--on the canvas, even. He saw success then so plainly thatfor a moment it almost--but not quite--blotted out The Thing. At othertimes that elusive something on the high-bred face of his model was averitable will-o'-the-wisp, refusing to be caught and held, even in hiseye. The artist knew then that his picture would be hung with Anderson'sand Fullam's.
But the portrait was, irrefutably, nearing completion, and it was to beexhibited the twentieth of the month. Bertram knew these for facts.