CHAPTER XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN
If for Billy those first twenty days of March did not carry quite thetragedy they contained for Bertram, they were, nevertheless, not reallyhappy ones. She was vaguely troubled by a curious something in Bertram'sbehavior that she could not name; she was grieved over Arkwright'ssorrow, and she was constantly probing her own past conduct to seeif anywhere she could find that she was to blame for that sorrow. Shemissed, too, undeniably, Arkwright's cheery presence, and the charmand inspiration of his music. Nor was she finding it easy to givesatisfactory answers to the questions Aunt Hannah, William, and Bertramso often asked her as to where Mary Jane was.
Even her music was little comfort to her these days. She was notwriting 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 completedsong, which had not, fortunately, gone to the publishers. Billy hadwaited, intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that shehad waited. Just once, since Arkwright's last call, she had tried tosing 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 sweptover her then, and she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden itunder the bottom pile of music in her cabinet ... And she had presumedto sing that love song to Bertram!
Arkwright had written Billy once--a kind, courteous, manly note that hadmade her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he hadsaid that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to calloccasionally--if she were willing--and renew their pleasant hours withtheir music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing for him todo but to stay away. He had signed himself "Michael Jeremiah Arkwright";and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter--it soundedso hopeless and dreary to one who knew the jaunty "M. J."
Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were greatfriends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys'ten-days' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentletap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the veryfirst day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunnyfriendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness.
Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was nolonger trying to play Cupid's assistant. The Cause, for which she hadso valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright's own hand--but thatthere were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced byBilly's secret delight when one day Alice Greggory chanced to mentionthat 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 shesaid would be interesting to us."
"Of course," murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hintof the delight she felt, but hoping, all the while, that Alice wouldcontinue the subject.
Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left inentire ignorance of what the news was that Arkwright had brought.She suspected, though, that it had something to do with Alice'sfather--certainly she hoped that it had; for if Arkwright had called totell it, it must be good.
Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they haddrawn sensitively back, and had said that they preferred to remain wherethey were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple fromSouth Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summerbefore, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They hadtwo extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let forlight house-keeping, if only they knew just the right people to takeinto such close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of theGreggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and theGreggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced thatonly a very little more money than they were already paying would givethemselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a realboon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the changewas made, and general happiness all round had resulted--so much so, thatBertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:
"It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on bothsides."
"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 lowlaugh 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 thosewretched rooms she left last month!"
Bertram had smiled, but the smile had been a fleeting one, and thebrooding 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 notseem to be his natural, cheery self at all. He talked little, and whathe did say seldom showed a trace of his usually whimsical way of puttingthings. He was kindness itself to her, and seemed particularly anxiousto please her in every way; but she frequently found his eyes fixed onher with a sombre questioning that almost frightened her. The more shethought of it, the more she wondered what the question was, that he didnot dare to ask; and whether it was of herself or himself that he wouldask it--if he did dare. Then, with benumbing force, one day, a possiblesolution 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 anygirl, 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 sucha thing. She told herself then that it was only the portrait of MissWinthrop that was troubling him. She knew that he was worried over that.He had confessed to her that actually sometimes he was beginning to fearhis hand had lost its cunning. As if that were not enough to bring thegloom to any man's face--to any artist's!
No sooner, however, had Billy arrived at this point in her mentalargument, than a new element entered--her old lurking jealousy, of whichshe was heartily ashamed, but which she had never yet been able quite tosubdue; her jealousy of the beautiful girl with the beautiful name (notBilly), whose portrait had needed so much time and so many sittings tofinish. What if Bertram had found that he loved _her?_ What if thatwere why his hand had lost its cunning--because, though loving her, herealized that he was bound to another, Billy herself?
This thought, too, Billy cast from her at once as again disloyal andunworthy. But both thoughts, having once entered her brain, had made forthemselves roads over which the second passing was much easier than thefirst--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 ofsuffering, Billy found it increasingly difficult to keep thosethoughts from wearing their roads of suspicion into horrid deep ruts ofcertainty.
Only with William and Marie, now, could Billy escape from it all. WithWilliam she sought new curios and catalogued the old. With Marie shebeat eggs and whipped cream in the shining kitchen, and tried to thinkthat nothing in the world mattered except that the cake in the ovenshould not fall.