Miss Billy's Decision

  CHAPTER XXXI. FLIGHT

  Billy feared if she did not mail the letter at once she would not havethe courage to mail it at all. So she slipped down-stairs very quietlyand went herself to the post box a little way down the street; then shecame back and sobbed herself to sleep--though not until after she hadsobbed awake for long hours of wretchedness.

  When she awoke in the morning, heavy-eyed and unrested, there came toher first the vague horror of some shadow hanging over her, then thesickening consciousness of what that shadow was. For one wild minuteBilly felt that she must run to the telephone, summon Bertram, andbeseech him to return unread the letter he would receive from her thatday. Then there came to her the memory of Bertram's face as it hadlooked the night before when she had asked him if she were the cause ofhis being troubled. There came, too, the memory of Kate's scathing"Do you want to ruin his career?" Even the hated magazine article andMarie's tragic "I've _hindered_ him!" added their mite; and Billy knewthat 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, therewould be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. Shemust, therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertram--not to let himsee her until she felt more sure of her self-control no matter what hesaid. 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 nottell 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 foranother shawl; and Billy just now felt as if she should scream if sheheard Aunt Hannah say "Oh, my grief and conscience!"--over that. Billywent down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactlyas usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know--yet.

  When people try to "act exactly as usual," they generally end in actingquite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence herattempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter gigglesthat rang too frequently to be quite sincere--though from Aunt Hannahit all elicited only an affectionate smile at "the dear child's highspirits."

  A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morningpaper--now no longer barred from the door--she gave a sudden cry.

  "Billy, just listen to this!" she exclaimed, reading from the paper inher hand. "'A new tenor in "The Girl of the Golden West." Appearanceof Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House to-night. Owing to thesudden illness of Dubassi, who was to have taken the part of Johnsontonight, an exceptional opportunity has come to a young tenor singer,one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwrightis said to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, anda purity of tone and smoothness of execution that few of his age andexperience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke atone of the popular-priced Saturday night performances of "Rigoletto";and his extraordinary success on that occasion, coupled with hisfamiliarity with, and fitness for the part of Johnson in "The Girlof the Golden West," led to his being chosen to take Dubassi's placeto-night. His performance is awaited with the greatest of interest.' Nowisn'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'dhave heard of it, or read of it? And wouldn't you have thought he'd havetold 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 AuntHannah, 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 ofcourse we didn't see it in the paper--because we didn't have any paperat 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, ofcourse, I wish it had been on our regular season-ticket night, but Ifancy we can get seats somewhere; and I'm going to ask Alice Greggoryand her mother, too. I'll go down there this morning to tell them, andto get the tickets. I've got it all planned."

  Billy had, indeed, "got it all planned." She had been longing forsomething that would take her away from the house--and if possible awayfrom 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 cango 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 alittle 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 banqueton for to-night--one of his art clubs, I believe." Billy's voice wascasualness itself.

  "But you'll have the Greggorys--that is, Mrs. Greggory _can_ go, can'tshe?" inquired Aunt Hannah.

  "Oh, yes; I'm sure she can," nodded Billy. "You know she went to theoperetta, 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 getaway--away! And she got away as soon as she could.

  She had her plans all made. She would go first to the Greggorys' andinvite them to attend the opera with her that evening. Then she wouldget the tickets. Just what she would do with the rest of the day she didnot know. She knew only that she would not go home until time to dressfor dinner and the opera. She did not tell Aunt Hannah this, however,when she left the house. She planned to telephone it from somewhere downtown, later. She told herself that she _could not_ stay all day underthe sharp eyes of Aunt Hannah--but she managed, nevertheless, to bidthat lady a particularly blithe and bright-faced good-by.

  Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannahanswered it.

  "Why, Bertram, is that you?" she called, in answer to the words thatcame 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 Hannahadded hastily:

  "I'm so sorry! She hasn't been gone ten minutes. But--is there anymessage?"

  "No, thank you. There's no--message." The voice hesitated, then went ona little constrainedly. "How--how is Billy this morning? She--she's allright, isn't she?"

  Aunt Hannah laughed in obvious amusement.

  "Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a _long_ timesince last evening--when you saw her yourself? Yes, she's all right. Infact, I was thinking at the breakfast table how pretty she looked withher pink cheeks and her bright eyes. She seemed to be in such highspirits."

  An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catchcame 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 toher.

  "Aunt Hannah, don't wait luncheon for me, please. I shall get it intown. And don't expect me till five o'clock. I have some shopping todo."

  "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 cango 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 andturned away.

  It was after five o'clock when Billy got home, and so hurried were thedressing and the dinner that Aunt Hannah forgot to mention Bertram'stelephone call till just as Billy was ready to start for the Greggorys'.

  "There! and I forgot," she confessed. "Bertram called you up just afteryou left this morning, my dear."

  "Did he?" Billy's face was turned away, but Aunt Hannah did not noticethat.

  "Yes. Oh, he didn't want anything special," smiled the lady,"only--well, he did ask if you were all right this morning," shefinished with quiet mischief.

  "Did he?" murmured Billy again. This time there was a little sound afterthe words, which Aunt Hannah would have taken for a sob if she had notknown that it must have been a laugh.

  Then Billy was gone.

  At eight o'clock the doorbell rang, and a minute later Rosa came upto 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 saidyou had a banquet on for to-night!"

  "Yes, I know; but--I didn't go." Bertram's face was pale and drawn. Hisvoice did not sound natural.

  "Why, Bertram, you look ill! _Are_ you ill?" The man made an impatientgesture.

  "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 thatAunt Hannah quite misunderstood. She hastened to give an apologeticexplanation.

  "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 saidso."

  "Yes, I did tell her so--last night," nodded Bertram, dully.

  Aunt Hannah frowned a little. Still more anxiously she endeavored toexplain to this disappointed lover why his sweetheart was not at home togreet him.

  "Well, then, of course, my boy, she'd never think of your coming hereto-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'sto take the part of Johnson in 'The Girl of the Golden West.' Isn't thatsplendid? I'm so glad! And Billy was, too. She hurried right off thismorning 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 suggestedwith a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she couldremind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for notbeing there to welcome him, he was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only goup-stairs and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in general, andof Bertram in particular.

  Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy camehome, so she heard the automobile come to a stop before the door, andshe called to Billy when the girl came upstairs.

  "Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was itgood?"

  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 MaryJane--all right?"

  "Mary Jane? Oh!--oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah."

  "'Very good,' indeed!" echoed the lady, indignantly. "He must havebeen!--when you speak as if you'd actually forgotten that he sang atall, anyway!"

  Billy had forgotten--almost. Billy had found that, in spite of hergetting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, allday. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning.

  "But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah," she cried, with some showof animation. "And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number ofcurtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired," shebroke off wearily.

  "You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won'tkeep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh--Bertram didn't go to thatbanquet, 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," chuckledAunt 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 hadalways fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that.Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to seeher--and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did--Billy knewnow how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ toslay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and bea nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doingit all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she hadforgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had notbeen a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved nowMiss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint.

  Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at AuntHannah'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 recitinga lesson she had learned by heart, "please listen, and please try not tobe too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like tovisit your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If youdon'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 brokenmy 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 fairlychattered.

  "Oh, my grief and conscience--_Billy!_ Won't you please pull up thatblanket," 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 herhead and choked:

  "Why, of course I'll go--anywhere--with you, Billy; but--why did you doit, 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 moresick at heart. Then he kissed the letter gently and put it away with theother.

  To Bertram, the thing was very clear. Billy had come now to theconclusion that it would be wrong to give herself where she could no
tgive her heart. And in this he agreed with her--bitter as it was forhim. Certainly he did not want Billy, if Billy did not want him, he toldhimself. He would now, of course, accede to her request. He would notwrite 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.