Miss Billy's Decision

  CHAPTER VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME

  On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy satsewing with Aunt Hannah in the little sitting-room at the end of thehall upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning,--whichmeant that she was feeling unusually well.

  "Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings," remarked Billy, as shecritically examined a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched acrossthe darning-egg in her hand; "only she'd want a bigger hole. She does solove to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning whitechina sea--and you'd think the safety of an army depended on the wayeach plank was laid, too," she concluded.

  Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did not speak.

  "I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in hissocks," resumed Billy, after a moment's silence. "If you'll believe it,that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playingthat concerto so superbly. It did, actually--right in the middle of theadagio movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music Ihad all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then andasking her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose."

  "Billy!" gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the gasp broke at once intowhat--in Aunt Hannah--passed for a chuckle. "If I remember rightly, whenI was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William told methat Cyril wouldn't wear any sock after it came to mending."

  "Horrors!" Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. "That will neverdo in the world. It would break Marie's heart. You know how she dotes ondarning."

  "Yes, I know," smiled Aunt Hannah. "By the way, where is she thismorning?"

  Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  "Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I believe. Really,Aunt Hannah, between her home-hunting in the morning, and herfurniture-and-rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring overhouse-plans in the evening, I can't get her to attend to her clothes atall. Never did I see a bride so utterly indifferent to her trousseau asMarie Hawthorn--and her wedding less than a month away!"

  "But she's been shopping with you once or twice, since she came back,hasn't she? And she said it was for her trousseau."

  Billy laughed.

  "Her trousseau! Oh, yes, it was. I'll tell you what she got for hertrousseau that first day. We started out to buy two hats, some lace forher wedding gown, some crepe de Chine and net for a little dinnerfrock, and some silk for a couple of waists to go with her tailoredsuit; and what did we get? We purchased a new-style egg-beater and aset of cake tins. Marie got into the kitchen department and I simplycouldn't get her out of it. But the next day I was not to be inveigledbelow stairs by any plaintive prayer for a nutmeg-grater or a sodaspoon. She _shopped_ that day, and to some purpose. We accomplishedlots."

  Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned.

  "But she must have _some_ things started!"

  "Oh, she has--'most everything now. _I've_ seen to that. Of course heroutfit is very simple, anyway. Marie hasn't much money, you know, andshe simply won't let me do half what I want to. Still, she had savedup some money, and I've finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn'tconsist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that Cyril would want her tolook pretty. That name will fetch her every time, and I've learned touse it beautifully. I think if I told her Cyril approved of short hairand near-sightedness she'd I cut off her golden locks and don spectacleson the spot."

  Aunt Hannah laughed softly.

  "What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the onlyone in the house who is ruled by a magic name!"

  The color deepened in Billy's cheeks.

  "Well, of course, any girl--cares something--for the man she loves. Justas if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for Bertram!"

  "Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talkingwith last evening--just after he left us, I mean?"

  "Miss Winthrop--Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is--is painting herportrait, you know."

  "Oh, is that the one?" murmured Aunt Hannah. "Hm-m; well, she has abeautiful face."

  "Yes, she has." Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a littletune as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket.

  "There's a peculiar something in her face," mused Aunt Hannah, aloud.

  The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh.

  "Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in yourface. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it,' he says.I wonder now--if he does catch it, does she lose it?" Flippant as werethe words, the voice that uttered them shook a little.

  Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently--Aunt Hannah had heard only theflippancy, not the shake.

  "I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon."

  Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to thefloor.

  "Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon," she said lightly, as shestooped to pick up the egg.

  "Why, I'm sure he told me--" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in aquestioning pause.

  "Yes, I know," nodded Billy, brightly; "but he's told me somethingsince. He isn't going. He telephoned me this morning. Miss Winthropwanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to this afternoon. He said heknew I'd understand."

  "Why, yes; but--" Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir ofan electric bell had sounded through the house. A few moments later Rosaappeared in the open doorway.

  "It,'s Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music,"she announced.

  "Tell him I'll be down at once," directed the mistress of Hillside.

  As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly toher feet.

  "Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about someduets he had, and he said he'd bring them over. I didn't know he'd comeso soon, though."

  Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low,familiar strain of music drifted out from the living-room. Billy caughther breath, and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiarstrain of music had become a lullaby--one of Billy's own--and sung nowby a melting tenor voice that lingered caressingly and understandinglyon every tender cadence.

  Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the lastlow "lul-la-by" vibrated into silence; then with shining eyes andoutstretched hands she entered the living-room.

  "Oh, that was--beautiful," she breathed.

  Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight.

  "I could not resist singing it just once--here," he said a littleunsteadily, as their hands met.

  "But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it wasmine," choked Billy, still plainly very much moved. "You sang it as I'venever heard it sung before."

  Arkwright shook his head slowly.

  "The inspiration of the room--that is all,", he said. "It is a beautifulsong. All of your songs are beautiful."

  Billy blushed rosily.

  "Thank you. You know--more of them, then?"

  "I think I know them all--unless you have some new ones out. Have yousome new ones, lately?"

  Billy shook her head.

  "No; I haven't written anything since last spring."

  "But you're going to?"

  She drew a long sigh.

  "Yes, oh, yes. I know that _now_--" With a swift biting of her lowerlip Billy caught herself up in time. As if she could tell this man, thisstranger, what she had told Bertram that night by the fire--that sheknew that now, _now_ she would write beautiful songs, with his love, andhis pride in her, as incentives. "Oh, yes, I think I shall write moreone of these days," she finished lightly. "But come, this isn't singingduets! I want to see the music you brought."

  They sang then, one after another of the duets. To Billy, the music wasnew and interesting. To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hearher own voice blending with another's so perfectly--to feel herself apart of such exquisite harmony.

  "Oh, oh!" sh
e breathed ecstatically, after the last note of aparticularly beautiful phrase. "I never knew before how lovely it was tosing duets."

  "Nor I," replied Arkwright in a voice that was not quite steady.

  Arkwright's eyes were on the enraptured face of the girl so near him.It was well, perhaps, that Billy did not happen to turn and catch theirexpression. Still, it might have been better if she had turned, afterall. But Billy's eyes were on the music before her. Her fingers werebusy with the fluttering pages, searching for another duet.

  "Didn't you?" she murmured abstractedly. "I supposed _you'd_ sung thembefore; but you see I never did--until the other night. There, let's trythis one!"

  "This one" was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a longbreath.

  "There! that must positively be the last," she declared reluctantly."I'm so hoarse now I can scarcely croak. You see, I don't pretend tosing, really."

  "Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow," retorted theman, warmly.

  "Thank you," smiled Billy; "that was nice of you to say so--for mysake--and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. Ihaven't had a chance to ask you yet; and--I think you said Mary Jane wasgoing to study for Grand Opera."

  Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

  "She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up invaudeville."

  "Calderwell! Do you mean--Hugh Calderwell?" Billy's cheeks showed adeeper color.

  The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let thatname slip out just yet.

  "Yes." He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. "We tramped half overEurope together last summer."

  "Did you?" Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire."But this isn't telling me about your own plans," she hurried on alittle precipitately. "You've studied before, of course. Your voiceshows that."

  "Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or twoof church work, besides a little concert practice of a mild sort."

  "Have you begun here, yet?"

  "Y-yes, I've had my voice tried."

  Billy sat erect with eager interest.

  "They liked it, of course?"

  Arkwright laughed.

  "I'm not saying that."

  "No, but I am," declared Billy, with conviction. "They couldn't helpliking it."

  Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had "liked it" he did notintend to say. Their remarks had been quite too flattering to repeateven to this very plainly interested young woman--delightful andheart-warming as was this same show of interest, to himself.

  "Thank you," was all he said.

  Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair.

  "And you'll begin to learn roles right away?"

  "I already have, some--after a fashion--before I came here."

  "Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on theBoston Opera House stage, and we'll all go to hear you. How perfectlylovely! I can hardly wait."

  Arkwright laughed--but his eyes glowed with pleasure.

  "Aren't you hurrying things a little?" he ventured.

  "But they do let the students appear," argued Billy. "I knew a girl lastyear who went on in 'Aida,' and she was a pupil at the School. She sangfirst in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill for a Saturdaynight. She did splendidly--so well that they gave her a chance later ata subscription performance. Oh, you'll be there--and soon, too!"

  "Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had yourflattering enthusiasm on the matter," he smiled.

  "I don't worry any," nodded Billy, "only please don't 'arrive' toosoon--not before the wedding, you know," she added jokingly. "We shallbe too busy to give you proper attention until after that."

  A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face.

  "The--_wedding?_" he asked, a little faintly.

  "Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. CyrilHenshaw next month."

  The man opposite relaxed visibly.

  "Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know," he murmured; then, with suddenastonishment he added: "And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?"

  "Yes. You seem surprised."

  "I am." Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. "You see,Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageableall the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised--naturally," finishedArkwright, as he rose to take his leave.

  A swift crimson stained Billy's face.

  "But surely you must know that--that--"

  "That he has a right to change his mind, of course," supplementedArkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue in the evident confusionthat would not let her finish her sentence. "But Calderwell made it soemphatic, you see, about all the brothers. He said that William had losthis heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and that Bertram--"

  "But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is--is--" Billy had moistened her lips, andplunged hurriedly in to prevent Arkwright's next words. But again wasshe unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to listento a very different completion from the smiling lips of the man at herside.

  "Is an artist, of course," said Arkwright. "That's what Calderwelldeclared--that it would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve of acheek that the artist loved--to paint."

  Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if _now_ she could tellthis man that Bertram Henshaw was engaged to her! He would find it outsoon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell,would think it was the curve of _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin--

  Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand ingood-by.