Miss Billy's Decision

by Eleanor H. Porter

  CHAPTER XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE

  Billy came down-stairs on the thirteenth of December to find everywherethe peculiar flatness that always follows a day which for weeks has beenthe focus of one's aims and thoughts and labor.

  "It's just as if everything had stopped at Marie's wedding, and therewasn't anything more to do," she complained to Aunt Hannah at thebreakfast table. "Everything seems so--queer!"

  "It won't--long, dear," smiled Aunt Hannah, tranquilly, as she butteredher roll, "specially after Bertram comes back. How long does he stay inNew York?"

  "Only three days; but I'm just sure it's going to seem three weeks,now," sighed Billy. "But he simply had to go--else he wouldn't havegone."

  "I've no doubt of it," observed Aunt Hannah. And at the meaningemphasis of her words, Billy laughed a little. After a minute she saidaggrievedly:

  "I had supposed that I could at least have a sort of 'after the ball'celebration this morning picking up and straightening things around.But John and Rosa have done it all. There isn't so much as a roseleaf anywhere on the floor. Of course most of the flowers went tothe hospital last night, anyway. As for Marie's room--it looks asspick-and-span as if it had never seen a scrap of ribbon or an inch oftulle."

  "But--the wedding presents?"

  "All carried down to the kitchen and half packed now, ready to go overto the new home. John says he'll take them over in Peggy this afternoon,after he takes Mrs. Hartwell's trunk to Uncle William's."

  "Well, you can at least go over to the apartment and work," suggestedAunt Hannah, hopefully.

  "Humph! Can I?" scoffed Billy. "As if I could--when Marie left strictorders that not one thing was to be touched till she got here. Theyarranged everything but the presents before the wedding, anyway; andMarie wants to fix those herself after she gets back. Mercy! AuntHannah, if I should so much as move a plate one inch in the chinacloset, Marie would know it--and change it when she got home," laughedBilly, as she rose from the table. "No, I can't go to work over there."

  "But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write somenew songs after the wedding."

  "I was," sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlesslyat the bare, brown world outside; "but I can't write songs--when therearen't any songs in my head to write."

  "No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now,"soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room.

  "It's the reaction, of course," murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on theway up-stairs. "She's had the whole thing on her hands--dear child!"

  A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minormelody. Billy was at the piano.

  Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William.It had been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization thatBertram's trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was tobe carried there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at theend of a two or three days' visit.

  It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had beengray and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon inmyriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blindingpoint, and turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylikebeauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face, looked out uponit with disapproving eyes.

  "I _was_ going in town--and I believe I'll go now," she cried.

  "Don't, dear, please don't," begged Aunt Hannah. "See, the flakes aresmaller now, and the wind is coming up. We're in for a blizzard--I'msure we are. And you know you have some cold, already."

  "All right," sighed Billy. "Then it's me for the knitting work and thefire, I suppose," she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hidethe wistful disappointment of her voice.

  She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when atfour o'clock Rosa brought in the card.

  Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad littlecry.

  "It's Mary Jane!" she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. "Now wasn't he adear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?"

  Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned.

  "Oh, Billy!" she remonstrated. "Yes, I'll come down, of course, a littlelater, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came," she said with reprovingemphasis.

  Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder.

  "All right," she nodded. "I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll bedown directly."

  In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordialhand.

  "How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restlessand lonesome to-day?" she demanded.

  A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes.

  "I didn't know it," he rejoined. "I only knew that I was speciallyrestless and lonesome myself."

  Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness inthe girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart.Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He couldnot know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had givenwarmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made hergreeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away thathad made his presence so welcome.

  "Well, I'm glad you came, anyway," sighed Billy, contentedly; "though Isuppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome--but I'm afraid I'mnot, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm alittle wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped," she addedlaughingly, as she seated herself.

  "Tension?"

  "The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing justDecember twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about thethirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I feltjust as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovelywedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here."

  "Thank you; so am I--though usually, I will confess, I'm not muchgood at attending 'functions' and meeting strangers. As perhaps you'veguessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap."

  "Of course you aren't! People who are doing things--real things--seldomare. But we aren't the society kind ourselves, you know--not the capitalS kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from likingSociety. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on 'pink teasand purple pageants,' as Cyril calls them; and we even go ourselvessometimes. But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd havemet lots like yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing,playing, painting, illustrating, writing. Why, we even had a poet,sir--only he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit,"she finished laughingly.

  "Is long hair--necessary--for poets?" Arkwright's smile was quizzical.

  "Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters,too. But now they look just like--folks."

  Arkwright laughed.

  "It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowingties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?"

  "I'm afraid it is," dimpled Billy. "I _love_ velvet coats and flowingties!"

  "May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,"declared the man, promptly.

  Billy smiled and shook her head.

  "I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds andworsteds too well!"

  "You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already hadtried to bring about a reform--and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, orMr. Bertram--" Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile.

  Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merrytilt with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promisedthat his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat forhimself. It was on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this toArkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his lips drovethe words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presenceof this man, Billy found herself unable to refer to her engagement toBertram Henshaw--though this time she did not in the least doubt thatArkwright
already knew of it.

  With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano.

  "Come, let us try some duets," she suggested. "That's lots nicer thanquarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently tohear us sing."

  Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with anexclamation of eager acquiescence.

  It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently.

  "Have you written any new songs lately?"

  "No."

  "You're going to?"

  "Perhaps--if I find one to write."

  "You mean--you have no words?"

  "Yes--and no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; butI haven't found in any one of them, yet--a melody."

  Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coatpocket--then fell back at his side. The next moment he picked up a sheetof music.

  "Are you too tired to try this?" he asked.

  A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face.

  "Why, no, but--"

  "Well, children, I've come down to hear the music," announced AuntHannah, smilingly, from the doorway; "only--Billy, _will_ you run upand get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, andthere's only the white one down here."

  "Of course," cried Billy, rising at once. "You shall have a dozenshawls, if you like," she laughed, as she left the room.

  What a cozy time it was--the hour that followed, after Billy returnedwith the pink shawl! Outside, the wind howled at the windows and flungthe snow against the glass in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and thegirl sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, theyfeasted royally on the buttered toast, tea, and frosted cakes thatRosa served on a little table before the roaring fire. It was then thatArkwright talked of himself, telling them something of his studies, andof the life he was living.

  "After all, you see there's just this difference between my friendsand yours," he said, at last. "Your friends _are_ doing things. They'vesucceeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_."

  "But they will succeed," cried Billy.

  "Some of them," amended the man.

  "Not--all of them?" Billy looked a little troubled.

  Arkwright shook his head slowly.

  "No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, somehaven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money."

  "But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried," grieved Billy.

  "It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity,aren't they?"

  "Y-yes," sighed the girl. "But--if there were only something one coulddo to--help!"

  Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke,was purposely light.

  "I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even yourgenerosity, Miss Neilson--to mend all the broken hopes in the world," heprophesied.

  "I have known great good to come from great disappointments," remarkedAunt Hannah, a bit didactically.

  "So have I," laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubledshadow from the face he was watching so intently. "For instance: afellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just toolate to get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Halfan hour afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy--a friend whohad an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handedit over to him."

  Billy turned interestedly.

  "What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?"

  "Then--you don't know?"

  "Not exactly. I've heard of them, in a vague fashion."

  "Then you've missed one of the sights of Boston if you haven't everseen that long line of patient waiters at the door of Symphony Hall of aFriday morning."

  "Morning! But the concert isn't till afternoon!"

  "No, but the waiting is," retorted Arkwright. "You see, those admissionsare limited--five hundred and five, I believe--and they're rush seats,at that. First come, first served; and if you're too late you aren'tserved at all. So the first arrival comes bright and early. I've heardthat he has been known to come at peep of day when there's a Paderewskior a Melba for a drawing card. But I've got my doubts of that. Anyhow,I never saw them there much before half-past eight. But many's the cold,stormy day I've seen those steps in front of the Hall packed for hours,and a long line reaching away up the avenue."

  Billy's eyes widened.

  "And they'll stand all that time and wait?"

  "To be sure they will. You see, each pays twenty-five cents at the door,until the limit is reached, then the rest are turned away. Naturallythey don't want to be turned away, so they try to get there early enoughto be among the fortunate five hundred and five. Besides, the earlieryou are, the better seat you are likely to get."

  "But only think of _standing_ all that time!"

  "Oh, they bring camp chairs, sometimes, I've heard, and then there arethe steps. You don't know what a really fine seat a stone step is--ifyou have a _big_ enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! Theybring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work forfine days, I've been told--some of them. All the comforts of home, yousee," smiled Arkwright.

  "Why, how--how dreadful!" stammered Billy.

  "Oh, but they don't think it's dreadful at all," corrected Arkwright,quickly. "For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down inyour orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium."

  "But who--who are they? Where do they come from? Who _would_ go andstand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat?" questioned Billy.

  "Who are they? Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; peoplewho have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it," he rejoined."Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a littledressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from theuttermost parts of the earth; maybe a widow who used to sit down-stairs,or a professor who has seen better days. Really to know that line,you should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson," smiled Arkwright, ashe reluctantly rose to go. "Some Friday, however, before you take yourseat, just glance up at that packed top balcony and judge by thefaces you see there whether their owners think they're getting theirtwenty-five-cents' worth, or not."

  "I will," nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lipsonly, not her eyes: Billy was wishing, at that moment, that she ownedthe whole of Symphony Hall--to give away. But that was like Billy. Whenshe was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they takeall the thirty-five orphans from the Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to livewith them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might haveice cream every day, if they wanted it. Since then Billy had always beentrying--in a way--to give ice cream to some one who wanted it.

  Arkwright was almost at the door when he turned abruptly. His face wasan abashed red. From his pocket he had taken a small folded paper.

  "Do you suppose--in this--you might find--that melody?" he stammered ina low voice. The next moment he was gone, having left in Billy's fingersa paper upon which was written in a clear-cut, masculine hand sixfour-line stanzas.

  Billy read them at once, hurriedly, then more carefully.

  "Why, they're beautiful," she breathed, "just beautiful! Where did heget them, I wonder? It's a love song--and such a pretty one! I believethere _is_ a melody in it," she exulted, pausing to hum a line ortwo. "There is--I know there is; and I'll write it--for Bertram," shefinished, crossing joyously to the piano.

  Half-way down Corey Hill at that moment, Arkwright was buffetingthe wind and snow. He, too, was thinking joyously of thosestanzas--joyously, yet at the same time fearfully. Arkwright himself hadwritten those lines--though not for Bertram.