Miss Billy's Decision

by Eleanor H. Porter

  CHAPTER XIX. ALICE GREGGORY

  Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet Januaryarrived. The holidays over, matters and things seemed to settle down tothe winter routine.

  Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until afterChristmas, but she had returned to Boston now--and with her she hadbrought a brand-new idea for her portrait; an idea that caused her tosweep aside with superb disdain all poses and costumes and sketches todate, and announce herself with disarming winsomeness as "all ready nowto really begin!"

  Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paintMiss Marguerite Winthrop's portrait; but to attempt to paint it when allmatters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless, unlesshe wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along withAnderson's and Fullam's--and that was not the goal he had set for it. Asto the sordid money part of the affair--the great J. G. Winthrop himselfhad come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled theoriginal price and expressed himself as hopeful that Henshaw would putup with "the child's notions." It was the old financier's next sentence,however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, forbecause of it, the artist saw what this portrait was going to mean tothe stern old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart thatwas commonly reported "on the street" to be made of stone.

  Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to dobut to begin the new portrait. And he began it--though still, it must beconfessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however,every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbedartist who sees the vision of his desire taking palpable shape at theend of his brush.

  "It's all right," he said to Billy then, one evening. "I'm glad shechanged. It's going to be the best, the very best thing I've everdone--I think! by the sketches."

  "I'm so glad!" exclaimed Billy. "I'm so glad!" The repetition wasso vehement that it sounded almost as if she were trying to convinceherself as well as Bertram of something that was not true.

  But it was true--Billy told herself very indignantly that it was; indeedit was! Yet the very fact that she had to tell herself this, caused herto know how perilously near she was to being actually jealous of thatportrait of Marguerite Winthrop. And it shamed her.

  Very sternly these days Billy reminded herself of what Kate hadsaid about Bertram's belonging first to his Art. She thought withmortification, too, that it _did_ look as if she were not the properwife for an artist if she were going to feel like this--always. Veryresolutely, then, Billy turned to her music. This was all the moreeasily done, for, not only did she have her usual concerts and the operato enjoy, but she had become interested in an operetta her club wasabout to give; also she had taken up the new song again. Christmas beingover, Mr. Arkwright had been to the house several times. He had changedsome of the words and she had improved the melody. The work on theaccompaniment was progressing finely now, and Billy was so glad!--whenshe was absorbed in her music she forgot sometimes that she was ever sounfit an artist's sweetheart as to be--jealous of a portrait.

  It was quite early in the month that the usually expected "January thaw"came, and it was on a comparatively mild Friday at this time that amatter of business took Billy into the neighborhood of Symphony Hall atabout eleven o'clock in the morning. Dismissing John and the car uponher arrival, she said that she would later walk to the home of a friendnear by, where she would remain until it was time for the SymphonyConcert.

  This friend was a girl whom Billy had known at school. She was studyingnow at the Conservatory of Music; and she had often urged Billy to comeand have luncheon with her in her tiny apartment, which she shared withthree other girls and a widowed aunt for housekeeper. On this particularFriday it had occurred to Billy that, owing to her business appointmentat eleven and the Symphony Concert at half-past two, the interveningtime would give her just the opportunity she had been seeking toenable her to accept her friend's invitation. A question asked, andenthusiastically answered in the affirmative, over the telephone thatmorning, therefore, had speedily completed arrangements, and she hadagreed to be at her friend's door by twelve o'clock, or before.

  As it happened, business did not take quite so long as she had expected,and half-past eleven found her well on her way to Miss Henderson's home.

  In spite of the warm sunshine and the slushy snow in the streets, therewas a cold, raw wind, and Billy was beginning to feel thankful that shehad not far to go when she rounded a corner and came upon a long line ofhumanity that curved itself back and forth on the wide expanse of stepsbefore Symphony Hall and then stretched itself far up the Avenue.

  "Why, what--" she began under her breath; then suddenly she understood.It was Friday. A world-famous pianist was to play with the SymphonyOrchestra that afternoon. This must be the line of patient waiters forthe twenty-five-cent balcony seats that Mr. Arkwright had told about.With sympathetic, interested eyes, then, Billy stepped one side to watchthe line, for a moment.

  Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying:

  "What a shame!--and after all our struggles to get here! If only wehadn't lost that other train!"

  "We're too late--you no need to hurry!" the other wailed shrilly to athird girl who was hastening toward them. "The line is 'way beyondthe Children's Hospital and around the corner now--and the ones there_never_ get in!"

  At the look of tragic disappointment that crossed the third girl's face,Billy's heart ached. Her first impulse, of course, was to pull herown symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a "Here, takemine!" But that _would_ hardly do, she knew--though she would like tosee Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and whitetam-o'-shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satinsand furs and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestrachair. But it was out of the question, of course. There was only oneseat, and there were three girls, besides all those others. With a sigh,then, Billy turned her eyes back to those others--those many others thatmade up the long line stretching its weary length up the Avenue.

  There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young menwho were plainly students; older men whose refined faces and threadbareovercoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men whoshowed no hollows in their cheeks nor near-holes in their garments. Itseemed to Billy that women of almost all sorts were there, young, old,and middle-aged; students in tailored suits, widows in crape and veil;girls that were members of a merry party, women that were plainlyforlorn and alone.

  Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One hadbrought a camp stool; many were seated on the steps. Beyond, where theline passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop. Oneread a book, another a paper. Three were studying what was probablythe score of the symphony or of the concerto they expected to hear thatafternoon.

  A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, byturned-up coat-collars or bent heads, testified to the contrary. Notfar from Billy a woman nibbled a sandwich furtively, while beyond her agroup of girls were hilariously merry over four triangles of pie whichthey held up where all might see.

  Many of the faces were youthful, happy, and alert with anticipation;but others carried a wistfulness and a weariness that made Billy's heartache. Her eyes, indeed, filled with quick tears. Later she turned to go,and it was then that she saw in the line a face that she knew--a facethat drooped with such a white misery of spent strength that she hurriedstraight toward it with a low cry.

  "Miss Greggory!" she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. "You lookactually ill. Are you ill?"

  For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl'sblue-gray eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw thepainful color stain the white face red.

  "Thank you, no. I am not ill, Miss Neilson," said the girl, coldly.

  "But you look so tired out!"

  "I have been standing here some time; that is all."
/>   Billy threw a hurried glance down the far-reaching line that sheknew had formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their firstposition.

  "But you must have come--so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet," shefaltered.

  A slight smile curved Alice Greggory's lips.

  "Yes, it was early," she rejoined a little bitterly; "but it had to be,you know. I wanted to hear the music; and with this soloist, and thisweather, I knew that many others--would want to hear the music, too."

  "But you look so white! How much longer--when will they let you in?"demanded Billy, raising indignant eyes to the huge, gray-pillaredbuilding before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if shecould, and make way for this tired girl at her side.

  Miss Greggory's thin shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug.

  "Half-past one."

  Billy gave a dismayed cry.

  "Half-past one--almost two hours more! But, Miss Greggory, youcan't--how can you stand it till then? You've shivered three times sinceI came, and you look as if you were going to faint away."

  Miss Greggory shook her head.

  "It is nothing, really," she insisted. "I am quite well. It is only--Ididn't happen to feel like eating much breakfast this morning; and that,with no luncheon--" She let a gesture finish her sentence.

  "No luncheon! Why--oh, you couldn't leave your place, of course,"frowned Billy.

  "No, and"--Alice Greggory lifted her head a little proudly--"I do notcare to eat--here." Her scornful eyes were on one of the pieces of piedown the line--no longer a triangle.

  "Of course not," agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, andbit her lip. Suddenly her face cleared. "There! the very thing," sheexulted. "You shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, thenyou won't have to stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is anexcellent restaurant--"

  "Thank you--no. I couldn't do that," cut in the other, sharply, but in alow voice.

  "But you'll take my ticket," begged Billy.

  Miss Greggory shook her head.

  "Certainly not."

  "But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't,"grieved Billy.

  The other made a peremptory gesture.

  "_I_ should be very unhappy if I did," she said with cold emphasis."Really, Miss Neilson," she went on in a low voice, throwing anapprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in hisnewspaper, "I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my ownway. You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do; nothing. Youwere very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers tomother at Christmas; but--"

  "Never mind that, please," interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's headwas lifted now. Her eyes were no longer pleading. Her round little chinlooked square and determined. "If you simply will not take my ticketthis afternoon, you _must_ do this. Go to some restaurant near here andget a good luncheon--something that will sustain you. I will take yourplace here."

  "_Miss Neilson!_"

  Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seenAlice Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break into anything likenaturalness--the astonished incredulity of that "Miss Neilson!" wasplainly straight from the heart; so, too, were the amazed words thatfollowed.

  "_You_--will stand _here?_"

  "Certainly; I will keep your place. Don't worry. You sha'n't lose it."Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey theimpression that standing in line for a twenty-five-cent seat was adaily habit of hers. "There's a restaurant only a little way--right downthere," she finished. And before the dazed Alice Greggory knew quitewhat was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other inher place.

  "But, Miss Neilson, I can't--you mustn't--" she stammered; then, becauseof something in the unyieldingness of the square young chin above thesealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use actual forceto drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head inacquiescence.

  "Well, then--I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich.And--thank you," she choked, as she turned and hurried away.

  Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after longstruggles--but the breath broke off short in a gasp of dismay: comingstraight up the Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billywished least to see at that moment--Bertram Henshaw. Billy rememberedthen that she had twice lately heard her lover speak of calling at theBoston Opera House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head torepresent "Music" for some decorative purpose. The Opera House was onlya short distance up the Avenue. Doubtless he was on his way there now.

  He was very near by this time, and Billy held her breath suspended.There was a chance, of course, that he might not notice her; and Billywas counting on that chance--until a gust of wind whirled a loosehalf-sheet of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, andnaturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its vicinity--and to hers. Thenext moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softly-breathed"_Billy!_" was in her ears.

  Billy bubbled into low laughter--there were such a lot of funnysituations in the world, and of them all this one was about thedrollest, she thought.

  "Yes, I know," she gurgled. "You don't have to say it-your face issaying even more than your tongue _could!_ This is just for a girl Iknow. I'm keeping her place."

  Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up andwalking off with her.

  "But, Billy," he protested just above his breath, "this isn't sugarplumsnor frosting; it's plain suicide--standing out in this wind likethis! Besides--" He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at hersurroundings.

  "Yes, I know," she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look andanswering that first; "it isn't pleasant nor comfortable, in lots ofways--but _she's_ had it all the morning. As for the cold--I'm as warmas toast. It won't be long, anyway; she's just gone to get something toeat. Then I'm going to May Henderson's for luncheon."

  Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips--only to close them withthe words unsaid. There was nothing he could do, and he had already saidtoo much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead who stillhad enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. AsBertram could see, however, the man was not reading a word--he was tooacutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long sealskincoat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, andBertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened theinterest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that noone in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what hadhappened. He did not wish to see himself and his fiancee the subjectof inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as:

  "Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl'splace in a twenty-five-cent ticket line."

  He shivered at the thought.

  "Are you cold?" worried Billy. "If you are, don't stand here, please!"

  He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for theonly one whose coming could bring him relief.

  It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, forsoon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her,and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A momentlater the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side.

  "That was Alice Greggory, Bertram," she told him, as they walked onswiftly; "and Bertram, she was actually almost _crying_ when she took myplace."

  "Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be," growled Bertram,perversely.

  "Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie," laughed Billy with a conciliatorypat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friendlived. "And now can you come in and see May a minute?"

  "I'm afraid not," regretted Bertram. "I wish I could, but I'm busierthan busy to-day--and I was _supposed_ to be already late when I sawyou. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!"

  "You looked it," twinkled Billy. "It was worth a farm just to see yourface!"

>   "I'd want the farm--if I was going through that again," retorted theman, grimly--Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading.

  But Billy only laughed again.