Miss Billy's Decision

by Eleanor H. Porter

  CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS

  To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way adelight and a satisfaction. To Alice, it was even more than that.For the first time in years she found herself welcomed into a home ofwealth, culture, and refinement as an equal; and the frank cordialityand naturalness of her hostess's evident expectation of meeting acongenial companion was like balm to a sensitive soul rendered morbid bylong years of superciliousness and snubbing.

  No wonder that under the cheery friendliness of it all, Alice Greggory'scold reserve vanished, and that in its place came something very likeher old ease and charm of manner. By the time Aunt Hannah--according toprevious agreement--came into the room, the two girls were laughing andchatting over the operetta as if they had known each other for years.

  Much to Billy's delight, Alice Greggory, as a musician, proved to beeminently satisfactory. She was quick at sight reading, and accurate.She played easily, and with good expression. Particularly was she agood accompanist, possessing to a marked degree that happy faculty of_accompanying_ a singer: which means that she neither led the way norlagged behind, being always exactly in sympathetic step--than whichnothing is more soul-satisfying to the singer.

  It was after the music for the operetta had been well-practised anddiscussed that Alice Greggory chanced to see one of Billy's own songslying near her. With a pleased smile she picked it up.

  "Oh, you know this, too!" she cried. "I played it for a lady only theother day. It's so pretty, I think--all of hers are, that I have seen.Billy Neilson is a girl, you know, they say, in spite of--" She stoppedabruptly. Her eyes grew wide and questioning. "Miss Neilson--it can'tbe--you don't mean--is your name--it _is--you!_" she finished joyously,as the telltale color dyed Billy's face. The next moment her own cheeksburned scarlet. "And to think of my letting _you_ stand in line for atwenty-five-cent admission!" she scorned.

  "Nonsense!" laughed Billy. "It didn't hurt me any more than it didyou. Come!"--in looking about for a quick something to take her guest'sattention, Billy's eyes fell on the manuscript copy of her new song,bearing Arkwright's name. Yielding to a daring impulse, she drew ithastily forward. "Here's a new one--a brand-new one, not even printedyet. Don't you think the words are pretty?" she asked.

  As she had hoped, Alice Greggory's eyes, after they had glanced half-waythrough the first page, sought the name at the left side below thetitle.

  "'Words by M. J.--'"--there was a visible start, and a pause before the"'Arkwright'" was uttered in a slightly different tone.

  Billy noted both the start and the pause--and gloried in them.

  "Yes; the words are by M. J. Arkwright," she said with smooth unconcern,but with a covert glance at the other's face. "Ever hear of him?"

  Alice Greggory gave a short little laugh.

  "Probably not--this one. I used to know an M. J. Arkwright, long ago;but he wasn't--a poet, so far as I know," she finished, with a littlecatch in her breath that made Billy long to take her into a warmembrace.

  Alice Greggory turned then to the music. She had much to say ofthis--very much; but she had nothing more whatever to say of Mr. M. J.Arkwright in spite of the tempting conversation bait that Billy droppedso freely. After that, Rosa brought in tea and toast, and the littlefrosted cakes that were always such a favorite with Billy's guests. ThenAlice Greggory said good-by--her eyes full of tears that Billy pretendednot to see.

  "There!" breathed Billy, as soon as she had Aunt Hannah to herselfagain. "What did I tell you? Did you see Miss Greggory's start and blushand hear her sigh just over the _name_ of M. J. Arkwright? Just as if--!Now I want them to meet; only it must be casual, Aunt Hannah--casual!And I'd rather wait till Mary Jane hears from his mother, if possible,so if there _is_ anything good to tell the poor girl, he can tell it."

  "Yes, of course. Dear child!--I hope he can," murmured Aunt Hannah.(Aunt Hannah had ceased now trying to make Billy refrain from thereprehensible "Mary Jane." In fact, if the truth were known, Aunt Hannahherself in her thoughts--and sometimes in her words--called him "MaryJane.") "But, indeed, my dear, I didn't see anything stiff, or--orrepelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was."

  "There wasn't--to-day," smiled Billy. "Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I shouldnever have known her for the same girl--who showed me the door thatfirst morning," she finished merrily, as she turned to go up-stairs.

  It was the next day that Cyril and Marie came home from their honeymoon.They went directly to their pretty little apartment on Beacon Street,Brookline, within easy walking distance of Billy's own cozy home.

  Cyril intended to build in a year or two. Meanwhile they had a verypretty, convenient home which was, according to Bertram, "electrifiedto within an inch of its life, and equipped with everything thatwas fireless, smokeless, dustless, and laborless." In it Marie had aspotlessly white kitchen where she might make puddings to her heart'scontent.

  Marie had--again according to Bertram--"a visiting acquaintance with amaid." In other words, a stout woman was engaged to come two days in theweek to wash, iron, and scrub; also to come in each night to wash thedinner dishes, thus leaving Marie's evenings free--"for the shadedlamp," Billy said.

  Marie had not arrived at this--to her, delightful--arrangement of a"visiting acquaintance" without some opposition from her friends. EvenBilly had stood somewhat aghast.

  "But, my dear, won't it be hard for you, to do so much?" she argued oneday. "You know you aren't very strong."

  "I know; but it won't be hard, as I've planned it," replied Marie,"specially when I've been longing for years to do this very thing. Why,Billy, if I had to stand by and watch a maid do all these things Iwant to do myself, I should feel just like--like a hungry man who seesanother man eating up his dinner! Oh, of course," she added plaintively,after Billy's laughter had subsided, "I sha'n't do it always. I don'texpect to. Of course, when we have a house--I'm not sure, then, though,that I sha'n't dress up the maid and order her to receive the calls andgo to the pink teas, while I make her puddings," she finished saucily,as Billy began to laugh again.

  The bride and groom, as was proper, were, soon after their arrival,invited to dine at both William's and Billy's. Then, until Marie's "AtHomes" should begin, the devoted couple settled down to quiet daysby themselves, with only occasional visits from the family tointerrupt--"interrupt" was Bertram's word, not Marie's. Though it issafe to say it was not far different from the one Cyril used--in histhoughts.

  Bertram himself, these days, was more than busy. Besides working onMiss Winthrop's portrait, and on two or three other commissions, he wasputting the finishing touches to four pictures which he was to show inthe exhibition soon to be held by a prominent Art Club of which he wasthe acknowledged "star" member. Naturally, therefore, his time waswell occupied. Naturally, too, Billy, knowing this, lashed herself moresternly than ever into a daily reminder of Kate's assertion that hebelonged first to his Art.

  In pursuance of this idea, Billy was careful to see that no engagementwith herself should in any way interfere with the artist's work, andthat no word of hers should attempt to keep him at her side when ARTcalled. (Billy always spelled that word now in her mind with tall, blackletters--the way it had sounded when it fell from Kate's lips.) Thatthese tactics on her part were beginning to fill her lover with vaguealarm and a very definite unrest, she did not once suspect. Eagerly,therefore,--even with conscientious delight--she welcomed the newsong-words that Arkwright brought--they would give her something elseto take up her time and attention. She welcomed them, also, for anotherreason: they would bring Arkwright more often to the house, and thiswould, of course, lead to that "casual meeting" between him and AliceGreggory when the rehearsals for the operetta should commence--whichwould be very soon now. And Billy did so long to bring about thatmeeting!

  To Billy, all this was but "occupying her mind," and playing Cupid'sassistant to a worthy young couple torn cruelly apart by an unfeelingfate. To Bertram--to Bertram it was terror, and woe, and all manner oftorture; for in
it Bertram saw only a growing fondness on the partof Billy for Arkwright, Arkwright's music, Arkwright's words, andArkwright's friends.

  The first rehearsal for the operetta came on Wednesday evening. Therewould be another on Thursday afternoon. Billy had told Alice Greggory toarrange her pupils so that she could stay Wednesday night at Hillside,if the crippled mother could get along alone--and she could, Alicehad said. Thursday forenoon, therefore, Alice Greggory would, in allprobability, be at Hillside, specially as there would doubtless be anappointment or two for private rehearsal with some nervous soloist whosepart was not progressing well. Such being the case, Billy had a planshe meant to carry out. She was highly pleased, therefore, when Thursdaymorning came, and everything, apparently, was working exactly to hermind.

  Alice was there. She had an appointment at quarter of eleven withthe leading tenor, and another later with the alto. After breakfast,therefore, Billy said decisively:

  "Now, if you please, Miss Greggory, I'm going to put you up-stairs onthe couch in the sewing-room for a nap."

  "But I've just got up," remonstrated Miss Greggory.

  "I know you have," smiled Billy; "but you were very late to bed lastnight, and you've got a hard day before you. I insist upon your resting.You will be absolutely undisturbed there, and you must shut the doorand not come down-stairs till I send for you. Mr. Johnson isn't due tillquarter of eleven, is he?"

  "N-no."

  "Then come with me," directed Billy, leading the way up-stairs. "There,now, don't come down till I call you," she went on, when they hadreached the little room at the end of the hall. "I'm going to leave AuntHannah's door open, so you'll have good air--she isn't in there. She'swriting letters in my room, Now here's a book, and you _may_ read, butI should prefer you to sleep," she nodded brightly as she went out andshut the door quietly. Then, like the guilty conspirator she was, shewent down-stairs to wait for Arkwright.

  It was a fine plan. Arkwright was due at ten o'clock--Billy hadspecially asked him to come at that hour. He would not know, of course,that Alice Greggory was in the house; but soon after his arrival Billymeant to excuse herself for a moment, slip up-stairs and send AliceGreggory down for a book, a pair of scissors, a shawl for AuntHannah--anything would do for a pretext, anything so that the girl mightwalk into the living-room and find Arkwright waiting for her alone.And then--What happened next was, in Billy's mind, very vague, but veryattractive as a nucleus for one's thoughts, nevertheless.

  All this was, indeed, a fine plan; but--(If only fine plans would not sooften have a "but"!) In Billy's case the "but" had to do with thingsso apparently unrelated as were Aunt Hannah's clock and a negro's coalwagon. The clock struck eleven at half-past ten, and the wagon dumpeditself to destruction directly in front of a trolley car in which satMr. M. J. Arkwright, hurrying to keep his appointment with Miss BillyNeilson. It was almost half-past ten when Arkwright finally rang thebell at Hillside. Billy greeted him so eagerly, and at the same timewith such evident disappointment at his late arrival, that Arkwright'sheart sang with joy.

  "But there's a rehearsal at quarter of eleven," exclaimed Billy, inanswer to his hurried explanation of the delay; "and this gives solittle time for--for--so little time, you know," she finished inconfusion, casting frantically about in her mind for an excuse to hurryup-stairs and send Alice Greggory down before it should be quite toolate.

  No wonder that Arkwright, noting the sparkle in her eye, the agitationin her manner, and the embarrassed red in her cheek, took new courage.For so long had this girl held him at the end of a major third or adiminished seventh; for so long had she blithely accepted his every wordand act as devotion to music, not herself--for so long had she done allthis that he had come to fear that never would she do anything else. Nowonder then, that now, in the soft radiance of the strange, new light onher face, his own face glowed ardently, and that he leaned forward withan impetuous rush of eager words.

  "But there is time, Miss Billy--if you'd give me leave--to say--"

  "I'm afraid I kept you waiting," interrupted the hurried voice of AliceGreggory from the hall doorway. "I was asleep, I think, when a clocksomewhere, striking eleven--Why, Mr.--Arkwright!"

  Not until Alice Greggory had nearly crossed the room did she see thatthe man standing by her hostess was--not the tenor she had expectedto find--but an old acquaintance. Then it was that the tremulous"Mr.-Arkwright!" fell from her lips.

  Billy and Arkwright had turned at her first words. At her last,Arkwright, with a half-despairing, half-reproachful glance at Billy,stepped forward.

  "Miss Greggory!--you _are_ Miss Alice Greggory, I am sure," he saidpleasantly.

  At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left theroom. To Aunt Hannah she flew with a woebegone face.

  "Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah," she wailed, half laughing, half crying;"that wretched little fib-teller of a clock of yours spoiled it all!"

  "Spoiled it! Spoiled what, child?"

  "My first meeting between Mary Jane and Miss Greggory. I had it allarranged that they were to have it _alone_; but that miserable littlefibber up-stairs struck eleven at half-past ten, and Miss Greggory heardit and thought she was fifteen minutes late. So down she hurried, halfawake, and spoiled all my plans. Now she's sitting in there with him, inchairs the length of the room apart, discussing the snowstorm last nightor the moonrise this morning--or some other such silly thing. And I hadit so beautifully planned!"

  "Well, well, dear, I'm sorry, I'm sure," smiled Aunt Hannah; "but Ican't think any real harm is done. Did Mary Jane have anything to tellher--about her father, I mean?"

  Only the faintest flicker of Billy's eyelid testified that the everydayaccustomedness of that "Mary Jane" on Aunt Hannah's lips had not escapedher.

  "No, nothing definite. Yet there was a little. Friends are still tryingto clear his name, and I believe are meeting with increasing success.I don't know, of course, whether he'll say anything about itto-day--_now_. To think I had to be right round under foot like thatwhen they met!" went on Billy, indignantly. "I shouldn't have been, in aminute more, though. I was just trying to think up an excuse to comeup and send down Miss Greggory, when Mary Jane began to tell mesomething--I haven't the faintest idea what--then _she_ appeared, and itwas all over. And there's the doorbell, and the tenor, I suppose; so ofcourse it's all over now," she sighed, rising to go down-stairs.

  As it chanced, however, it was not the tenor, but a message from him--amessage that brought dire consternation to the Chairman of the Committeeof Arrangements. The tenor had thrown up his part. He could not take it;it was too difficult. He felt that this should be told--at once ratherthan to worry along for another week or two, and then give up. So he hadtold it.

  "But what shall we do, Miss Greggory?" appealed Billy. "It _is_ a hardpart, you know; but if Mr. Tobey can't take it, I don't know who can. Wedon't want to hire a singer for it, if we can help it. The profitsare to go to the Home for Crippled Children, you know," she explained,turning to Arkwright, "and we decided to hire only the accompanist."

  An odd expression flitted across Miss Greggory's face.

  "Mr. Arkwright used to sing--tenor," she observed quietly.

  "As if he didn't now--a perfectly glorious tenor," retorted Billy. "Butas if _he_ would take _this!_"

  For only a brief moment did Arkwright hesitate; then blandly hesuggested:

  "Suppose you try him, and see."

  Billy sat suddenly erect.

  "Would you, really? _Could_ you--take the time, and all?" she cried.

  "Yes, I think I would--under the circumstances," he smiled. "I thinkI could, too, though I might not be able to attend all the rehearsals.Still, if I find I have to ask permission, I'll endeavor to convincethe powers-that-be that singing in this operetta will be just thestepping-stone I need to success in Grand Opera."

  "Oh, if you only would take it," breathed Billy, "we'd be so glad!"

  "Well," said Arkwright, his eyes on Billy's frankly delighted face, "asI said before--under
the circumstances I think I would."

  "Thank you! Then it's all beautifully settled," rejoiced Billy, with ahappy sigh; and unconsciously she gave Alice Greggory's hand near her alittle pat.

  In Billy's mind the "circumstances" of Arkwright's acceptance of thepart were Alice Greggory and her position as accompanist, of course.Billy would have been surprised indeed--and dismayed--had she known thatin Arkwright's mind the "circumstances" were herself, and the fact thatshe, too, had a part in the operetta, necessitating her presence atrehearsals, and hinting at a delightful comradeship impossible, perhaps,otherwise.