Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and Billy put the finishing touches to the new song.
It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the fire a little later, that Billy told of her adventure the preceding Friday afternoon in front of Symphony Hall.
“You knew the girl, of course—I think you said you knew the girl,” ventured Arkwright.
“Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, over a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know how I met her,” smiled Billy.
“Alice Greggory?” Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. “I used to know an Alice Greggory, but it isn't the same one, probably. Her mother was a cripple.”
Billy gave a little cry.
“Why, it is—it must be! My Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?”
“Well, it does look like it,” rejoined Arkwright, showing even deeper interest. “I haven't seen them for four or five years. They used to live in our town. The mother was a little sweet-faced woman with young eyes and prematurely white hair.”
“That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly,” cried Billy's eager voice. “And the daughter?”
“Alice? Why—as I said, it's been four years since I've seen her.” A touch of constraint had come into Arkwright's voice which Billy's keen ear was quick to detect. “She was nineteen then and very pretty.”
“About my height, and with light-brown hair and big blue-gray eyes that look steely cold when she's angry?” questioned Billy.
“I reckon that's about it,” acknowledged the man, with a faint smile.
“Then they are the ones,” declared the girl, plainly excited. “Isn't that splendid? Now we can know them, and perhaps do something for them. I love that dear little mother already, and I think I should the daughter—if she didn't put out so many prickers that I couldn't get near her! But tell us about them. How did they come here? Why didn't you know they were here?”
“Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?” asked Aunt Hannah, turning smiling eyes from Billy to the man at her side.
“Well, I can try,” he offered. “To begin with, they are Judge Greggory's widow and daughter. They belong to fine families on both sides, and they used to be well off—really wealthy, for a small town. But the judge was better at money-making than he was at money-keeping, and when he came to die his income stopped, of course, and his estate was found to be in bad shape through reckless loans and worthless investments. That was eight years ago. Things went from bad to worse then, until there was almost nothing left.”
“I knew there was some such story as that back of them,” declared Billy. “But how do you suppose they came here?”
“To get away from—everybody, I suspect,” replied Arkwright. “That would be like them. They were very proud; and it isn't easy, you know, to be nobody where you've been somebody. It doesn't hurt quite so hard—to be nobody where you've never been anything but nobody.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Billy. “Still—they must have had friends.”
“They did, of course; but when the love of one's friends becomes too highly seasoned with pity, it doesn't make a pleasant morsel to swallow, specially if you don't like the taste of the pity—and there are people who don't, you know. The Greggorys were that kind. They were morbidly so. From their cheap little cottage, where they did their own work, they stepped out in their shabby garments and old-fashioned hats with heads even more proudly erect than in the old days when their home and their gowns and their doings were the admiration and envy of the town. You see, they didn't want—that pity.”
“I do see,” cried Billy, her face aglow with sudden understanding; “and I don't believe pity would be—nice!” Her own chin was held high as she spoke.
“It must have been hard, indeed,” murmured Aunt Hannah with a sigh, as she set down her teacup.
“It was,” nodded Arkwright. “Of course Mrs. Greggory, with her crippled foot, could do nothing to bring in any money except to sew a little. It all depended on Alice; and when matters got to their worst she began to teach. She was fond of music, and could play the piano well; and of course she had had the best instruction she could get from city teachers only twenty miles away from our home town. Young as she was—about seventeen when she began to teach, I think—she got a few beginners right away, and in two years she had worked up quite a class, meanwhile keeping on with her own studies, herself.
“They might have carried the thing through, maybe,” continued Arkwright, “and never apparently known that the 'pity' existed, if it hadn't been for some ugly rumors that suddenly arose attacking the Judge's honesty in an old matter that somebody raked up. That was too much. Under this last straw their courage broke utterly. Alice dismissed every pupil, sold almost all their remaining goods—they had lots of quite valuable heirlooms; I suspect that's where your Lowestoft teapot came in—and with the money thus gained they left town. Until they could go, they scarcely showed themselves once on the street, they were never at home to callers, and they left without telling one soul where they were going, so far as we could ever learn.”
“Why, the poor dears!” cried Billy. “How they must have suffered! But things will be different now. You'll go to see them, of course, and—” At the look that came into Arkwright's face, she stopped in surprise.
“You forget; they wouldn't wish to see me,” demurred the man. And again Billy noticed the odd constraint in his voice.
“But they wouldn't mind you—here,” argued Billy.
“I'm afraid they would. In fact, I'm sure they'd refuse entirely to see me.”
Billy's eyes grew determined.
“But they can't refuse—if I bring about a meeting just casually, you know,” she challenged.
Arkwright laughed.
“Well, I won't pretend to say as to the consequences of that,” he rejoined, rising to his feet; “but they might be disastrous. Wasn't it you yourself who were telling me a few minutes ago how steely cold Miss Alice's eyes got when she was angry?”
Billy knew by the way the man spoke that, for some reason, he did not wish to prolong the subject of his meeting the Greggorys. She made a quick shift, therefore, to another phase of the matter.
“But tell me, please, before you go, how did those rumors come out—about Judge Greggory's honesty, I mean?”
“Why, I never knew, exactly,” frowned Arkwright, musingly. “Yet it seems, too, that mother did say in one letter, while I was in Paris, that some of the accusations had been found to be false, and that there was a prospect that the Judge's good name might be saved, after all.”
“Oh, I wish it might,” sighed Billy. “Think what it would mean to those women!”
“'Twould mean everything,” cried Arkwright, warmly; “and I'll write to mother to-night, I will, and find out just what there is to it-if anything. Then you can tell them,” he finished a little stiffly.
“Yes—or you,” nodded Billy, lightly. And because she began at once to speak of something else, the first part of her sentence passed without comment.
The door had scarcely closed behind Arkwright when Billy turned to Aunt Hannah a beaming face.
“Aunt Hannah, did you notice?” she cried, “how Mary Jane looked and acted whenever Alice Greggory was spoken of? There was something between them—I'm sure there was; and they quarrelled, probably.”
“Why, no, dear; I didn't see anything unusual,” murmured the elder lady.
“Well, I did. And I'm going to be the fairy godmother that straightens everything all out, too. See if I'm not! They'd make a splendid couple, Aunt Hannah. I'm going right down there to-morrow.”
“Billy, my dear!” exclaimed the more conservative old lady, “aren't you taking things a little too much for granted? Maybe they don't wish for—for a fairy godmother!”
“Oh, they won't know I'm a fairy godmother—not one of them; and of course I wouldn't mention even a hint to anybody,” laughed Billy. “I'm just going down to get acquainted with the Greggorys; that's all. Only think, Aunt Hannah, what they must have suffered! And look at the place they're living in now—gentlewomen like them!”
“Yes, yes, poor things, poor things!” sighed Aunt Hannah.
“I hope I'll find out that she's really good—at teaching, I mean—the daughter,” resumed Billy, after a moment's pause. “If she is, there's one thing I can do to help, anyhow. I can get some of Marie's old pupils for her. I know some of them haven't begun with a new teacher, yet; and Mrs. Carleton told me last Friday that neither she nor her sister was at all satisfied with the one their girls have taken. They'd change, I know, in a minute, at my recommendation—that is, of course, if I can give the recommendation,” continued Billy, with a troubled frown. “Anyhow, I'm going down to begin operations to-morrow.”
True to her assertion, Billy went down to the Greggorys' the next day. This time she did not take Rosa with her. Even Aunt Hannah conceded that it would not be necessary. She had not been gone ten minutes, however, when the telephone bell rang, and Rosa came to say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw wanted to speak with Mrs. Stetson.
“Rosa says that Billy's not there,” called Bertram's aggrieved voice, when Aunt Hannah had said, “Good morning, my boy.”
“Dear me, no, Bertram. She's in a fever of excitement this morning. She'll probably tell you all about it when you come out here to-night. You are coming out to-night, aren't you?”
“Yes; oh, yes! But what is it? Where's she gone?”
Aunt Hannah laughed softly.
“Well, she's gone down to the Greggorys'.”
“The Greggorys'! What—again?”
“Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram,” bantered Aunt Hannah, “for there'll be a good many 'agains,' I fancy.”
“Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?” Bertram's voice was not quite pleased.
“Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be old friends of Mr. Arkwright's.”
“Friends of Arkwright's!” Bertram's voice was decidedly displeased now.
“Yes; and there's quite a story to it all, as well. Billy is wildly excited, as you'd know she would be. You'll hear all about it to-night, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm in his voice, neither then, nor when he said good-by a moment later.
Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannah had said, “wildly excited.” It seemed so strange and wonderful and delightful—the whole affair: that she should have found them because of a Lowestoft teapot, that Arkwright should know them, and that there should be the chance now that she might help them—in some way; though this last, she knew, could be accomplished only through the exercise of the greatest tact and delicacy. She had not forgotten that Arkwright had told her of their hatred of pity.
In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of a possible romance in connection with Arkwright and the daughter, Alice; but she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keep her eyes open—and if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about—! Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, even to Bertram.
Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy had not determined. The pretty potted azalea in her hand would be excuse for her entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide for themselves.
Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy was glad. She would rather begin with one than two, she thought. The little woman greeted her cordially, gave misty-eyed thanks for the beautiful plant, and also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. From that she was very skilfully led to talk more of the daughter; and soon Billy was getting just the information she wanted—information concerning the character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory.
“You see, we have some money—a very little,” explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; “though to get it we have had to sell all our treasures—but the Lowestoft,” with a quick glance into Billy's eyes. “We need not, perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but we prefer—just now—to spend the little money we have for something other than imitation comfort—lessons, for instance, and an occasional concert. My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopes to train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does not aspire to concert solo work. She understands her limitations.”
“But she is probably—very good—at teaching.” Billy hesitated a little.
“She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations.” A little proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists—names that would carry weight anywhere.
Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this Alice Greggory.
“Of course,” resumed the mother, “Alice's pupils are few, and they pay low prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. She herself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. She gives lessons to a little girl in return.”
“I see,” nodded Billy, brightly; “and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggory—maybe I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend who has just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going to talk to your daughter, if I may, and—”
“And here she is right now,” interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door opened under a hurried hand.
Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. She did not particularly wish to see Alice Greggory just then. She wished even less to see her when she noted the swift change that came to the girl's face at sight of herself.
“Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson,” murmured Miss Greggory with a smile so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in search of a possible peacemaker.
“My dear, see,” she stammered, “what Miss Neilson has brought me. And it's so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long, long time—if we'll only keep it wet.”
Alice Greggory murmured a low something—a something that she tried, evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and appreciative. Yet her manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so plainly said: “You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourself and your plants at home!” that Mrs. Greggory began a hurried apology, much as if the words had indeed been spoken.
“My daughter is really ill this morning. You mustn't mind—that is, I'm afraid you'll think—you see, she took cold last week; a bad cold—and she isn't over it, yet,” finished the little woman in painful embarrassment.
“Of course she took cold—standing all those hours in that horrid wind, Friday!” cried Billy, indignantly.
A quick red flew to Alice Greggory's face. Billy saw it at once and fervently wished she had spoken of anything but that Friday afternoon. It looked almost as if she were reminding them of what she had done that day. In her confusion, and in her anxiety to say something—anything that would get their minds off that idea—she uttered now the first words that came into her head. As it happened, they were the last words that sober second thought would have told her to say.
“Never mind, Mrs. Greggory. We'll have her all well and strong soon; never fear! Just wait till I send Peggy and Mary Jane to take her out for a drive one of these mild, sunny days. You have no idea how much good it will do her!”
Alice Greggory got suddenly to her feet. Her face was very white now. Her eyes had the steely coldness that Billy knew so well. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and sternly controlled.
“Miss Neilson, you will think me rude, of course, especially after your great kindness to me the other day; but I can't help it. It seems to me best to speak now before it goes any further.”
“Alice, dear,” remonstrated Mrs. Greggory, extending a frightened hand.
The girl did not turn her head nor hesitate; but she caught the extended hand and held it warmly in both her own, with gentle little pats, while she went on speaking.
“I'm sure mother agrees with me that it is best, for the present, that we keep quite to ourselves. I cannot question your kindness, of course, after your somewhat unusual favor the other day; but I am very sure that your friends, Miss Peggy, and Miss Mary Jane, have no real desire to make my acquaintance, nor—if you'll pardon me—have I, under the circumstances, any wish to make theirs.”
“Oh, Alice, Alice,” began the little mother, in dismay; but a rippling laugh from their visitor brought an angry flush even to her gentle face.
Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control.
“Please—please, forgive me!” she choked. “But you see—you couldn't, of course, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't girls. They're just a man and an automobile!”
An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still stood her ground.
“After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilson—it makes little difference. They're—charity. And it's not so long that we've been objects of charity that we quite really enjoy it—yet.”
There was a moment's hush. Billy's eyes had filled with tears.
“I never even thought—charity,” said Billy, so gently that a faint red stole into the white cheeks opposite.
For a tense minute Alice Greggory held herself erect; then, with a complete change of manner and voice, she released her mother's hand, dropped into her own chair again, and said wearily:
“I know you didn't, Miss Neilson. It's all my foolish pride, of course. It's only that I was thinking how dearly I would love to meet girls again—just as girls! But—I no longer have any business with pride, of course. I shall be pleased, I'm sure,” she went on dully, “to accept anything you may do for us, from automobile rides to—to red flannel petticoats.”
Billy almost—but not quite—laughed. Still, the laugh would have been near to a sob, had it been given. Surprising as was the quick transition in the girl's manner, and absurd as was the juxtaposition of automobiles and red flannel petticoats, the white misery of Alice Greggory's face and the weary despair of her attitude were tragic—specially to one who knew her story as did Billy Neilson. And it was because Billy did know her story that she did not make the mistake now of offering pity. Instead, she said with a bright smile, and a casual manner that gave no hint of studied labor:
“Well, as it happens, Miss Greggory, what I want to-day has nothing whatever to do with automobiles or red flannel petticoats. It's a matter of straight business.” (How Billy blessed the thought that had so suddenly come to her!) “Your mother tells me you play accompaniments. Now a girls' club, of which I am a member, is getting up an operetta for charity, and we need an accompanist. There is no one in the club who is able, and at the same time willing, to spend the amount of time necessary for practice and rehearsals. So we had decided to hire one outside, and I have been given the task of finding one. It has occurred to me that perhaps you would be willing to undertake it for us. Would you?”
Billy knew, at once, from the quick change in the other's face and manner, that she had taken exactly the right course to relieve the strain of the situation. Despair and lassitude fell away from Alice Greggory almost like a garment. Her countenance became alert and interested.
“Indeed I would! I should be glad to do it.”
“Good! Then can you come out to my home sometime to-morrow, and go over the music with me? Rehearsals will not begin until next week; but I can give you the music, and tell you something of what we are planning to do.”
“Yes. I could come at ten in the morning for an hour, or at three in the afternoon for two hours or more,” replied Miss Greggory, after a moment's hesitation.
“Suppose we call it in the afternoon, then,” smiled Billy, as she rose to her feet. “And now I must go—and here's my address,” she finished, taking out her card and laying it on the table near her.
For reasons of her own Billy went away that morning without saying anything more about the proposed new pupils. New pupils were not automobile rides nor petticoats, to be sure—but she did not care to risk disturbing the present interested happiness of Alice Greggory's face by mentioning anything that might be construed as too officious an assistance.
On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To Aunt Hannah, upon her return, she expressed herself thus:
“It's splendid—even better than I hoped. I shall have a chance to-morrow, of course, to see for myself just how well she plays, and all that. I'm pretty sure, though, from what I hear, that that part will be all right. Then the operetta will give us a chance to see a good deal of her, and to bring about a natural meeting between her and Mary Jane. Oh, Aunt Hannah, I couldn't have planned it better—and there the whole thing just tumbled into my hands! I knew it had the minute I remembered about the operetta. You know I'm chairman, and they left me to get the accompanist; and like a flash it came to me, when I was wondering what to say or do to get her out of that awful state she was in—'Ask her to be your accompanist.' And I did. And I'm so glad I did! Oh, Aunt Hannah, it's coming out lovely!—I know it is.”
To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way a delight and a satisfaction. To Alice, it was even more than that. For the first time in years she found herself welcomed into a home of wealth, culture, and refinement as an equal; and the frank cordiality and naturalness of her hostess's evident expectation of meeting a congenial companion was like balm to a sensitive soul rendered morbid by long years of superciliousness and snubbing.
No wonder that under the cheery friendliness of it all, Alice Greggory's cold reserve vanished, and that in its place came something very like her old ease and charm of manner. By the time Aunt Hannah—according to previous agreement—came into the room, the two girls were laughing and chatting over the operetta as if they had known each other for years.
Much to Billy's delight, Alice Greggory, as a musician, proved to be eminently satisfactory. She was quick at sight reading, and accurate. She played easily, and with good expression. Particularly was she a good accompanist, possessing to a marked degree that happy faculty of accompanying a singer: which means that she neither led the way nor lagged behind, being always exactly in sympathetic step—than which nothing is more soul-satisfying to the singer.
It was after the music for the operetta had been well-practised and discussed that Alice Greggory chanced to see one of Billy's own songs lying near her. With a pleased smile she picked it up.
“Oh, you know this, too!” she cried. “I played it for a lady only the other 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 stopped abruptly. Her eyes grew wide and questioning. “Miss Neilson—it can't be—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 cheeks burned scarlet. “And to think of my letting you stand in line for a twenty-five-cent admission!” she scorned.
“Nonsense!” laughed Billy. “It didn't hurt me any more than it did you. Come!”—in looking about for a quick something to take her guest's attention, Billy's eyes fell on the manuscript copy of her new song, bearing Arkwright's name. Yielding to a daring impulse, she drew it hastily forward. “Here's a new one—a brand-new one, not even printed yet. Don't you think the words are pretty?” she asked.
As she had hoped, Alice Greggory's eyes, after they had glanced half-way through the first page, sought the name at the left side below the title.
“'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 little catch in her breath that made Billy long to take her into a warm embrace.
Alice Greggory turned then to the music. She had much to say of this—very much; but she had nothing more whatever to say of Mr. M. J. Arkwright in spite of the tempting conversation bait that Billy dropped so freely. After that, Rosa brought in tea and toast, and the little frosted cakes that were always such a favorite with Billy's guests. Then Alice Greggory said good-by—her eyes full of tears that Billy pretended not to see.
“There!” breathed Billy, as soon as she had Aunt Hannah to herself again. “What did I tell you? Did you see Miss Greggory's start and blush and 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 the reprehensible “Mary Jane.” In fact, if the truth were known, Aunt Hannah herself in her thoughts—and sometimes in her words—called him “Mary Jane.”) “But, indeed, my dear, I didn't see anything stiff, or—or repelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was.”
“There wasn't—to-day,” smiled Billy. “Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I should never have known her for the same girl—who showed me the door that first 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 very pretty, convenient home which was, according to Bertram, “electrified to within an inch of its life, and equipped with everything that was fireless, smokeless, dustless, and laborless.” In it Marie had a spotlessly white kitchen where she might make puddings to her heart's content.
Marie had—again according to Bertram—“a visiting acquaintance with a maid.” In other words, a stout woman was engaged to come two days in the week to wash, iron, and scrub; also to come in each night to wash the dinner dishes, thus leaving Marie's evenings free—“for the shaded lamp,” Billy said.
Marie had not arrived at this—to her, delightful—arrangement of a “visiting acquaintance” without some opposition from her friends. Even Billy had stood somewhat aghast.
“But, my dear, won't it be hard for you, to do so much?” she argued one day. “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 I want to do myself, I should feel just like—like a hungry man who sees another 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't expect 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 and go 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 “At Homes” should begin, the devoted couple settled down to quiet days by themselves, with only occasional visits from the family to interrupt—“interrupt” was Bertram's word, not Marie's. Though it is safe to say it was not far different from the one Cyril used—in his thoughts.
Bertram himself, these days, was more than busy. Besides working on Miss Winthrop's portrait, and on two or three other commissions, he was putting the finishing touches to four pictures which he was to show in the exhibition soon to be held by a prominent Art Club of which he was the acknowledged “star” member. Naturally, therefore, his time was well occupied. Naturally, too, Billy, knowing this, lashed herself more sternly than ever into a daily reminder of Kate's assertion that he belonged first to his Art.
In pursuance of this idea, Billy was careful to see that no engagement with herself should in any way interfere with the artist's work, and that no word of hers should attempt to keep him at her side when ART called. (Billy always spelled that word now in her mind with tall, black letters—the way it had sounded when it fell from Kate's lips.) That these tactics on her part were beginning to fill her lover with vague alarm and a very definite unrest, she did not once suspect. Eagerly, therefore,—even with conscientious delight—she welcomed the new song-words that Arkwright brought—they would give her something else to take up her time and attention. She welcomed them, also, for another reason: they would bring Arkwright more often to the house, and this would, of course, lead to that “casual meeting” between him and Alice Greggory when the rehearsals for the operetta should commence—which would be very soon now. And Billy did so long to bring about that meeting!
To Billy, all this was but “occupying her mind,” and playing Cupid's assistant to a worthy young couple torn cruelly apart by an unfeeling fate. To Bertram—to Bertram it was terror, and woe, and all manner of torture; for in it Bertram saw only a growing fondness on the part of Billy for Arkwright, Arkwright's music, Arkwright's words, and Arkwright's friends.
The first rehearsal for the operetta came on Wednesday evening. There would be another on Thursday afternoon. Billy had told Alice Greggory to arrange her pupils so that she could stay Wednesday night at Hillside, if the crippled mother could get along alone—and she could, Alice had said. Thursday forenoon, therefore, Alice Greggory would, in all probability, be at Hillside, specially as there would doubtless be an appointment or two for private rehearsal with some nervous soloist whose part was not progressing well. Such being the case, Billy had a plan she meant to carry out. She was highly pleased, therefore, when Thursday morning came, and everything, apparently, was working exactly to her mind.
Alice was there. She had an appointment at quarter of eleven with the 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 on the 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 last night, 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 door and not come down-stairs till I send for you. Mr. Johnson isn't due till quarter 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 had reached the little room at the end of the hall. “I'm going to leave Aunt Hannah's door open, so you'll have good air—she isn't in there. She's writing letters in my room, Now here's a book, and you may read, but I should prefer you to sleep,” she nodded brightly as she went out and shut the door quietly. Then, like the guilty conspirator she was, she went down-stairs to wait for Arkwright.
It was a fine plan. Arkwright was due at ten o'clock—Billy had specially 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 Billy meant to excuse herself for a moment, slip up-stairs and send Alice Greggory down for a book, a pair of scissors, a shawl for Aunt Hannah—anything would do for a pretext, anything so that the girl might walk into the living-room and find Arkwright waiting for her alone. And then—What happened next was, in Billy's mind, very vague, but very attractive as a nucleus for one's thoughts, nevertheless.
All this was, indeed, a fine plan; but—(If only fine plans would not so often have a “but”!) In Billy's case the “but” had to do with things so apparently unrelated as were Aunt Hannah's clock and a negro's coal wagon. The clock struck eleven at half-past ten, and the wagon dumped itself to destruction directly in front of a trolley car in which sat Mr. M. J. Arkwright, hurrying to keep his appointment with Miss Billy Neilson. It was almost half-past ten when Arkwright finally rang the bell at Hillside. Billy greeted him so eagerly, and at the same time with such evident disappointment at his late arrival, that Arkwright's heart sang with joy.
“But there's a rehearsal at quarter of eleven,” exclaimed Billy, in answer to his hurried explanation of the delay; “and this gives so little time for—for—so little time, you know,” she finished in confusion, casting frantically about in her mind for an excuse to hurry up-stairs and send Alice Greggory down before it should be quite too late.
No wonder that Arkwright, noting the sparkle in her eye, the agitation in 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 a diminished seventh; for so long had she blithely accepted his every word and act as devotion to music, not herself—for so long had she done all this that he had come to fear that never would she do anything else. No wonder then, that now, in the soft radiance of the strange, new light on her face, his own face glowed ardently, and that he leaned forward with an 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 Alice Greggory from the hall doorway. “I was asleep, I think, when a clock somewhere, striking eleven—Why, Mr.—Arkwright!”
Not until Alice Greggory had nearly crossed the room did she see that the man standing by her hostess was—not the tenor she had expected to 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 said pleasantly.
At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left the room. 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 all arranged that they were to have it alone; but that miserable little fibber up-stairs struck eleven at half-past ten, and Miss Greggory heard it and thought she was fifteen minutes late. So down she hurried, half awake, and spoiled all my plans. Now she's sitting in there with him, in chairs the length of the room apart, discussing the snowstorm last night or the moonrise this morning—or some other such silly thing. And I had it so beautifully planned!”
“Well, well, dear, I'm sorry, I'm sure,” smiled Aunt Hannah; “but I can't think any real harm is done. Did Mary Jane have anything to tell her—about her father, I mean?”
Only the faintest flicker of Billy's eyelid testified that the everyday accustomedness of that “Mary Jane” on Aunt Hannah's lips had not escaped her.
“No, nothing definite. Yet there was a little. Friends are still trying to clear his name, and I believe are meeting with increasing success. I don't know, of course, whether he'll say anything about it to-day—now. To think I had to be right round under foot like that when they met!” went on Billy, indignantly. “I shouldn't have been, in a minute more, though. I was just trying to think up an excuse to come up and send down Miss Greggory, when Mary Jane began to tell me something—I haven't the faintest idea what—then she appeared, and it was all over. And there's the doorbell, and the tenor, I suppose; so of course 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—a message that brought dire consternation to the Chairman of the Committee of 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 rather than to worry along for another week or two, and then give up. So he had told it.
“But what shall we do, Miss Greggory?” appealed Billy. “It is a hard part, you know; but if Mr. Tobey can't take it, I don't know who can. We don't want to hire a singer for it, if we can help it. The profits are 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. “But as if he would take this!”
For only a brief moment did Arkwright hesitate; then blandly he suggested:
“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 think I 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 convince the powers-that-be that singing in this operetta will be just the stepping-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, “as I said before—under the circumstances I think I would.”
“Thank you! Then it's all beautifully settled,” rejoiced Billy, with a happy sigh; and unconsciously she gave Alice Greggory's hand near her a little pat.
In Billy's mind the “circumstances” of Arkwright's acceptance of the part were Alice Greggory and her position as accompanist, of course. Billy would have been surprised indeed—and dismayed—had she known that in Arkwright's mind the “circumstances” were herself, and the fact that she, too, had a part in the operetta, necessitating her presence at rehearsals, and hinting at a delightful comradeship impossible, perhaps, otherwise.