Miss Billie's Decision [48]
melody your pretty words have sung to me. Though, maybe, after all, you won't like it, you know,'' she finished with arch wistfulness.
``As if I could help liking it,'' smiled the man, trying to keep from his voice the ecstatic delight that the touch of her hand had brought him.
Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano.
``The words are lovely,'' she declared, sorting out two or three sheets of manuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her. ``But there's one place--the rhythm, you know--if you could change it. There!--but listen. First I'm going to play it straight through to you.'' And she dropped her fingers to the keyboard. The next moment a tenderly sweet melody--with only a chord now and then for accompaniment--filled Arkwright's soul with rapture. Then Billy began to sing, very softly, the words!
No wonder Arkwright's soul was filled with rapture. They were his words, wrung straight from his heart; and they were being sung by the girl for whom they were written. They were being sung with feeling, too--so evident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed a sudden fire. Arkwright could not know, of course, that Billy, in her own mind, was singing that song--to Bertram Henshaw.
The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; but Billy very plainly did not see it. With a frowning sigh and a murmured ``There!'' she began to talk of ``rhythm'' and ``accent'' and ``cadence''; and to point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two were needed at the end of a certain line. From this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a maze of ``minor thirds'' and ``diminished sevenths,'' until he was forced to turn from the singer to the song. Still, watching her a little later, he noticed her absorbed face and eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance of an elusive harmony, and he wondered: did she, or did she not sing that song with feeling a little while before?
Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction when Aunt Hannah came in at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vague disappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned an untroubled face to the newcomer.
``We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah,'' she cried. Then, suddenly, she flung a laughing question to the man. ``How about it, sir? Are we going to put on the title-page: `Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'--or will you unveil the mystery for us now?''
``Have you guessed it?'' he bantered.
``No--unless it's `Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other day.''
``Wrong again!'' he laughed.
``Then it'll have to be `Mary Jane,' '' retorted Billy, with calm naughtiness, refusing to meet Aunt Hannah's beseechingly reproving eyes. Then suddenly she chuckled. ``It would be a combination, wouldn't it? `Words by Mary Jane Arkwright. Music by Billy Neilson'! We'd have sighing swains writing to `Dear Miss Arkwright,' telling how touching were _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_ soul-inspiring music!''
``Billy, my dear!'' remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly.
``Yes, yes, I know; that was bad--and I won't again, truly,'' promised Billy. But her eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled about on the piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then, seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves.
CHAPTER XVI
A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the telephone.
``Oh, good morning, Uncle William,'' she called, in answer to the masculine voice that replied to her ``Hullo.''
``Billy, are you very busy this morning?''
``No, indeed--not if you want me.''
``Well, I do, my dear.'' Uncle William's voice was troubled. ``I want you to go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I want. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?''
``Of course I will! What time?''
``Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's
``As if I could help liking it,'' smiled the man, trying to keep from his voice the ecstatic delight that the touch of her hand had brought him.
Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano.
``The words are lovely,'' she declared, sorting out two or three sheets of manuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her. ``But there's one place--the rhythm, you know--if you could change it. There!--but listen. First I'm going to play it straight through to you.'' And she dropped her fingers to the keyboard. The next moment a tenderly sweet melody--with only a chord now and then for accompaniment--filled Arkwright's soul with rapture. Then Billy began to sing, very softly, the words!
No wonder Arkwright's soul was filled with rapture. They were his words, wrung straight from his heart; and they were being sung by the girl for whom they were written. They were being sung with feeling, too--so evident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed a sudden fire. Arkwright could not know, of course, that Billy, in her own mind, was singing that song--to Bertram Henshaw.
The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; but Billy very plainly did not see it. With a frowning sigh and a murmured ``There!'' she began to talk of ``rhythm'' and ``accent'' and ``cadence''; and to point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two were needed at the end of a certain line. From this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a maze of ``minor thirds'' and ``diminished sevenths,'' until he was forced to turn from the singer to the song. Still, watching her a little later, he noticed her absorbed face and eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance of an elusive harmony, and he wondered: did she, or did she not sing that song with feeling a little while before?
Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction when Aunt Hannah came in at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vague disappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned an untroubled face to the newcomer.
``We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah,'' she cried. Then, suddenly, she flung a laughing question to the man. ``How about it, sir? Are we going to put on the title-page: `Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'--or will you unveil the mystery for us now?''
``Have you guessed it?'' he bantered.
``No--unless it's `Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other day.''
``Wrong again!'' he laughed.
``Then it'll have to be `Mary Jane,' '' retorted Billy, with calm naughtiness, refusing to meet Aunt Hannah's beseechingly reproving eyes. Then suddenly she chuckled. ``It would be a combination, wouldn't it? `Words by Mary Jane Arkwright. Music by Billy Neilson'! We'd have sighing swains writing to `Dear Miss Arkwright,' telling how touching were _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_ soul-inspiring music!''
``Billy, my dear!'' remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly.
``Yes, yes, I know; that was bad--and I won't again, truly,'' promised Billy. But her eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled about on the piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then, seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves.
CHAPTER XVI
A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the telephone.
``Oh, good morning, Uncle William,'' she called, in answer to the masculine voice that replied to her ``Hullo.''
``Billy, are you very busy this morning?''
``No, indeed--not if you want me.''
``Well, I do, my dear.'' Uncle William's voice was troubled. ``I want you to go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I want. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?''
``Of course I will! What time?''
``Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's