Miss Billie's Decision [54]
from the piano.
``There!'' she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song. ``Did you--like it?''
Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance of her face was only an added torture, and his tongue stumbled over the words of praise and appreciation that he tried to say. He saw, then, the happy light in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieved disappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous brute. More earnestly than ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice; but he knew that he had miserably failed when he heard her falter:
``Of course, dear, I--I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be much better, later.''
``But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart--indeed it is,'' protested Bertram, hurriedly.
``Well, of course I'm glad--if you like it,'' murmured Billy; but the glow did not come back to her face.
CHAPTER XVIII
SUGARPLUMS
Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busy ones for everybody. Miss Winthrop was not in town to give sittings for her portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram time and opportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayed and neglected. He was often at Hillside, however, and the lovers managed to snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and confusion of the Christmas preparations.
Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwright were groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the days passed, she spoke only once of his being at the house. The song, too, she said little of; and Bertram--though he was ashamed to own it to himself--breathed more freely.
The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that she should have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas; and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himself synonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint and kept away.
``I'll make her care for me sometime--for something besides a song,'' he told himself with fierce consolation--but Billy did not know this.
Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. There were such a lot of things she wished to do.
``But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, dear,'' she declared to Bertram one day, when he had remonstrated with with her for so taxing her time and strength. ``I can't really do much.''
``Much!'' scoffed Bertram.
``But it isn't much,, honestly--compared to what there is to do,'' argued Billy. ``You see, dear, it's just this,'' she went on, her bright face sobering a little. ``There are such a lot of people in the world who aren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat, and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you've said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know nothing about--except to long for them.''
``But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named Societies--I thought that was what they were for,'' declared Bertram, still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face.
``Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor give sugarplums,'' smiled Billy. ``And it's right that they shouldn't, too,'' she added quickly. ``They have more than they can do now with the roast beef and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary.''
``And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it--these books and magazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, the spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who were here last summer?''
Billy turned in confused surprise.
``Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all--that?''
``I didn't. I just guessed it--and it seems `the boy guessed right the very first time,' '' laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender light in his eyes. ``Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the Lowestoft lady,
``There!'' she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song. ``Did you--like it?''
Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance of her face was only an added torture, and his tongue stumbled over the words of praise and appreciation that he tried to say. He saw, then, the happy light in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieved disappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous brute. More earnestly than ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice; but he knew that he had miserably failed when he heard her falter:
``Of course, dear, I--I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be much better, later.''
``But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart--indeed it is,'' protested Bertram, hurriedly.
``Well, of course I'm glad--if you like it,'' murmured Billy; but the glow did not come back to her face.
CHAPTER XVIII
SUGARPLUMS
Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busy ones for everybody. Miss Winthrop was not in town to give sittings for her portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram time and opportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayed and neglected. He was often at Hillside, however, and the lovers managed to snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and confusion of the Christmas preparations.
Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwright were groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the days passed, she spoke only once of his being at the house. The song, too, she said little of; and Bertram--though he was ashamed to own it to himself--breathed more freely.
The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that she should have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas; and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himself synonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint and kept away.
``I'll make her care for me sometime--for something besides a song,'' he told himself with fierce consolation--but Billy did not know this.
Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. There were such a lot of things she wished to do.
``But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, dear,'' she declared to Bertram one day, when he had remonstrated with with her for so taxing her time and strength. ``I can't really do much.''
``Much!'' scoffed Bertram.
``But it isn't much,, honestly--compared to what there is to do,'' argued Billy. ``You see, dear, it's just this,'' she went on, her bright face sobering a little. ``There are such a lot of people in the world who aren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat, and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you've said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know nothing about--except to long for them.''
``But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named Societies--I thought that was what they were for,'' declared Bertram, still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face.
``Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor give sugarplums,'' smiled Billy. ``And it's right that they shouldn't, too,'' she added quickly. ``They have more than they can do now with the roast beef and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary.''
``And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it--these books and magazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, the spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who were here last summer?''
Billy turned in confused surprise.
``Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all--that?''
``I didn't. I just guessed it--and it seems `the boy guessed right the very first time,' '' laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender light in his eyes. ``Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the Lowestoft lady,