Miss Billie's Decision [58]
_would_ hardly do, she knew--though she would like to see Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and white tam-o'-shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satins and furs and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestra chair. But it was out of the question, of course. There was only one seat, and there were three girls, besides all those others. With a sigh, then, Billy turned her eyes back to those others--those many others that made up the long line stretching its weary length up the Avenue.
There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young men who were plainly students; older men whose refined faces and threadbare overcoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men who showed no hollows in their cheeks nor near-holes in their garments. It seemed 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 plainly forlorn and alone.
Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One had brought a camp stool; many were seated on the steps. Beyond, where the line passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop. One read a book, another a paper. Three were studying what was probably the score of the symphony or of the concerto they expected to hear that afternoon.
A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, by turned-up coat-collars or bent heads, testified to the contrary. Not far from Billy a woman nibbled a sandwich furtively, while beyond her a group of girls were hilariously merry over four triangles of pie which they 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 heart ache. 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 face that drooped with such a white misery of spent strength that she hurried straight toward it with a low cry.
``Miss Greggory!'' she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. ``You look actually ill. Are you ill?''
For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl's blue-gray eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw the painful 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 she knew had formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their first position.
``But you must have come--so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet,'' she faltered.
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 this weather, 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-pillared building before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if she could, 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, you can't--how can you stand it till then? You've shivered three times since I 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--I didn'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
There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young men who were plainly students; older men whose refined faces and threadbare overcoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men who showed no hollows in their cheeks nor near-holes in their garments. It seemed 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 plainly forlorn and alone.
Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One had brought a camp stool; many were seated on the steps. Beyond, where the line passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop. One read a book, another a paper. Three were studying what was probably the score of the symphony or of the concerto they expected to hear that afternoon.
A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, by turned-up coat-collars or bent heads, testified to the contrary. Not far from Billy a woman nibbled a sandwich furtively, while beyond her a group of girls were hilariously merry over four triangles of pie which they 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 heart ache. 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 face that drooped with such a white misery of spent strength that she hurried straight toward it with a low cry.
``Miss Greggory!'' she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. ``You look actually ill. Are you ill?''
For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl's blue-gray eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw the painful 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 she knew had formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their first position.
``But you must have come--so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet,'' she faltered.
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 this weather, 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-pillared building before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if she could, 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, you can't--how can you stand it till then? You've shivered three times since I 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--I didn'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