Miss Billie's Decision [68]
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
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