Miss Billie's Decision [76]
the seat behind Billy and leaned forward, his eyes striving to read the girl's half-averted face. If Billy had turned, she would have seen that Arkwright's own face showed white and a little drawn-looking in the feeble rays from the light by the piano. But Billy did not turn. She kept her eyes steadily averted; and she went on speaking--airy, inconsequential words.
``Dear me, if those girls _would_ only pull together! But then, what's the difference? I supposed you had gone home long ago, Mr. Arkwright.''
``Miss Neilson, you _are_ crying!'' Arkwright's voice was low and vibrant. ``As if anything or anybody in the world _could_ make _you_ cry! Please --you have only to command me, and I will sally forth at once to slay the offender.'' His words were light, but his voice still shook with emotion.
Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed the persistent tears from her eyes.
``All right, then; I'll dub you my Sir Knight,'' she faltered. ``But I'll warn you--you'll have your hands full. You'll have to slay my headache, and my throat-ache, and my shoe that hurts, and the man who stepped on my dress, and--and everybody in the operetta, including myself.''
``Everybody--in the operetta!'' Arkwright did look a little startled, at this wholesale slaughter.
``Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was to-night?'' moaned the girl.
Arkwright's face relaxed.
``Oh, so _that's_ what it is!'' he laughed lightly. ``Then it's only a bogy of fear that I've got to slay, after all; and I'll despatch that right now with a single blow. Dress rehearsals always go like that to-night. I've been in a dozen, and I never yet saw one go half decent. Don't you worry. The worse the rehearsal, the better the performance, every time!''
Billy blinked off the tears and essayed a smile as she retorted:
``Well, if that's so, then ours to-morrow night ought to be a--a--''
``A corker,'' helped out Arkwright, promptly; ``and it will be, too. You poor child, you're worn out; and no wonder! But don't worry another bit about the operetta. Now is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else I can slay?''
Billy laughed tremulously.
``N-no, thank you; not that you can--slay, I fancy,'' she sighed. ``That is--not that you _will_,'' she amended wistfully, with a sudden remembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so much--if he only would.
Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curling hair behind Billy's ear. His eyes had flashed into sudden fire.
``But you don't know what I'd do if I could,'' he murmured unsteadily. ``If you'd let me tell you--if you only knew the wish that has lain closest to my heart for--''
``Miss Neilson, please,'' called the despairing voice of one of the earth-bound fairies; ``Miss Neilson, you _are_ there, aren't you?''
``Yes, I'm right here,'' answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too, but not aloud--which was wise.
``Oh dear! you're tired, I know,'' wailed the fairy, ``but if you would please come and help us just a minute! Could you?''
``Why, yes, of course.'' Billy rose to her feet, still wearily.
Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was very white--so white that her eyes widened in surprised questioning.
As if answering the unspoken words, the man shook his head.
``I can't, now, of course,'' he said. ``But there _is_ something I want to say--a story I want to tell you--after to-morrow, perhaps. May I?''
To Billy, the tremor of his voice, the suffering in his eyes, and the ``story'' he was begging to tell could have but one interpretation: Alice Greggory. Her face, therefore, was a glory of tender sympathy as she reached out her hand in farewell.
``Of course you may,'' she cried. ``Come any time after to-morrow night, please,'' she smiled encouragingly, as she turned toward the stage.
Behind her, Arkwright stumbled twice as he walked up the incline toward the outer door-- stumbled, not because of the semi-darkness of the little theatre,
``Dear me, if those girls _would_ only pull together! But then, what's the difference? I supposed you had gone home long ago, Mr. Arkwright.''
``Miss Neilson, you _are_ crying!'' Arkwright's voice was low and vibrant. ``As if anything or anybody in the world _could_ make _you_ cry! Please --you have only to command me, and I will sally forth at once to slay the offender.'' His words were light, but his voice still shook with emotion.
Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed the persistent tears from her eyes.
``All right, then; I'll dub you my Sir Knight,'' she faltered. ``But I'll warn you--you'll have your hands full. You'll have to slay my headache, and my throat-ache, and my shoe that hurts, and the man who stepped on my dress, and--and everybody in the operetta, including myself.''
``Everybody--in the operetta!'' Arkwright did look a little startled, at this wholesale slaughter.
``Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was to-night?'' moaned the girl.
Arkwright's face relaxed.
``Oh, so _that's_ what it is!'' he laughed lightly. ``Then it's only a bogy of fear that I've got to slay, after all; and I'll despatch that right now with a single blow. Dress rehearsals always go like that to-night. I've been in a dozen, and I never yet saw one go half decent. Don't you worry. The worse the rehearsal, the better the performance, every time!''
Billy blinked off the tears and essayed a smile as she retorted:
``Well, if that's so, then ours to-morrow night ought to be a--a--''
``A corker,'' helped out Arkwright, promptly; ``and it will be, too. You poor child, you're worn out; and no wonder! But don't worry another bit about the operetta. Now is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else I can slay?''
Billy laughed tremulously.
``N-no, thank you; not that you can--slay, I fancy,'' she sighed. ``That is--not that you _will_,'' she amended wistfully, with a sudden remembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so much--if he only would.
Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curling hair behind Billy's ear. His eyes had flashed into sudden fire.
``But you don't know what I'd do if I could,'' he murmured unsteadily. ``If you'd let me tell you--if you only knew the wish that has lain closest to my heart for--''
``Miss Neilson, please,'' called the despairing voice of one of the earth-bound fairies; ``Miss Neilson, you _are_ there, aren't you?''
``Yes, I'm right here,'' answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too, but not aloud--which was wise.
``Oh dear! you're tired, I know,'' wailed the fairy, ``but if you would please come and help us just a minute! Could you?''
``Why, yes, of course.'' Billy rose to her feet, still wearily.
Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was very white--so white that her eyes widened in surprised questioning.
As if answering the unspoken words, the man shook his head.
``I can't, now, of course,'' he said. ``But there _is_ something I want to say--a story I want to tell you--after to-morrow, perhaps. May I?''
To Billy, the tremor of his voice, the suffering in his eyes, and the ``story'' he was begging to tell could have but one interpretation: Alice Greggory. Her face, therefore, was a glory of tender sympathy as she reached out her hand in farewell.
``Of course you may,'' she cried. ``Come any time after to-morrow night, please,'' she smiled encouragingly, as she turned toward the stage.
Behind her, Arkwright stumbled twice as he walked up the incline toward the outer door-- stumbled, not because of the semi-darkness of the little theatre,