Miss Billie's Decision [79]
Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, so I'm not the one to give hope; and--''
``But you are the one,'' interrupted the man, passionately. ``You're the only one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and--''
``No, no, not that--not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding what you mean,'' pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now, holding up two protesting hands, palms outward.
``Miss Neilson, you don't mean--that you haven't known--all this time--that it was you?'' The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt and unbelieving, looking into hers.
Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed on his, carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid vision.
``But you know--you _must_ know that I am not yours to win!'' she reproached him sharply. ``I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's--_wife_.'' From Billy's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force that was at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mere utterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a sacred circle about her and placed herself in sanctuary.
From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back.
``Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!'' he exclaimed. There was no mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face.
Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a terrified appeal took its place.
``You don't mean that you _didn't--know?_'' she faltered.
There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there from unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery.
``No, I did not know,'' said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his arm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand.
Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and bent head of the man before her.
``But I--I don't see how you could have helped--knowing,'' she stammered at last. ``I don't see how such a thing could have happened that you shouldn't know!''
``I've been trying to think, myself,'' returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice.
``It's been so--so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew it,'' maintained Billy.
``Perhaps that's just it--that it was--so much a matter of course,'' rejoined the man. ``You see, I know very few of your friends, anyway-- who would be apt to mention it to me.''
``But the announcements--oh, you weren't here then,'' moaned Billy. ``But you must have known that--that he came here a good deal-- that we were together so much!''
``To a certain extent, yes,'' sighed Arkwright. ``But I took your friendship with him and his brothers as--as a matter of course. _That_ was _my_ `matter of course,' you see,'' he went on bitterly. ``I knew you were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told me the story of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world. Calderwell had said, too, that--'' Arkwright paused, then hurried on a little constrainedly--``well, he said something that led me to think Mr. Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway.''
Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew very well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must _always_ she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to love any girl-- except to paint?
``But--but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement--now,'' she stammered.
``Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival in Boston. We do not correspond.''
There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again.
``I think I understand now--many things. I wonder I did not see them before; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being-- If Calderwell hadn't said--'' Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half complete, and again Billy winced. ``I've been a blind fool. I was so intent on my own-- I've been a blind fool;
``But you are the one,'' interrupted the man, passionately. ``You're the only one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and--''
``No, no, not that--not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding what you mean,'' pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now, holding up two protesting hands, palms outward.
``Miss Neilson, you don't mean--that you haven't known--all this time--that it was you?'' The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt and unbelieving, looking into hers.
Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed on his, carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid vision.
``But you know--you _must_ know that I am not yours to win!'' she reproached him sharply. ``I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's--_wife_.'' From Billy's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force that was at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mere utterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a sacred circle about her and placed herself in sanctuary.
From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back.
``Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!'' he exclaimed. There was no mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face.
Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a terrified appeal took its place.
``You don't mean that you _didn't--know?_'' she faltered.
There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there from unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery.
``No, I did not know,'' said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his arm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand.
Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and bent head of the man before her.
``But I--I don't see how you could have helped--knowing,'' she stammered at last. ``I don't see how such a thing could have happened that you shouldn't know!''
``I've been trying to think, myself,'' returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice.
``It's been so--so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew it,'' maintained Billy.
``Perhaps that's just it--that it was--so much a matter of course,'' rejoined the man. ``You see, I know very few of your friends, anyway-- who would be apt to mention it to me.''
``But the announcements--oh, you weren't here then,'' moaned Billy. ``But you must have known that--that he came here a good deal-- that we were together so much!''
``To a certain extent, yes,'' sighed Arkwright. ``But I took your friendship with him and his brothers as--as a matter of course. _That_ was _my_ `matter of course,' you see,'' he went on bitterly. ``I knew you were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told me the story of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world. Calderwell had said, too, that--'' Arkwright paused, then hurried on a little constrainedly--``well, he said something that led me to think Mr. Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway.''
Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew very well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must _always_ she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to love any girl-- except to paint?
``But--but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement--now,'' she stammered.
``Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival in Boston. We do not correspond.''
There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again.
``I think I understand now--many things. I wonder I did not see them before; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being-- If Calderwell hadn't said--'' Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half complete, and again Billy winced. ``I've been a blind fool. I was so intent on my own-- I've been a blind fool;