Miss Billie's Decision [80]
that's all,'' repeated Arkwright, with a break in his voice.
Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a choking sob.
Arkwright turned sharply.
``Miss Neilson, don't--please,'' he begged. ``There is no need that you should suffer--too.''
``But I am so ashamed that such a thing _could_ happen,'' she faltered. ``I'm sure, some way, I must be to blame. But I never thought. I was blind, too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. I never even _thought_ to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It was just the music that brought us together, I supposed; and you were just like one of the family, anyway. I always thought of you as Aunt Hannah's--'' She stopped with a vivid blush.
``As Aunt Hannah's niece, Mary Jane, of course,'' supplied Arkwright, bitterly, turning back to his old position. ``And that was my own fault, too. My name, Miss Neilson, is Michael Jeremiah,'' he went on wearily, after a moment's hesitation, his voice showing his utter abandonment to despair. ``When a boy at school I got heartily sick of the `Mike' and the `Jerry' and the even worse `Tom and Jerry' that my young friends delighted in; so as soon as possible I sought obscurity and peace in `M. J.' Much to my surprise and annoyance the initials proved to be little better, for they became at once the biggest sort of whet to people's curiosity. Naturally, the more determined persistent inquirers were to know the name, the more determined I became that they shouldn't. All very silly and very foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now,'' he finished.
Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, _anything_, to say, when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless voice that Billy thought would break her heart.
``As for the `Mary Jane'--that was another foolishness, of course. My small brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion, even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, by his laughing question, `Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head the crazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was a real Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for the chance of meeting and knowing you.''
Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning of Arkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had been talking then about herself, not Alice Greggory.
``But you don't mean that you--cared-- that I was the--'' She could not finish.
Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair.
``Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I was determined to meet you. So I came--and met you. After that I was more determined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was so blind to--to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good--to talk like this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself,'' he begged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone.
Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH
Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tell--nothing of the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billy carefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name.
Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been frantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that she would not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as he said it was--his foolish blindness. But even when she had partially comforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escape the haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she had seen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory of the words he had said, and at the thought that never again could their pleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be any friendship at all between them.
But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks,
Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a choking sob.
Arkwright turned sharply.
``Miss Neilson, don't--please,'' he begged. ``There is no need that you should suffer--too.''
``But I am so ashamed that such a thing _could_ happen,'' she faltered. ``I'm sure, some way, I must be to blame. But I never thought. I was blind, too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. I never even _thought_ to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It was just the music that brought us together, I supposed; and you were just like one of the family, anyway. I always thought of you as Aunt Hannah's--'' She stopped with a vivid blush.
``As Aunt Hannah's niece, Mary Jane, of course,'' supplied Arkwright, bitterly, turning back to his old position. ``And that was my own fault, too. My name, Miss Neilson, is Michael Jeremiah,'' he went on wearily, after a moment's hesitation, his voice showing his utter abandonment to despair. ``When a boy at school I got heartily sick of the `Mike' and the `Jerry' and the even worse `Tom and Jerry' that my young friends delighted in; so as soon as possible I sought obscurity and peace in `M. J.' Much to my surprise and annoyance the initials proved to be little better, for they became at once the biggest sort of whet to people's curiosity. Naturally, the more determined persistent inquirers were to know the name, the more determined I became that they shouldn't. All very silly and very foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now,'' he finished.
Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, _anything_, to say, when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless voice that Billy thought would break her heart.
``As for the `Mary Jane'--that was another foolishness, of course. My small brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion, even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, by his laughing question, `Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head the crazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was a real Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for the chance of meeting and knowing you.''
Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning of Arkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had been talking then about herself, not Alice Greggory.
``But you don't mean that you--cared-- that I was the--'' She could not finish.
Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair.
``Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I was determined to meet you. So I came--and met you. After that I was more determined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was so blind to--to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good--to talk like this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself,'' he begged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone.
Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH
Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tell--nothing of the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billy carefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name.
Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been frantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that she would not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as he said it was--his foolish blindness. But even when she had partially comforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escape the haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she had seen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory of the words he had said, and at the thought that never again could their pleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be any friendship at all between them.
But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks,