Miss Billie's Decision [81]
and generally troubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed by her lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken.
``Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter?'' demanded Bertram resolutely, at last, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside. ``You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because I know there is!''
``Well, then, there is, dear,'' smiled Billy, tearfully; ``but please just don't let us talk of it. I--I want to forget it. Truly I do.''
``But I want to know so _I_ can forget it,'' persisted Bertram. ``What is it? Maybe I could help.''
She shook her head with a little frightened cry.
``No, no--you can't help--really.''
``But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ me about it?''
Billy looked distressed.
``I can't, dear--truly. You see, it isn't quite mine--to tell.''
``Not yours!''
``Not--entirely.''
``But it makes you feel bad?''
``Yes--very.''
``Then can't I know that part?''
``Oh, no--no, indeed, no! You see--it wouldn't be fair--to the other.''
Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines.
``Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know.''
Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she must set Bertram's mind at rest.
``Dearest,'' she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, ``just what it is, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feel that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this afternoon.''
``But it has made you cry!''
``Yes. It made me feel very unhappy.''
``Then--it was something you couldn't help?''
To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushed scarlet.
``No, I couldn't help it--now; though I might have--once.'' Billy spoke this last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly: ``Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It--it's just spoiling our happy evening together!''
Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh.
``All right, dear; you know best, of course-- since I don't know _anything_ about it,'' he finished a little stiffly.
Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning.
``And, do you know? Aunt Hannah's clock _has_ done a good turn, at last, and justified its existence. Listen,'' she cried gayly. ``Marie had a letter from her mother's Cousin Jane. Cousin Jane couldn't sleep nights, because she was always lying awake to find out just what time it was; so Marie had written her about Aunt Hannah's clock. And now this Cousin Jane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because she knows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what time it is!''
Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite ``Well, I'm sure that's fine!''; but the words were plainly abstracted, and the frown had not left his brow. Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to a question of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder:
``Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to _hear_ the word `operetta' again for a year!''
Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied not to hear the word ``operetta'' for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meant interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change wigs--all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he saw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself.
As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found them to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with its rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming
``Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter?'' demanded Bertram resolutely, at last, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside. ``You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because I know there is!''
``Well, then, there is, dear,'' smiled Billy, tearfully; ``but please just don't let us talk of it. I--I want to forget it. Truly I do.''
``But I want to know so _I_ can forget it,'' persisted Bertram. ``What is it? Maybe I could help.''
She shook her head with a little frightened cry.
``No, no--you can't help--really.''
``But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ me about it?''
Billy looked distressed.
``I can't, dear--truly. You see, it isn't quite mine--to tell.''
``Not yours!''
``Not--entirely.''
``But it makes you feel bad?''
``Yes--very.''
``Then can't I know that part?''
``Oh, no--no, indeed, no! You see--it wouldn't be fair--to the other.''
Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines.
``Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know.''
Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she must set Bertram's mind at rest.
``Dearest,'' she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, ``just what it is, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feel that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this afternoon.''
``But it has made you cry!''
``Yes. It made me feel very unhappy.''
``Then--it was something you couldn't help?''
To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushed scarlet.
``No, I couldn't help it--now; though I might have--once.'' Billy spoke this last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly: ``Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It--it's just spoiling our happy evening together!''
Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh.
``All right, dear; you know best, of course-- since I don't know _anything_ about it,'' he finished a little stiffly.
Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning.
``And, do you know? Aunt Hannah's clock _has_ done a good turn, at last, and justified its existence. Listen,'' she cried gayly. ``Marie had a letter from her mother's Cousin Jane. Cousin Jane couldn't sleep nights, because she was always lying awake to find out just what time it was; so Marie had written her about Aunt Hannah's clock. And now this Cousin Jane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because she knows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what time it is!''
Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite ``Well, I'm sure that's fine!''; but the words were plainly abstracted, and the frown had not left his brow. Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to a question of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder:
``Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to _hear_ the word `operetta' again for a year!''
Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied not to hear the word ``operetta'' for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meant interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change wigs--all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he saw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself.
As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found them to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with its rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming