Miss Billie's Decision [95]
from the house, she had not got away from herself once, all day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning.
``But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,'' she cried, with some show of animation. ``And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired,'' she broke off wearily.
``You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh--Bertram didn't go to that banquet, after all. He came here,'' she added, as Billy turned to go.
``Bertram!'' The girl wheeled sharply.
``Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all,'' chuckled Aunt Hannah. ``Did you suppose I would?''
There was no answer. Billy had gone.
In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had always fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that. Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see her--and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did--Billy knew now how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint.
Very early in the morning a white-faced, red- eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah's bedside.
``Billy!'' exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled.
Billy sat down on the edge of the bed.
``Aunt Hannah,'' she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a lesson she had learned by heart, ``please listen, and please try not to be too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like to visit your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If you don't mind we'll go to-day.''
Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed.
``_To-day_--child?''
``Yes,'' nodded Billy, unsmilingly. ``We shall have to go somewhere to-day, and I thought you would like that place best.''
``But--Billy !--what does this mean?''
Billy sighed heavily.
``Yes, I understand. You'll have to know the rest, of course. I've broken my engagement. I don't want to see Bertram. That's why I'm going away.''
Aunt Hannah fell nervelessly back on the pillow. Her teeth fairly chattered.
``Oh, my grief and conscience--_Billy!_ Won't you please pull up that blanket,'' she moaned. ``Billy, what do you mean?''
Billy shook her head and got to her feet.
``I can't tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don't ask me; and don't--talk. You _will_--go with me, won't you?'' And Aunt Hannah, with her terrified eyes on Billy's piteously agitated face, nodded her head and choked:
``Why, of course I'll go--anywhere--with you, Billy; but--why did you do it, why did you do it?''
A little later, Billy, in her own room, wrote this note to Bertram:
``DEAR BERTRAM:--I'm going away to-day. That'll be best all around. You'll agree to that, I'm sure. Please don't try to see me, and please don't write. It wouldn't make either one of us any happier. You must know that. ``As ever your friend, ``BILLY.''
Bertram, when he read it, grew only a shade more white, a degree more sick at heart. Then he kissed the letter gently and put it away with the other.
To Bertram, the thing was very clear. Billy had come now to the conclusion that it would be wrong to give herself where she could not give her heart. And in this he agreed with her--bitter as it was for him. Certainly he did not want Billy, if Billy did not want him, he told himself. He would now, of course, accede to her request. He would not write to her--and make her suffer more. But to Bertram, at that moment, it seemed
``But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,'' she cried, with some show of animation. ``And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired,'' she broke off wearily.
``You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh--Bertram didn't go to that banquet, after all. He came here,'' she added, as Billy turned to go.
``Bertram!'' The girl wheeled sharply.
``Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all,'' chuckled Aunt Hannah. ``Did you suppose I would?''
There was no answer. Billy had gone.
In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had always fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that. Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see her--and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did--Billy knew now how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint.
Very early in the morning a white-faced, red- eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah's bedside.
``Billy!'' exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled.
Billy sat down on the edge of the bed.
``Aunt Hannah,'' she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a lesson she had learned by heart, ``please listen, and please try not to be too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like to visit your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If you don't mind we'll go to-day.''
Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed.
``_To-day_--child?''
``Yes,'' nodded Billy, unsmilingly. ``We shall have to go somewhere to-day, and I thought you would like that place best.''
``But--Billy !--what does this mean?''
Billy sighed heavily.
``Yes, I understand. You'll have to know the rest, of course. I've broken my engagement. I don't want to see Bertram. That's why I'm going away.''
Aunt Hannah fell nervelessly back on the pillow. Her teeth fairly chattered.
``Oh, my grief and conscience--_Billy!_ Won't you please pull up that blanket,'' she moaned. ``Billy, what do you mean?''
Billy shook her head and got to her feet.
``I can't tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don't ask me; and don't--talk. You _will_--go with me, won't you?'' And Aunt Hannah, with her terrified eyes on Billy's piteously agitated face, nodded her head and choked:
``Why, of course I'll go--anywhere--with you, Billy; but--why did you do it, why did you do it?''
A little later, Billy, in her own room, wrote this note to Bertram:
``DEAR BERTRAM:--I'm going away to-day. That'll be best all around. You'll agree to that, I'm sure. Please don't try to see me, and please don't write. It wouldn't make either one of us any happier. You must know that. ``As ever your friend, ``BILLY.''
Bertram, when he read it, grew only a shade more white, a degree more sick at heart. Then he kissed the letter gently and put it away with the other.
To Bertram, the thing was very clear. Billy had come now to the conclusion that it would be wrong to give herself where she could not give her heart. And in this he agreed with her--bitter as it was for him. Certainly he did not want Billy, if Billy did not want him, he told himself. He would now, of course, accede to her request. He would not write to her--and make her suffer more. But to Bertram, at that moment, it seemed