Miss Billy's Decision Part 42

CHAPTER XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY

Promptly at the suggested hour on the day after the operetta, Arkwright rang Billy Neilson's doorbell. Promptly, too, Billy herself came into the living-room to greet him.

Billy was in white to-day--a soft, creamy white wool with a touch of black velvet at her throat and in her hair. The man thought she had never looked so lovely: Arkwright was still under the spell wrought by the soft radiance of Billy's face the two times he had mentioned his "story."

Until the night before the operetta Arkwright had been more than doubtful of the way that story would be received, should he ever summon the courage to tell it. Since then his fears had been changed to rapturous hopes. It was very eagerly, therefore, that he turned now to greet Billy as she came into the room.

"Suppose we don't have any music to-day. Suppose we give the whole time up to the story," she smiled brightly, as she held out her hand.

Arkwright's heart leaped; but almost at once it throbbed with a vague uneasiness. He would have preferred to see her blush and be a little shy over that story. Still--there was a chance, of course, that she did not know what the story was. But if that were the case, what of the radiance in her face? What of--Finding himself in a tangled labyrinth that led apparently only to disappointment and disaster, Arkwright pulled himself up with a firm hand.

"You are very kind," he murmured, as he relinquished her fingers and seated himself near her. "You are sure, then, that you wish to hear the story?"

"Very sure," smiled Billy.

Arkwright hesitated. Again he longed to see a little embarra.s.sment in the bright face opposite. Suddenly it came to him, however, that if Billy knew what he was about to say, it would manifestly not be her part to act as if she knew! With a lighter heart, then, he began his story.

"You want it from the beginning?"

"By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek at the ending. I don't think it's fair to the author."

"Then I will, indeed, begin at the beginning," smiled Arkwright, "for I'm specially anxious that you shall be--even more than 'fair' to me."

His voice shook a little, but he hurried on. "There's a--girl--in it; a very dear, lovely girl."

"Of course--if it's a nice story," twinkled Billy.

"And--there's a man, too. It's a love story, you see."

"Again of course--if it's interesting." Billy laughed mischievously, but she flushed a little.

"Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might as well own up at the beginning--I'm the man."

"That will do for you to say, as long as you're telling the story,"

smiled Billy. "We'll let it pa.s.s for proper modesty on your part. But I shall say--the personal touch only adds to the interest."

Arkwright drew in his breath.

"We'll hope--it'll really be so," he murmured.

There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what to say.

"Well?" prompted Billy, with a smile. "We have the hero and the heroine; now what happens next? Do you know," she added, "I have always thought that part must bother the story-writers--to get the couple to doing interesting things, after they'd got them introduced."

Arkwright sighed.

"Perhaps--on paper; but, you see, my story has been _lived_, so far. So it's quite different."

"Very well, then--what did happen?" smiled Billy.

"I was trying to think--of the first thing. You see it began with a picture, a photograph of the girl. Mother had it. I saw it, and wanted it, and--" Arkwright had started to say "and took it." But he stopped with the last two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tell this girl how much that picture had been to him for so many months past.

He hurried on a little precipitately. "You see, I had heard about this girl a lot; and I liked--what I heard."

"You mean--you didn't know her--at the first?" Billy's eyes were surprised. Billy had supposed that Arkwright had always known Alice Greggory.

"No, I didn't know the girl--till afterwards. Before that I was always dreaming and wondering what she would be like."

"Oh!" Billy subsided into her chair, still with the puzzled questioning in her eyes.

"Then I met her."

"Yes?"

"And she was everything and more than I had pictured her."

"And you fell in love at once?" Billy's voice had grown confident again.

"Oh, I was already in love," sighed Arkwright. "I simply sank deeper."

"Oh-h!" breathed Billy, sympathetically. "And the girl?"

"She didn't care--or know--for a long time. I'm not really sure she cares--or knows--even now." Arkwright's eyes were wistfully fixed on Billy's face.

"Oh, but you can't tell, always, about girls," murmured Billy, hurriedly. A faint pink had stolen to her forehead. She was thinking of Alice Greggory, and wondering if, indeed, Alice did care; and if she, Billy, might dare to a.s.sure this man--what she believed to be true--that his sweetheart was only waiting for him to come to her and tell her that he loved her.

Arkwright saw the color sweep to Billy's forehead, and took sudden courage. He leaned forward eagerly. A tender light came to his eyes. The expression on his face was unmistakable.

"Billy, do you mean, really, that there is--hope for me?" he begged brokenly.

Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror came to her eyes. She drew back and would have risen to her feet had the thought not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man was making love to her, when subsequent events proved that she had been mortifyingly mistaken: once when Cyril had told her of his love for Marie; and again when William had asked her to come back as a daughter to the house she had left desolate.

Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a "foolish little simpleton," she summoned all her wits, forced a cheery smile to her lips, and said:

"Well, really, Mr. 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, pa.s.sionately. "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.