Miss Billy's Decision Part 27

Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little cry.

"It's Mary Jane!" she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. "Now wasn't he a dear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?"

Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned.

"Oh, Billy!" she remonstrated. "Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little later, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came," she said with reproving emphasis.

Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder.

"All right," she nodded. "I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll be down directly."

In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordial hand.

"How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless and lonesome to-day?" she demanded.

A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes.

"I didn't know it," he rejoined. "I only knew that I was specially restless and lonesome myself."

Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness in the girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart.

Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He could not know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had given warmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made her greeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away that had made his presence so welcome.

"Well, I'm glad you came, anyway," sighed Billy, contentedly; "though I suppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome--but I'm afraid I'm not, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm a little wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped," she added laughingly, as she seated herself.

"Tension?"

"The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just December twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about the thirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I felt just as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here."

"Thank you; so am I--though usually, I will confess, I'm not much good at attending 'functions' and meeting strangers. As perhaps you've guessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap."

"Of course you aren't! People who are doing things--real things--seldom are. But we aren't the society kind ourselves, you know--not the capital S kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from liking Society. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on 'pink teas and purple pageants,' as Cyril calls them; and we even go ourselves sometimes. But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd have met lots like yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing, playing, painting, ill.u.s.trating, writing. Why, we even had a poet, sir--only he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit,"

she finished laughingly.

"Is long hair--necessary--for poets?" Arkwright's smile was quizzical.

"Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters, too. But now they look just like--folks."

Arkwright laughed.

"It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?"

"I'm afraid it is," dimpled Billy. "I _love_ velvet coats and flowing ties!"

"May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,"

declared the man, promptly.

Billy smiled and shook her head.

"I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and worsteds too well!"

"You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already had tried to bring about a reform--and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, or Mr. Bertram--" Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile.

Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merry tilt with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promised that his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat for himself. It was on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this to Arkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his lips drove the words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presence of this man, Billy found herself unable to refer to her engagement to Bertram Henshaw--though this time she did not in the least doubt that Arkwright already knew of it.

With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano.

"Come, let us try some duets," she suggested. "That's lots nicer than quarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently to hear us sing."

Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with an exclamation of eager acquiescence.

It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently.

"Have you written any new songs lately?"

"No."

"You're going to?"

"Perhaps--if I find one to write."

"You mean--you have no words?"

"Yes--and no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; but I haven't found in any one of them, yet--a melody."

Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coat pocket--then fell back at his side. The next moment he picked up a sheet of music.

"Are you too tired to try this?" he asked.

A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face.

"Why, no, but--"

"Well, children, I've come down to hear the music," announced Aunt Hannah, smilingly, from the doorway; "only--Billy, _will_ you run up and get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, and there's only the white one down here."

"Of course," cried Billy, rising at once. "You shall have a dozen shawls, if you like," she laughed, as she left the room.

What a cozy time it was--the hour that followed, after Billy returned with the pink shawl! Outside, the wind howled at the windows and flung the snow against the gla.s.s in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and the girl sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, they feasted royally on the b.u.t.tered toast, tea, and frosted cakes that Rosa served on a little table before the roaring fire. It was then that Arkwright talked of himself, telling them something of his studies, and of the life he was living.

"After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends and yours," he said, at last. "Your friends _are_ doing things. They've succeeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_."

"But they will succeed," cried Billy.

"Some of them," amended the man.

"Not--all of them?" Billy looked a little troubled.

Arkwright shook his head slowly.

"No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, some haven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money."