Miss Billy Married Part 46

Alice gave a sobbing cry. Her face was scarlet. Horror, shame, and relief struggled for mastery in her countenance.

"Oh, but I didn't know, I didn't know," she moaned, twisting her hands nervously. "And now, when you've been so brave, so true--for me to accuse you of--Oh, can you _ever_ forgive me? But you see, knowing that you _did_ care for her, it did look--" She choked into silence, and turned away her head.

He glanced at her tenderly, mournfully.

"Yes," he said, after a minute, in a low voice. "I can see how it did look; and so I'm going to tell you now something I had meant never to tell you. There really couldn't have been anything in that, you see, for I found out long ago that it was gone--whatever love there had been for--Billy."

"But your--tiger skin!"

"Oh, yes, I thought it was alive," smiled Arkwright, sadly, "when I asked you to help me fight it. But one day, very suddenly, I discovered that it was nothing but a dead skin of dreams and memories. But I made another discovery, too. I found that just beyond lay another one, and that was very much alive."

"Another one?" Alice turned to him in wonder. "But you never asked me to help you fight--that one!"

He shook his head.

"No; I couldn't, you see. You couldn't have helped me. You'd only have hindered me."

"Hindered you?"

"Yes. You see, it was my love for--you, that I was fighting--then."

Alice gave a low cry and flushed vividly; but Arkwright hurried on, his eyes turned away.

"Oh, I understand. I know. I'm not asking for--anything. I heard some time ago of your engagement to Calderwell. I've tried many times to say the proper, expected pretty speeches, but--I couldn't. I will now, though. I do. You have all my tenderest best wishes for your happiness--dear. If long ago I hadn't been such a blind fool as not to know my own heart--"

"But--but there's some mistake," interposed Alice, palpitatingly, with hanging head. "I--I'm not engaged to Mr. Calderwell."

Arkwright turned and sent a keen glance into her face.

"You're--not?"

"No."

"But I heard that Calderwell--" He stopped helplessly.

"You heard that Mr. Calderwell was engaged, very likely. But--it so happens he isn't engaged--to me," murmured Alice, faintly.

"But, long ago you said--" Arkwright paused, his eyes still keenly searching her face.

"Never mind what I said--long ago," laughed Alice, trying unsuccessfully to meet his gaze. "One says lots of things, at times, you know."

Into Arkwright's eyes came a new light, a light that plainly needed but a breath to fan it into quick fire.

"Alice," he said softly, "do you mean that maybe now--I needn't try to fight--that other tiger skin?"

There was no answer.

Arkwright reached out a pleading hand.

"Alice, dear, I've loved you so long," he begged unsteadily. "Don't you think that sometime, if I was very, very patient, you could just _begin_--to care a little for me?"

Still there was no answer. Then, slowly, Alice shook her head. Her face was turned quite away--which was a pity, for if Arkwright could have seen the sudden tender mischief in her eyes, his own would not have become so somber.

"Not even a little bit?"

"I couldn't ever--begin," answered a half-smothered voice.

"Alice!" cried the man, heart-brokenly.

Alice turned now, and for a fleeting instant let him see her eyes, glowing with the love so long kept in relentless exile.

"I couldn't, because, you see-I began--long ago," she whispered.

"Alice!" It was the same single word, but spoken with a world of difference, for into it now was crowded all the glory and the wonder of a great love. "Alice!" breathed the man again; and this time the word was, oh, so tenderly whispered into the little pink and white ear of the girl in his arms.

"I got delayed," began Billy, in the doorway.

"Oh-h!" she broke off, beating a hushed, but precipitate, retreat.

Fully thirty minutes later, Billy came to the door again. This time her approach was heralded by a s.n.a.t.c.h of song.

"I hope you'll excuse my being gone so long," she smiled, as she entered the room where her two guests sat decorously face to face at the chess-table.

"Well, you know you said you'd be gone ten minutes," Arkwright reminded her, politely.

"Yes, I know I did." And Billy, to her credit, did not even smile at the man who did not know ten minutes from fifty.

CHAPTER x.x.x. BY A BABY'S HAND

After all, it was the baby's hand that did it, as was proper, and perhaps to be expected; for surely, was it not Bertram, Jr.'s place to show his parents that he was, indeed, no Wedge, but a dear and precious Tie binding two loving, loyal hearts more and more closely together?

It would seem, indeed, that Bertram, Jr., thought so, perhaps, and very bravely he set about it; though, to carry out his purpose, he had to turn his steps into an unfamiliar way--a way of pain, and weariness, and danger.

It was Arkwright who told Bertram that the baby was very sick, and that Billy wanted him. Bertram went home at once to find a distracted, white-faced Billy, and a twisted, pain-racked little creature, who it was almost impossible to believe was the happy, laughing baby boy he had left that morning.

For the next two weeks nothing was thought of in the silent old Beacon Street house but the tiny little life hovering so near Death's door that twice it appeared to have slipped quite across the threshold.

All through those terrible weeks it seemed as if Billy neither ate nor slept; and always at her side, comforting, cheering, and helping wherever possible was Bertram, tender, loving, and marvelously thoughtful.

Then came the turning point when the universe itself appeared to hang upon a baby's breath. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, came the fluttering back of the tiny spirit into the longing arms stretched so far, far out to meet and hold it. And the father and the mother, looking into each other's sleepless, dark-ringed eyes, knew that their son was once more theirs to love and cherish.

When two have gone together with a dear one down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and have come back, either mourning or rejoicing, they find a different world from the one they had left. Things that were great before seem small, and some things that were small seem great.

At least Bertram and Billy found their world thus changed when together they came back bringing their son with them.

In the long weeks of convalescence, when the healthy rosiness stole bit by bit into the baby's waxen face, and the light of recognition and understanding crept day by day into the baby's eyes, there was many a quiet hour for heart-to-heart talks between the two who so anxiously and joyously hailed every rosy tint and fleeting sparkle. And there was so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to talk about! And always, running through everything, was that golden thread of joy, beside which all else paled--that they had Baby and each other. As if anything else mattered!