When she awoke in the morning, heavy-eyed and unrested, there came to her first the vague horror of some shadow hanging over her, then the sickening consciousness of what that shadow was. For one wild minute Billy felt that she must run to the telephone, summon Bertram, and beseech him to return unread the letter he would receive from her that day. Then there came to her the memory of Bertram"s face as it had looked the night before when she had asked him if she were the cause of his being troubled. There came, too, the memory of Kate"s scathing "Do you want to ruin his career?" Even the hated magazine article and Marie"s tragic "I"ve _hindered_ him!" added their mite; and Billy knew that she should not go to the telephone, nor summon Bertram.
The one fatal mistake now would be to let Bertram see her own distress.
If once he should suspect how she suffered in doing this thing, there would be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. She must, therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertram--not to let him see her until she felt more sure of her self-control no matter what he said. The easiest way to do this was, of course, to go away. But where?
How? She must think. Meanwhile, for these first few hours, she would not tell any one, even Aunt Hannah, what had happened. There must _no one_ speak to her of it, yet. That she could not endure. Aunt Hannah would, of course, shiver, groan "Oh, my grief and conscience!" and call for another shawl; and Billy just now felt as if she should scream if she heard Aunt Hannah say "Oh, my grief and conscience!"--over that. Billy went down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactly as usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know--yet.
When people try to "act exactly as usual," they generally end in acting quite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence her attempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter giggles that rang too frequently to be quite sincere--though from Aunt Hannah it all elicited only an affectionate smile at "the dear child"s high spirits."
A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morning paper--now no longer barred from the door--she gave a sudden cry.
"Billy, just listen to this!" she exclaimed, reading from the paper in her hand. ""A new tenor in "The Girl of the Golden West." Appearance of Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House to-night. Owing to the sudden illness of Duba.s.si, who was to have taken the part of Johnson tonight, an exceptional opportunity has come to a young tenor singer, one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwright is said to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, and a purity of tone and smoothness of execution that few of his age and experience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke at one of the popular-priced Sat.u.r.day night performances of "Rigoletto"; and his extraordinary success on that occasion, coupled with his familiarity with, and fitness for the part of Johnson in "The Girl of the Golden West," led to his being chosen to take Duba.s.si"s place to-night. His performance is awaited with the greatest of interest." Now isn"t that splendid for Mary Jane? I"m so glad!" beamed Aunt Hannah.
"Of course we"re glad!" cried Billy. "And didn"t it come just in time?
This is the last week of opera, anyway, you know."
"But it says he sang before--on a Sat.u.r.day night," declared Aunt Hannah, going back to the paper in her hand. "Now wouldn"t you have thought we"d have heard of it, or read of it? And wouldn"t you have thought he"d have told us?"
"Oh, well, maybe he didn"t happen to see us so he could tell us,"
returned Billy with elaborate carelessness.
"I know it; but it"s so funny he _hasn"t_ seen us," contended Aunt Hannah, frowning. "You know how much he used to be here."
Billy colored, and hurried into the fray.
"Oh, but he must have been so busy, with all this, you know. And of course we didn"t see it in the paper--because we didn"t have any paper at that time, probably. Oh, yes, that"s my fault, I know," she laughed; "and I was silly, I"ll own. But we"ll make up for it now. We"ll go, of course, I wish it had been on our regular season-ticket night, but I fancy we can get seats somewhere; and I"m going to ask Alice Greggory and her mother, too. I"ll go down there this morning to tell them, and to get the tickets. I"ve got it all planned."
Billy had, indeed, "got it all planned." She had been longing for something that would take her away from the house--and if possible away from herself. This would do the one easily, and might help on the other.
She rose at once.
"I"ll go right away," she said.
"But, my dear," frowned Aunt Hannah, anxiously, "I don"t believe I can go to-night--though I"d love to, dearly."
"But why not?"
"I"m tired and half sick with a headache this morning. I didn"t sleep, and I"ve taken cold somewhere," sighed the lady, pulling the top shawl a little higher about her throat.
"Why, you poor dear, what a shame!"
"Won"t Bertram go?" asked Aunt Hannah.
Billy shook her head--but she did not meet Aunt Hannah"s eyes.
"Oh, no. I sha"n"t even ask him. He said last night he had a banquet on for to-night--one of his art clubs, I believe." Billy"s voice was casualness itself.
"But you"ll have the Greggorys--that is, Mrs. Greggory _can_ go, can"t she?" inquired Aunt Hannah.
"Oh, yes; I"m sure she can," nodded Billy. "You know she went to the operetta, and this is just the same--only bigger."
"Yes, yes, I know," murmured Aunt Hannah.
"Dear me! How can she get about so on those two wretched little sticks?
She"s a perfect marvel to me."
"She is to me, too," sighed Billy, as she hurried from the room.
Billy was, indeed, in a hurry. To herself she said she wanted to get away--away! And she got away as soon as she could.
She had her plans all made. She would go first to the Greggorys" and invite them to attend the opera with her that evening. Then she would get the tickets. Just what she would do with the rest of the day she did not know. She knew only that she would not go home until time to dress for dinner and the opera. She did not tell Aunt Hannah this, however, when she left the house. She planned to telephone it from somewhere down town, later. She told herself that she _could not_ stay all day under the sharp eyes of Aunt Hannah--but she managed, nevertheless, to bid that lady a particularly blithe and bright-faced good-by.
Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannah answered it.
"Why, Bertram, is that you?" she called, in answer to the words that came to her across the wire. "Why, I hardly knew your voice!"
"Didn"t you? Well, is--is Billy there?"
"No, she isn"t. She"s gone down to see Alice Greggory."
"Oh!" So evident was the disappointment in the voice that Aunt Hannah added hastily:
"I"m so sorry! She hasn"t been gone ten minutes. But--is there any message?"
"No, thank you. There"s no--message." The voice hesitated, then went on a little constrainedly. "How--how is Billy this morning? She--she"s all right, isn"t she?"
Aunt Hannah laughed in obvious amus.e.m.e.nt.
"Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a _long_ time since last evening--when you saw her yourself? Yes, she"s all right. In fact, I was thinking at the breakfast table how pretty she looked with her pink cheeks and her bright eyes. She seemed to be in such high spirits."
An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catch came across the line; then a somewhat hurried "All right. Thank you.
Good-by."
The next time Aunt Hannah was called to the telephone, Billy spoke to her.
"Aunt Hannah, don"t wait luncheon for me, please. I shall get it in town. And don"t expect me till five o"clock. I have some shopping to do."
"All right, dear," replied Aunt Hannah. "Did you get the tickets?"
"Yes, and the Greggorys will go. Oh, and Aunt Hannah!"
"Yes, dear."
"Please tell John to bring Peggy around early enough to-night so we can go down and get the Greggorys. I told them we"d call for them."
"Very well, dear. I"ll tell him."
"Thank you. How"s the poor head?"
"Better, a little, I think."