Miss Billy's Decision Part 50

"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 that the very sun in the heavens had gone out.

CHAPTER x.x.xII. PETE TO THE RESCUE

One by one the weeks pa.s.sed and became a month. Then other weeks became other months. It was July when Billy, homesick and weary, came back to Hillside with Aunt Hannah.

Home looked wonderfully good to Billy, in spite of the fact that she had so dreaded to see it. Billy had made up her mind, however, that, come sometime she must. She could not, of course, stay always away. Perhaps, too, it would be just as easy at home as it was away. Certainly it could not be any harder. She was convinced of that. Besides, she did not want Bertram to think--

Billy had received only meagre news from Boston since she went away.

Bertram had not written at all. William had written twice--hurt, grieved, puzzled, questioning letters that were very hard to answer.

From Marie, too, had come letters of much the same sort. By far the cheeriest epistles had come from Alice Greggory. They contained, indeed, about the only comfort Billy had known for weeks, for they showed very plainly to Billy that Arkwright's heart had been caught on the rebound; and that in Alice Greggory he was finding the sweetest sort of balm for his wounded feelings. From these letters Billy learned, too, that Judge Greggory's honor had been wholly vindicated; and, as Billy told Aunt Hannah, "anybody could put two and two together and make four, now."

It was eight o'clock on a rainy July evening that Billy and Aunt Hannah arrived at Hillside; and it was only a little past eight that Aunt Hannah was summoned to the telephone. When she came back to Billy she was crying and wringing her hands.

Billy sprang to her feet.

"Why, Aunt Hannah, what is it? What's the matter?" she demanded.

Aunt Hannah sank into a chair, still wringing her hands.

"Oh, Billy, Billy, how can I tell you, how can I tell you?" she moaned.

"You must tell me! Aunt Hannah, what is it?"

"Oh--oh--oh! Billy, I can't--I can't!"

"But you'll have to! What is it, Aunt Hannah?"

"It's--B-Bertram!"

"Bertram!" Billy's face grew ashen. "Quick, quick--what do you mean?"

For answer, Aunt Hannah covered her face with her hands and began to sob aloud. Billy, almost beside herself now with terror and anxiety, dropped on her knees and tried to pull away the shaking hands.

"Aunt Hannah, you must tell me! You must--you must!"

"I can't, Billy. It's Bertram. He's--_hurt!_" choked Aunt Hannah, hysterically.

"Hurt! How?"

"I don't know. Pete told me."

"Pete!"

"Yes. Rosa had told him we were coming, and he called me up. He said maybe I could do something. So he told me."

"Yes, yes! But told you what?"

"That he was hurt."

"How?"

"I couldn't hear all, but I think 'twas an accident--automobile. And, Billy, Billy--Pete says it's his arm--his right arm--and that maybe he can't ever p-paint again!"

"Oh-h!" Billy fell back as if the words had been a blow. "Not that, Aunt Hannah--not that!"

"That's what Pete said. I couldn't get all of it, but I got that.

And, Billy, he's been out of his head--though he isn't now, Pete says--and--and--and he's been calling for you."

"For--_me?_" A swift change came to Billy's face.

"Yes. Over and over again he called for you--while he was crazy, you know. That's why Pete told me. He said he didn't rightly understand what the trouble was, but he didn't believe there was any trouble, _really_, between you two; anyway, that you wouldn't think there was, if you could hear him, and know how he wanted you, and--why, Billy!"

Billy was on her feet now. Her fingers were on the electric push-b.u.t.ton that would summon Rosa. Her face was illumined. The next moment Rosa appeared.