Chapter 31: Flight

Billy feared if she did not mail the letter at once she would not have the courage to mail it at all. So she slipped down-stairs very quietly and went herself to the post box a little way down the street; then she came back and sobbed herself to sleep—though not until after she had sobbed awake for long hours of wretchedness.

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 Dubassi, 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 Saturday 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 Dubassi’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 Saturday 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.”