Miss Billy's Decision
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 33: Bertram Takes the Reins
With stiffly pompous dignity Pete opened the door. The next moment he fell back in amazement before the impetuous rush of a starry-eyed, flushed-cheeked young woman who demanded:
“Where is he, Pete?”
“Miss Billy!” gasped the old man. Then he saw Aunt Hannah—Aunt Hannah with her bonnet askew, her neck-bow awry, one hand bare, and the other half covered with a glove wrong side out. Aunt Hannah’s cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes starry, but with dismay and anger—the last because she did not like the way Pete had said Miss Billy’s name. It was one matter for her to object to this thing Billy was doing—but quite another for Pete to do it.
“Of course it’s she!” retorted Aunt Hannah, testily. “As if you yourself didn’t bring her here with your crazy messages at this time of night!”
“Pete, where is he?” interposed Billy. “Tell Mr. Bertram I am here—or, wait! I’ll go right in and surprise him.”
“Billy!” This time it was Aunt Hannah who gasped her name.
Pete had recovered himself by now, but he did not even glance toward Aunt Hannah. His face was beaming, and his old eyes were shining.
“Miss Billy, Miss Billy, you’re an angel straight from heaven, you are—you are! Oh, I’m so glad you came! It’ll be all right now—all right! He’s in the den, Miss Billy.”
Billy turned eagerly, but before she could take so much as one step toward the door at the end of the hall, Aunt Hannah’s indignant voice arrested her.
“Billy-stop! You’re not an angel; you’re a young woman—and a crazy one, at that! Whatever angels do, young women don’t go unannounced and unchaperoned into young men’s rooms! Pete, go tell your master that we are here, and ask if he will receive us.”
Pete’s lips twitched. The emphatic “we” and “us” were not lost on him. But his face was preternaturally grave when he spoke.
“Mr. Bertram is up and dressed, ma’am. He’s in the den. I’ll speak to him.”
Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door of Bertram’s den and threw it wide open.
Opposite the door, on a low couch, lay Bertram, his head bandaged, and his right arm in a sling. His face was turned toward the door, but his eyes were closed. He looked very white, and his features were pitifully drawn with suffering.
“Mr. Bertram,” began Pete—but he got no further. A flying figure brushed by him and fell on its knees by the couch, with a low cry.
Bertram’s eyes flew open. Across his face swept such a radiant look of unearthly joy that Pete sobbed audibly and fled to the kitchen. Dong Ling found him there a minute later polishing a silver teaspoon with a fringed napkin that had been spread over Bertram’s tray. In the hall above Aunt Hannah was crying into William’s gray linen duster that hung on the hall-rack—Aunt Hannah’s handkerchief was on the floor back at Hillside.
In the den neither Billy nor Bertram knew or cared what had become of Aunt Hannah and Pete. There were just two people in their world—two people, and unutterable, incredible, overwhelming rapture and peace. Then, very gradually it dawned over them that there was, after all, something strange and unexplained in it all.
“But, dearest, what does it mean—you here like this?” asked Bertram then. As if to make sure that she was “here, like this,” he drew her even closer—Bertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that was usable.
Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm with a contented little sigh.
“Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to-night that you wanted me, I came,” she said.
“You darling! That was—” Bertram stopped suddenly. A puzzled frown showed below the fantastic bandage about his head. “‘As soon as,’” he quoted then scornfully. “Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I didn’t want you?”
Billy’s eyes widened a little.
“Why, Bertram, dear, don’t you see? When you were so troubled that the picture didn’t go well, and I found out it was about me you were troubled—I—”
“Well?” Bertram’s voice was a little strained.
“Why, of—of course,” stammered Billy, “I couldn’t help thinking that maybe you had found out you didn’t want me.”
“Didn’t want you!” groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. “May I ask why?”
Billy blushed.
“I wasn’t quite sure why,” she faltered; “only, of course, I thought of—of Miss Winthrop, you know, or that maybe it was because you didn’t care for any girl, only to paint—oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us,” she broke off wildly, beginning to sob.
“Pete told you that I didn’t care for any girl, only to paint?” demanded Bertram, angry and mystified.
“No, no,” sobbed Billy, “not that. It was all the others that told me that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the accident, you know, and he said—he said—Oh, Bertram, I can’t say it! But that’s one of the things that made me know I could come now, you see, because I—I wouldn’t hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any other of those dreadful things if—if you couldn’t ever—p-paint again,” finished Billy in an uncontrollable burst of grief.
“There, there, dear,” comforted Bertram, patting the bronze-gold head on his breast. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about—except the last; but I know there can’t be anything that ought to make you cry like that. As for my not painting again—you didn’t understand Pete, dearie. That was what they were afraid of at first—that I’d lose my arm; but that danger is all past now. I’m loads better. Of course I’m going to paint again—and better than ever before—now!”
Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. She pulled herself half away from Bertram’s encircling arm.
“Why, Billy,” cried the man, in pained surprise. “You don’t mean to say you’re sorry I’m going to paint again!”
“No, no! Oh, no, Bertram—never that!” she faltered, still regarding him with fearful eyes. “It’s only—for me, you know. I can’t go back now, and not have you—after this!—even if I do hinder you, and—”