Arkwright frowned gloomily. A week ago he would have tossed back a laughingly aggrieved remark as to her unflattering indifference to his presence. Now he was in no mood for such joking. It was too serious a matter with him.
``You've been busy, no doubt, with--other matters,'' he presumed forlornly, thinking of Calderwell.
``Yes, I have been busy,'' assented the girl.
``One is always happier, I think, to be busy.
Not that I meant that I needed the work to _be_happy,'' she added hastily, in a panic lest he think she had a consuming sorrow to kill.
``No, of course not,'' he murmured abstractedly, rising to his feet and crossing the room to the piano. Then, with an elaborate air of trying to appear very natural, he asked jovially:
``Anything new to play to me?''
Alice arose at once.
``Yes. I have a little nocturne that I was playing to Mr. Calderwell last night.''
``Oh, to Calderwell!'' Arkwright had stiffened perceptibly.
``Yes. _He_ didn't like it. I'll play it to you and see what you say,'' she smiled, seating herself at the piano.
``Well, if he had liked it, it's safe to say Ishouldn't,'' shrugged Arkwright.
``Nonsense!'' laughed the girl, beginning to appear more like her natural self. ``I should think you were Mr. Cyril Henshaw! Mr. Calderwell _is_ partial to ragtime, I'll admit. But there are some good things he likes.''
``There are, indeed, _some_ good things he likes,''
returned Arkwright, with grim emphasis, his somber eyes fixed on what he believed to be the one especial object of Calderwell's affections at the moment.
Alice, unaware both of the melancholy gaze bent upon herself and of the cause thereof, laughed again merrily.
``Poor Mr. Calderwell,'' she cried, as she let her fingers slide into soft, introductory chords. ``He isn't to blame for not liking what he calls our lost spirits that wail. It's just the way he's made.''
Arkwright vouchsafed no reply. With an abrupt gesture he turned and began to pace the room moodily. At the piano Alice slipped from the chords into the nocturne. She played it straight through, then, with a charm and skill that brought Arkwright's feet to a pause before it was half finished.
``By George, that's great!'' he breathed, when the last tone had quivered into silence.
``Yes, isn't it--beautiful?'' she murmured.
The room was very quiet, and in semi-darkness.
The last rays of a late June sunset had been filling the room with golden light, but it was gone now.
Even at the piano by the window, Alice had barely been able to see clearly enough to read the notes of her nocturne.
To Arkwright the air still trembled with the exquisite melody that had but just left her fingers.
A quick fire came to his eyes. He forgot everything but that it was Alice there in the half-light by the window--Alice, whom he loved. With a low cry he took a swift step toward her.
``Alice!''
Instantly the girl was on her feet. But it was not toward him that she turned. It was away--resolutely, and with a haste that was strangely like terror.
Alice, too, had forgotten, for just a moment.
She had let herself drift into a dream world where there was nothing but the music she was playing and the man she loved. Then the music had stopped, and the man had spoken her name.
Alice remembered then. She remembered Billy, whom this man loved. She remembered the long days just passed when this man had stayed away, presumably to teach _her_--to save _her_. And now, at the sound of his voice speaking her name, she had almost bared her heart to him.
No wonder that Alice, with a haste that looked like terror, crossed the floor and flooded the room with light.
``Dear me!'' she shivered, carefully avoiding Arkwright's eyes. ``If Mr. Calderwell were here now he'd have some excuse to talk about our lost spirits that wail. That _is_ a creepy piece of music when you play it in the dark!'' And, for fear that he should suspect how her heart was aching, she gave a particularly brilliant and joyous smile.
Once again at the mention of Calderwell's name Arkwright stiffened perceptibly. The fire left his eyes. For a moment he did not speak; then, gravely, he said:
``Calderwell? Yes, perhaps he would; and--you ought to be a judge, I should think. You see him quite frequently, don't you?''
``Why, yes, of course. He often comes out here, you know.''
``Yes; I had heard that he did--since _you_came.''
His meaning was unmistakable. Alice looked up quickly. A prompt denial of his implication was on her lips when the thought came to her that perhaps just here lay a sure way to prove to this man before her that there was, indeed, no need for him to teach her, to save her, or yet to sympathize with her. She could not affirm, of course; but she need not deny--yet.
``Nonsense!'' she laughed lightly, pleased that she could feel what she hoped would pass for a telltale color burning her cheeks. ``Come, let us try some duets,'' she proposed, leading the way to the piano. And Arkwright, interpreting the apparently embarrassed change of subject exactly as she had hoped that he would interpret it, followed her, sick at heart.
`` `O wert thou in the cauld blast,' '' sang Arkwright's lips a few moments later.
``I can't tell her now--when I _know_ she cares for Calderwell,'' gloomily ran his thoughts, the while. ``It would do no possible good, and would only make her unhappy to grieve me.''
`` `O wert thou in the cauld blast,' '' chimed in Alice's alto, low and sweet.
``I reckon now he won't be staying away from here any more just to _save_ me!'' ran Alice's thoughts, palpitatingly triumphant.
