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.