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diff --git a/362-h/362-h.htm b/362-h/362-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8354004 --- /dev/null +++ b/362-h/362-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12410 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Miss Billy's Decision, by Eleanor H. Porter + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Miss Billy's Decision, by Eleanor H. Porter + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Miss Billy's Decision + +Author: Eleanor H. Porter + +Release Date: July 8, 2008 [EBook #362] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS BILLY'S DECISION *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + MISS BILLY'S DECISION + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Eleanor H. Porter + </h2> + <h4> + Author of “Miss Billy,” etc. + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + TO <br /> My Cousin Helen + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>MISS BILLY'S DECISION</b></big> + </a><br /> <br /> <br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> CALDERWELL + DOES SOME TALKING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> AUNT + HANNAH GETS A LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. + </a> BILLY AND BERTRAM <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> + CHAPTER IV. </a> FOR MARY JANE <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> AT THE + SIGN OF THE PINK <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> OLD + FRIENDS AND NEW <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> M. + J. OPENS THE GAME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> A + RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> + CHAPTER X. </a> A JOB FOR PETE—AND FOR BERTRAM <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> A CLOCK AND AUNT + HANNAH <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> SISTER + KATE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> CYRIL + AND A WEDDING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> M. + J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. + </a> "MR. BILLY” AND “MISS MARY JANE” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> A GIRL AND A BIT OF + LOWESTOFT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> ONLY + A LOVE SONG, BUT— <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER + XVIII. </a> SUGARPLUMS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> + CHAPTER XIX. </a> ALICE GREGGORY <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> ARKWRIGHT TELLS A + STORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> A + MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER + XXII. </a> PLANS AND PLOTTINGS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> THE CAUSE AND + BERTRAM <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> THE + ARTIST AND HIS ART <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> THE + OPERETTA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> ARKWRIGHT + TELLS ANOTHER STORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. + </a> THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> BILLY TAKES HER + TURN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> KATE + WRITES A LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> "I'VE + HINDERED HIM” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> FLIGHT + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> PETE + TO THE RESCUE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> BERTRAM + TAKES THE REINS <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + MISS BILLY'S DECISION + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING + </h2> + <p> + Calderwell had met Mr. M. J. Arkwright in London through a common friend; + since then they had tramped half over Europe together in a comradeship + that was as delightful as it was unusual. As Calderwell put it in a letter + to his sister, Belle: + </p> + <p> + “We smoke the same cigar and drink the same tea (he's just as much of an + old woman on that subject as I am!), and we agree beautifully on all + necessary points of living, from tipping to late sleeping in the morning; + while as for politics and religion—we disagree in those just enough + to lend spice to an otherwise tame existence.” + </p> + <p> + Farther along in this same letter Calderwell touched upon his new friend + again. + </p> + <p> + “I admit, however, I would like to know his name. To find out what that + mysterious 'M. J.' stands for has got to be pretty nearly an obsession + with me. I am about ready to pick his pocket or rifle his trunk in search + of some lurking 'Martin' or 'John' that will set me at peace. As it is, I + confess that I have ogled his incoming mail and his outgoing baggage + shamelessly, only to be slapped in the face always and everlastingly by + that bland 'M. J.' I've got my revenge, now, though. To myself I call him + 'Mary Jane'—and his broad-shouldered, brown-bearded six feet of + muscular manhood would so like to be called 'Mary Jane'! By the way, + Belle, if you ever hear of murder and sudden death in my direction, better + set the sleuths on the trail of Arkwright. Six to one you'll find I called + him 'Mary Jane' to his face!” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as he sat at a small table in + a Paris café. Opposite him was the six feet of muscular manhood, broad + shoulders, pointed brown beard, and all—and he had just addressed + it, inadvertently, as “Mary Jane.” + </p> + <p> + During the brief, sickening moment of silence after the name had left his + lips, Calderwell was conscious of a whimsical realization of the lights, + music, and laughter all about him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!” he was thinking. Then + Arkwright spoke. + </p> + <p> + “How long since you've been in correspondence with members of my family?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you thought of it yourself, then—I'll admit you're capable + of it,” he nodded, reaching for a cigar. “But it so happens you hit upon + my family's favorite name for me.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mary Jane!</i> You mean they actually <i>call</i> you that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” bowed the big fellow, calmly, as he struck a light. “Appropriate!—don't + you think?” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell did not answer. He thought he could not. + </p> + <p> + “Well, silence gives consent, they say,” laughed the other. “Anyhow, you + must have had <i>some</i> reason for calling me that.” + </p> + <p> + “Arkwright, what <i>does</i> 'M. J.' stand for?” demanded Calderwell. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is that it?” smiled the man opposite. “Well, I'll own those initials + have been something of a puzzle to people. One man declares they're + 'Merely Jokes'; but another, not so friendly, says they stand for 'Mostly + Jealousy' of more fortunate chaps who have real names for a handle. My + small brothers and sisters, discovering, with the usual perspicacity of + one's family on such matters, that I never signed, or called myself + anything but 'M. J.,' dubbed me 'Mary Jane.' And there you have it.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary Jane! You!” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright smiled oddly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, what's the difference? Would you deprive them of their innocent + amusement? And they do so love that 'Mary Jane'! Besides, what's in a + name, anyway?” he went on, eyeing the glowing tip of the cigar between his + fingers. “'A rose by any other name—'—you've heard that, + probably. Names don't always signify, my dear fellow. For instance, I know + a 'Billy'—but he's a girl.” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell gave a sudden start. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean Billy—Neilson?” + </p> + <p> + The other turned sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Do <i>you</i> know Billy Neilson?” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell gave his friend a glance from scornful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do I know Billy Neilson?” he cried. “Does a fellow usually know the girl + he's proposed to regularly once in three months? Oh, I know I'm telling + tales out of school, of course,” he went on, in response to the look that + had come into the brown eyes opposite. “But what's the use? Everybody + knows it—that knows us. Billy herself got so she took it as a matter + of course—and refused as a matter of course, too; just as she would + refuse a serving of apple pie at dinner, if she hadn't wanted it.” + </p> + <p> + “Apple pie!” scouted Arkwright. + </p> + <p> + Calderwell shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, you don't seem to realize it, but for the last six months + you have been assisting at the obsequies of a dead romance.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! And is it—buried, yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” sighed Calderwell, cheerfully. “I shall go back one of these + days, I'll warrant, and begin the same old game again; though I will + acknowledge that the last refusal was so very decided that it's been a + year, almost, since I received it. I think I was really convinced, for a + while, that—that she didn't want that apple pie,” he finished with a + whimsical lightness that did not quite coincide with the stern lines that + had come to his mouth. + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was silence, then Calderwell spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you know—Miss Billy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know her at all. I know of her—through Aunt Hannah.” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell sat suddenly erect. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah! Is she your aunt, too? Jove! This <i>is</i> a little old + world, after all; isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “She isn't my aunt. She's my mother's third cousin. None of us have seen + her for years, but she writes to mother occasionally; and, of course, for + some time now, her letters have been running over full of Billy. She lives + with her, I believe; doesn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “She does,” rejoined Calderwell, with an unexpected chuckle. “I wonder if + you know how she happened to live with her, at first.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no, I reckon not. What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell chuckled again. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you. You, being a 'Mary Jane,' ought to appreciate it. + You see, Billy was named for one William Henshaw, her father's chum, who + promptly forgot all about her. At eighteen, Billy, being left quite alone + in the world, wrote to 'Uncle William' and asked to come and live with + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “But it wasn't well. William was a forty-year-old widower who lived with + two younger brothers, an old butler, and a Chinese cook in one of those + funny old Beacon Street houses in Boston. 'The Strata,' Bertram called it. + Bright boy—Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “The Strata!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I wish you could see that house, Arkwright. It's a regular layer + cake. Cyril—he's the second brother; must be thirty-four or five now—lives + on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless, music-mad existence—just + a plain crank. Below him comes William. William collects things—everything + from tenpenny nails to teapots, I should say, and they're all there in his + rooms. Farther down somewhere comes Bertram. He's <i>the</i> Bertram + Henshaw, you understand; the artist.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the 'Face-of-a-Girl' Henshaw?” + </p> + <p> + “The same; only of course four years ago he wasn't quite so well known as + he is now. Well, to resume and go on. It was into this house, this + masculine paradise ruled over by Pete and Dong Ling in the kitchen, that + Billy's naïve request for a home came.” + </p> + <p> + “Great Scott!” breathed Arkwright, appreciatively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Well, the letter was signed 'Billy.' They took her for a boy, + naturally, and after something of a struggle they agreed to let 'him' + come. For his particular delectation they fixed up a room next to Bertram + with guns and fishing rods, and such ladylike specialties; and William + went to the station to meet the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “With never a suspicion?” + </p> + <p> + “With never a suspicion.” + </p> + <p> + “Gorry!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, 'he' came, and 'she' conquered. I guess things were lively for a + while, though. Oh, there was a kitten, too, I believe, 'Spunk,' who added + to the gayety of nations.” + </p> + <p> + “But what did the Henshaws do?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wasn't there, of course; but Bertram says they spun around like + tops gone mad for a time, but finally quieted down enough to summon a + married sister for immediate propriety, and to establish Aunt Hannah for + permanency the next day.” + </p> + <p> + “So that's how it happened! Well, by George!” cried Arkwright. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” nodded the other. “So you see there are untold possibilities just + in a name. Remember that. Just suppose <i>you</i>, as Mary Jane, should + beg a home in a feminine household—say in Miss Billy's, for + instance!” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to,” retorted Arkwright, with sudden warmth. + </p> + <p> + Calderwell stared a little. + </p> + <p> + The other laughed shamefacedly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's only that I happen to have a devouring curiosity to meet that + special young lady. I sing her songs (you know she's written some + dandies!), I've heard a lot about her, and I've seen her picture.” (He did + not add that he had also purloined that same picture from his mother's + bureau—the picture being a gift from Aunt Hannah.) “So you see I + would, indeed, like to occupy a corner in the fair Miss Billy's household. + I could write to Aunt Hannah and beg a home with her, you know; eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Why don't you—'Mary Jane'?” laughed Calderwell. “Billy'd + take you all right. She's had a little Miss Hawthorn, a music teacher, + there for months. She's always doing stunts of that sort. Belle writes me + that she's had a dozen forlornites there all this last summer, two or + three at a time-tired widows, lonesome old maids, and crippled kids—just + to give them a royal good time. So you see she'd take you, without a + doubt. Jove! what a pair you'd make: Miss Billy and Mr. Mary Jane! You'd + drive the suffragettes into conniption fits—just by the sound of + you!” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed quietly; then he frowned. + </p> + <p> + “But how about it?” he asked. “I thought she was keeping house with Aunt + Hannah. Didn't she stay at all with the Henshaws?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, a few months. I never knew just why she did leave, but I + fancied, from something Billy herself said once, that she discovered she + was creating rather too much of an upheaval in the Strata. So she took + herself off. She went to school, and travelled considerably. She was over + here when I met her first. After that she was with us all one summer on + the yacht. A couple of years ago, or so, she went back to Boston, bought a + house and settled down with Aunt Hannah.” + </p> + <p> + “And she's not married—or even engaged?” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't the last I heard. I haven't seen her since December, and I've + heard from her only indirectly. She corresponds with my sister, and so do + I—intermittently. I heard a month ago from Belle, and <i>she</i> had + a letter from Billy in August. But I heard nothing of any engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “How about the Henshaws? I should think there might be a chance there for + a romance—a charming girl, and three unattached men.” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell gave a slow shake of the head. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so. William is—let me see—nearly forty-five, I + guess, by this time; and he isn't a marrying man. He buried his heart with + his wife and baby years ago. Cyril, according to Bertram, 'hates women and + all other confusion,' so that ought to let him out. As for Bertram himself—Bertram + is 'only Bertram.' He's always been that. Bertram loves girls—to + paint; but I can't imagine him making serious love to any one. It would + always be the tilt of a chin or the turn of a cheek that he was admiring—to + paint. No, there's no chance for a romance there, I'll warrant.” + </p> + <p> + “But there's—yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course. I presume January or February will find me back there,” he + admitted with a sigh and a shrug. Then, a little bitterly, he added: “No, + Arkwright. I shall keep away if I can. I <i>know</i> there's no chance for + me—now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'll leave me a clear field?” bantered the other. + </p> + <p> + “Of course—'Mary Jane,'” retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you needn't,” laughed Calderwell. “My giving you the right of way + doesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself—there are others, you + know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since + she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of + femininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man who + wins it—for the man who wins that, wins her.” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throng + outside the window near them. Perhaps he had not heard. At all events, + when he spoke some time later, it was of a matter far removed from Miss + Billy Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentioned + between them again that day. + </p> + <p> + Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said: + </p> + <p> + “Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that trip + to the lakes with you. I—I'm going home next week.” + </p> + <p> + “Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather sudden?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly + enough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing and + boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you + know, really.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook.” + </p> + <p> + “You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time,” grinned Calderwell. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. You know well enough what I mean,” shrugged the other. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried: + </p> + <p> + “Arkwright, how old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-four.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be + supplemented now, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, came + the answer: + </p> + <p> + “Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably—in + vaudeville.” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell smiled appreciatively. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>can</i> sing like the devil,” he admitted. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. “Do you mind + calling it 'an angel'—just for this occasion?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the matinée-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, + what are you going to do with those initials then?” + </p> + <p> + “Let 'em alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be 'Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary + Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be 'Señor Martini + Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J.' really + did stand for,” hinted Calderwell, shamelessly. + </p> + <p> + “'Merely Jokes'—in your estimation, evidently,” shrugged the other. + “But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going to + work.” + </p> + <p> + “But—how shall you manage?” + </p> + <p> + “Time will tell.” + </p> + <p> + Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “But, honestly, now, to—to follow that trail of yours will take + money. And—er—” a faint red stole to his forehead—“don't + they have—er—patrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why + can't I have a hand in this trail, too—or maybe you'd call it a + foot, eh? I'd be no end glad to, Arkwright.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, old man.” The red was duplicated this time above the brown silky + beard. “That was mighty kind of you, and I appreciate it; but it won't be + necessary. A generous, but perhaps misguided bachelor uncle left me a few + thousands a year or so ago; and I'm going to put them all down my throat—or + rather, <i>into</i> it—before I give up.” + </p> + <p> + “Where you going to study? New York?” + </p> + <p> + Again there was an almost imperceptible hesitation before the answer came. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not quite prepared to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not try it here?” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I did plan to, when I came over but I've changed my mind. I believe I'd + rather work while longer in America.” + </p> + <p> + “Hm-m,” murmured Calderwell. + </p> + <p> + There was a brief silence, followed by other questions and other answers; + after which the friends said good night. + </p> + <p> + In his own room, as he was dropping off to sleep, Calderwell muttered + drowsily: + </p> + <p> + “By George! I haven't found out yet what that blamed 'M. J.' stands for!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER + </h2> + <p> + In the cozy living-room at Hillside, Billy Neilson's pretty home on Corey + Hill, Billy herself sat writing at the desk. Her pen had just traced the + date, “October twenty-fifth,” when Mrs. Stetson entered with a letter in + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Writing, my dear? Then don't let me disturb you.” She turned as if to go. + </p> + <p> + Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew to the little woman's side + and whirled her half across the room. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she exclaimed, as she plumped the breathless and scandalized Aunt + Hannah into the biggest easy chair. “I feel better. I just had to let off + steam some way. It's so lovely you came in just when you did!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! I—I'm not so sure of that,” stammered the lady, dropping + the letter into her lap, and patting with agitated fingers her cap, her + curls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the lace at her throat. “My + grief and conscience, Billy! Wors't you <i>ever</i> grow up?” + </p> + <p> + “Hope not,” purred Billy cheerfully, dropping herself on to a low hassock + at Aunt Hannah's feet. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, you—you're engaged!” + </p> + <p> + Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh. + </p> + <p> + “As if I didn't know that, when I've just written a dozen notes to + announce it! And, oh, Aunt Hannah, such a time as I've had, telling what a + dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, <i>love</i> him, and what beautiful + eyes he has, and <i>such</i> a nose, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in pale horror. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” Billy's eyes were roguish. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't write that in those notes!” + </p> + <p> + “Write it? Oh, no! That's only what I <i>wanted</i> to write,” chuckled + Billy. “What I really did write was as staid and proper as—here, let + me show you,” she broke off, springing to her feet and running over to her + desk. “There! this is about what I wrote to them all,” she finished, + whipping a note out of one of the unsealed envelopes on the desk and + spreading it open before Aunt Hannah's suspicious eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Hm-m; that is very good—for you,” admitted the lady. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I like that!—after all my stern self-control and + self-sacrifice to keep out all those things I <i>wanted</i> to write,” + bridled Billy. “Besides, they'd have been ever so much more interesting + reading than these will be,” she pouted, as she took the note from her + companion's hand. + </p> + <p> + “I don't doubt it,” observed Aunt Hannah, dryly. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the desk. + </p> + <p> + “I'm writing to Belle Calderwell, now,” she announced musingly, dropping + herself again on the hassock. “I suppose she'll tell Hugh.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy! He'll be disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little. + </p> + <p> + “He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, that—that + I couldn't.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, dear; but—they don't always understand.” Aunt Hannah sighed + in sympathy with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked down at the + bright young face near her. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “He <i>will</i> be surprised,” she said. “He told me once that Bertram + wouldn't ever care for any girl except to paint. To paint, indeed! As if + Bertram didn't love me—just <i>me!</i>—if he never saw another + tube of paint!” + </p> + <p> + “I think he does, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was silence; then, from Billy's lips there came softly: + </p> + <p> + “Just think; we've been engaged almost four weeks—and to-morrow + it'll be announced. I'm so glad I didn't ever announce the other two!” + </p> + <p> + “The other <i>two!</i>” cried Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I forgot. You didn't know about Cyril.” + </p> + <p> + “Cyril!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there didn't anybody know it, either not even Cyril himself,” dimpled + Billy, mischievously. “I just engaged myself to him in imagination, you + know, to see how I'd like it. I didn't like it. But it didn't last, + anyhow, very long—just three weeks, I believe. Then I broke it off,” + she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah, feebly. + </p> + <p> + “But I <i>am</i> glad only the family knew about my engagement to Uncle + William—oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it does seem to + call him 'Uncle' again. It was always slipping out, anyhow, all the time + we were engaged; and of course it was awful then.” + </p> + <p> + “That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, from + the start.” + </p> + <p> + A bright color flooded Billy's face. + </p> + <p> + “I know; but if a girl <i>will</i> think a man is asking for a wife when + all he wants is a daughter, and if she blandly says 'Yes, thank you, I'll + marry you,' I don't know what you can expect!” + </p> + <p> + “You can expect just what you got—misery, and almost a tragedy,” + retorted Aunt Hannah, severely. + </p> + <p> + A tender light came into Billy's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Uncle William! What a jewel he was, all the way through! And he'd + have marched straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an + eyelid, I know—self-sacrificing martyr that he was!” + </p> + <p> + “Martyr!” bristled Aunt Hannah, with extraordinary violence for her. “I'm + thinking that term belonged somewhere else. A month ago, Billy Neilson, + you did not look as if you'd live out half your days. But I suppose <i>you'd</i> + have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an eyelid!” + </p> + <p> + “But I thought I had to,” protested Billy. “I couldn't grieve Uncle + William so, after Mrs. Hartwell had said how he—he wanted me.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah's lips grew stern at the corners. + </p> + <p> + “There are times when—when I think it would be wiser if Mrs. Kate + Hartwell would attend to her own affairs!” Aunt Hannah's voice fairly + shook with wrath. + </p> + <p> + “Why-Aunt Hannah!” reproved Billy in mischievous horror. “I'm shocked at + you!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah flushed miserably. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, of + course,” she murmured agitatedly. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You should have heard what Uncle William said! But never mind. We all + found out the mistake before it was too late, and everything is lovely + now, even to Cyril and Marie. Did you ever see anything so beatifically + happy as that couple are? Bertram says he hasn't heard a dirge from + Cyril's rooms for three weeks; and that if anybody else played the kind of + music he's been playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!” + </p> + <p> + “Music! Oh, my grief and conscience! That makes me think, Billy. If I'm + not actually forgetting what I came in here for,” cried Aunt Hannah, + fumbling in the folds of her dress for the letter that had slipped from + her lap. “I've had word from a young niece. She's going to study music in + Boston.” + </p> + <p> + “A niece?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt,' just as you and the + Henshaw boys do. But I really am related to <i>her</i>, for her mother and + I are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to + the Henshaw family.” + </p> + <p> + “What's her name?” + </p> + <p> + “'Mary Jane Arkwright.' Where is that letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy. “Were you going to read it to + me?” she asked, as she picked it up. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd love to hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll read it. It—it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought + the whole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer—that + I was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago. But + this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it—at least, as if + this girl didn't.” + </p> + <p> + “How old is she?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to + study music, alone—singing, I think she said.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't remember her, then?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its + envelope. + </p> + <p> + “No—but that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of + them for years. I know there are several children—and I suppose I've + been told their names. I know there's a boy—the eldest, I think—who + is quite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't + seem to remember a 'Mary Jane.'” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself,” suggested Billy, + dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling + herself to listen. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began to + read. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “DEAR AUNT HANNAH:—This is to tell you + that I'm coming to Boston to study singing in + the school for Grand Opera, and I'm planning to + look you up. Do you object? I said to a friend + the other day that I'd half a mind to write to Aunt + Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend + retorted: 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' But + that, of course, I should not think of doing. + + “But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah, + and I hope you'll let me see you once in a + while, anyway. I plan now to come next week + —I've already got as far as New York, as you see + by the address—and I shall hope to see you + soon. + + “All the family would send love, I know. + “M. J. ARKWRIGHT.” + </pre> + <p> + “Grand Opera! Oh, how perfectly lovely,” cried Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting me to invite her to make + her home with me? I shall have to write and explain that I can't—if + she does, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Billy frowned and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it sounded—a little—that way; but—” Suddenly her + face cleared. “Aunt Hannah, I've thought of the very thing. We <i>will</i> + take her!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Billy, I couldn't think of letting you do that,” demurred Aunt + Hannah. “You're very kind—but, oh, no; not that!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? I think it would be lovely; and we can just as well as not. + After Marie is married in December, she can have that room. Until then she + can have the little blue room next to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—we don't know anything about her.” + </p> + <p> + “We know she's your niece, and she's lonesome; and we know she's musical. + I shall love her for every one of those things. Of course we'll take her!” + </p> + <p> + “But—I don't know anything about her age.” + </p> + <p> + “All the more reason why she should be looked out for, then,” retorted + Billy, promptly. “Why, Aunt Hannah, just as if you didn't want to give + this lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do, of course; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's all settled,” interposed Billy, springing to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “But what if we—we shouldn't like her?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! What if she shouldn't like us?” laughed Billy. “However, if + you'd feel better, just ask her to come and stay with us a month. We shall + keep her all right, afterwards. See if we don't!” + </p> + <p> + Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, dear. I'll write, of course, as you tell me to; and it's + lovely of you to do it. Now I'll leave you to your letters. I've hindered + you far too long, as it is.” + </p> + <p> + “You've rested me,” declared Billy, flinging wide her arms. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl impelled by those same young + arms, drew her shawls about her shoulders and backed hastily toward the + hall door. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I won't again—to-day,” she promised merrily. Then, as the lady + reached the arched doorway: “Tell Mary Jane to let us know the day and + train and we'll meet her. Oh, and Aunt Hannah, tell her to wear a pink—a + white pink; and tell her we will, too,” she finished gayly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. BILLY AND BERTRAM + </h2> + <p> + Bertram called that evening. Before the open fire in the living-room he + found a pensive Billy awaiting him—a Billy who let herself be + kissed, it is true, and who even kissed back, shyly, adorably; but a Billy + who looked at him with wide, almost frightened eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why, darling, what's the matter?” he demanded, his own eyes growing wide + and frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, it's—done!” + </p> + <p> + “What's done? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Our engagement. It's—announced. I wrote stacks of notes to-day, and + even now there are some left for to-morrow. And then there's—the + newspapers. Bertram, right away, now, <i>everybody</i> will know it.” Her + voice was tragic. + </p> + <p> + Bertram relaxed visibly. A tender light came to his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, didn't you expect everybody would know it, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes; but—” + </p> + <p> + At her hesitation, the tender light changed to a quick fear. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, you aren't—sorry?” + </p> + <p> + The pink glory that suffused her face answered him before her words did. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry! Oh, never, Bertram! It's only that it won't be ours any longer—that + is, it won't belong to just our two selves. Everybody will know it. And + they'll bow and smile and say 'How lovely!' to our faces, and 'Did you + ever?' to our backs. Oh, no, I'm not sorry, Bertram; but I am—afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Afraid</i>—Billy!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Billy sighed, and gazed with pensive eyes into the fire. + </p> + <p> + Across Bertram's face swept surprise, consternation, and dismay. Bertram + had thought he knew Billy in all her moods and fancies; but he did not + know her in this one. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Billy!” he breathed. + </p> + <p> + Billy drew another sigh. It seemed to come from the very bottoms of her + small, satin-slippered feet. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am. You're <i>the</i> Bertram Henshaw. You know lots and lots of + people that I never even saw. And they'll come and stand around and stare + and lift their lorgnettes and say: 'Is that the one? Dear me!'” + </p> + <p> + Bertram gave a relieved laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, sweetheart! I should think you were a picture I'd painted and + hung on a wall.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall feel as if I were—with all those friends of yours. Bertram, + what if they don't like it?” Her voice had grown tragic again. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Like</i> it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The picture—me, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “They can't help liking it,” he retorted, with the prompt certainty of an + adoring lover. + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head. Her eyes had gone back to the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. 'What, <i>she</i>—Bertram + Henshaw's wife?—a frivolous, inconsequential “Billy” like that?' + Bertram!”—Billy turned fiercely despairing eyes on her lover—“Bertram, + sometimes I wish my name were 'Clarissa Cordelia,' or 'Arabella Maud,' or + 'Hannah Jane'—anything that's feminine and proper!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram's ringing laugh brought a faint smile to Billy's lips. But the + words that followed the laugh, and the caressing touch of the man's hands + sent a flood of shy color to her face. + </p> + <p> + “'Hannah Jane,' indeed! As if I'd exchange my Billy for her or any + Clarissa or Arabella that ever grew! I adore Billy—flame, nature, + and—” + </p> + <p> + “And naughtiness?” put in Billy herself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if there be any,” laughed Bertram, fondly. “But, see,” he + added, taking a tiny box from his pocket, “see what I've brought for this + same Billy to wear. She'd have had it long ago if she hadn't insisted on + waiting for this announcement business.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bertram, what a beauty!” dimpled Billy, as the flawless diamond in + Bertram's fingers caught the light and sent it back in a flash of flame + and crimson. + </p> + <p> + “Now you are mine—really mine, sweetheart!” The man's voice and hand + shook as he slipped the ring on Billy's outstretched finger. + </p> + <p> + Billy caught her breath with almost a sob. + </p> + <p> + “And I'm so glad to be—yours, dear,” she murmured brokenly. “And—and + I'll make you proud that I am yours, even if I am just 'Billy,'” she + choked. “Oh, I know I'll write such beautiful, beautiful songs now.” + </p> + <p> + The man drew her into a close embrace. + </p> + <p> + “As if I cared for that,” he scoffed lovingly. + </p> + <p> + Billy looked up in quick horror. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't—care?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed lightly, and took the dismayed little face between his two + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Care, darling? of course I care! You know how I love your music. I care + about everything that concerns you. I meant that I'm proud of you <i>now</i>—just + you. I love <i>you</i>, you know.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's pause. Billy's eyes, as they looked at him, carried a + curious intentness in their dark depths. + </p> + <p> + “You mean, you like—the turn of my head and the tilt of my chin?” + she asked a little breathlessly. + </p> + <p> + “I adore them!” came the prompt answer. + </p> + <p> + To Bertram's utter amazement, Billy drew back with a sharp cry. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—not that!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, <i>Billy!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed unexpectedly; then she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's all right, of course,” she assured him hastily. “It's only—” + Billy stopped and blushed. Billy was thinking of what Hugh Calderwell had + once said to her: that Bertram Henshaw would never love any girl + seriously; that it would always be the turn of her head or the tilt of her + chin that he loved—to paint. + </p> + <p> + “Well; only what?” demanded Bertram. + </p> + <p> + Billy blushed the more deeply, but she gave a light laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, only something Hugh Calderwell said to me once. You see, + Bertram, I don't think Hugh ever thought you would—marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, didn't he?” bridled Bertram. “Well, that only goes to show how much + he knows about it. Er—did you announce it—to him?” Bertram's + voice was almost savage now. + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled. + </p> + <p> + “No; but I did to his sister, and she'll tell him. Oh, Bertram, such a + time as I had over those notes,” went on Billy, with a chuckle. Her eyes + were dancing, and she was seeming more like her usual self, Bertram + thought. “You see there were such a lot of things I wanted to say, about + what a dear you were, and how much I—I liked you, and that you had + such lovely eyes, and a nose—” + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror. + </p> + <p> + Billy threw him a roguish glance. + </p> + <p> + “Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I <i>wanted</i> + to say. What I really said was—quite another matter,” she finished + with a saucy uptilting of her chin. + </p> + <p> + Bertram relaxed with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “You witch!” His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. “Billy, I'm + going to paint you sometime in just that pose. You're adorable!” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! Just another face of a girl,” teased the adorable one. + </p> + <p> + Bertram gave a sudden exclamation. + </p> + <p> + “There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is.” + </p> + <p> + “To paint a portrait?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't. Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “J. G. Winthrop's daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Not <i>the</i> J. G. Winthrop?” + </p> + <p> + “The same.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bertram, how splendid!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, + I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Boston for years + until now.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven't seen her. Is she so <i>very</i> beautiful?” Billy spoke a + little soberly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and no.” The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called + his “painting look” came to his face. “It isn't that her features are so + regular—though her mouth and chin are perfect. But her face has so + much character, and there's an elusive something about her eyes—Jove! + If I can only catch it, it'll be the best thing yet that I've ever done, + Billy.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it? I'm so glad—and you'll get it, I know you will,” claimed + Billy, clearing her throat a little nervously. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I felt so sure,” sighed Bertram. “But it'll be a great thing if I + do get it—J. G. Winthrop's daughter, you know, besides the merit of + the likeness itself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; yes, indeed!” Billy cleared her throat again. “You've seen her, of + course, lately?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details—sittings + and costume, and deciding on the pose.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you find one—to suit?” + </p> + <p> + “Find one!” The artist made a despairing gesture. “I found a dozen that I + wanted. The trouble was to tell which I wanted the most.” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a nervous little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that—unusual?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Bertram lifted his eyebrows with a quizzical smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they aren't all Marguerite Winthrops,” he reminded her. + </p> + <p> + “Marguerite!” cried Billy. “Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do think + Marguerite is the dearest name!” Billy's eyes and voice were wistful. + </p> + <p> + “I don't—not the <i>dearest</i>. Oh, it's all well enough, of + course, but it can't be compared for a moment to—well, say, + 'Billy'!” + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled, but she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you're not a good judge of names,” she objected. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matter + what it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Even if 'twas 'Mary Jane,' eh?” bantered Billy. “Well, you'll have a + chance to find out how you like that name pretty quick, sir. We're going + to have one here.” + </p> + <p> + “You're going to have a Mary Jane here? Do you mean that Rosa's going + away?” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy! I hope not,” shuddered Billy. “You don't find a Rosa in every + kitchen—and never in employment agencies! My Mary Jane is a niece of + Aunt Hannah's,—or rather, a cousin. She's coming to Boston to study + music, and I've invited her here. We've asked her for a month, though I + presume we shall keep her right along.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, that's very nice for—<i>Mary Jane</i>,” he sighed + with meaning emphasis. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry, dear. She won't bother us any.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, she will,” sighed Bertram. “She'll be 'round—lots; you see + if she isn't. Billy, I think sometimes you're almost too kind—to + other folks.” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” laughed Billy. “Besides, what would you have me do when a + lonesome young girl was coming to Boston? Anyhow, <i>you're</i> not the + one to talk, young man. I've known <i>you</i> to take in a lonesome girl + and give her a home,” she flashed merrily. + </p> + <p> + Bertram chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Jove! What a time that was!” he exclaimed, regarding his companion with + fond eyes. “And Spunk, too! Is she going to bring a Spunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I've heard,” smiled Billy; “but she <i>is</i> going to wear a + pink.” + </p> + <p> + “Not really, Billy?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course she is! I told her to. How do you suppose we could know her + when we saw her, if she didn't?” demanded the girl, indignantly. “And what + is more, sir, there will be <i>two</i> pinks worn this time. <i>I</i> + sha'n't do as Uncle William did, and leave off my pink. Only think what + long minutes—that seemed hours of misery—I spent waiting there + in that train-shed, just because I didn't know which man was my Uncle + William!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Well, your Mary Jane won't probably turn out to be quite such a bombshell + as our Billy did—unless she should prove to be a boy,” he added + whimsically. “Oh, but Billy, she <i>can't</i> turn out to be such a dear + treasure,” finished the man. And at the adoring look in his eyes Billy + blushed deeply—and promptly forgot all about Mary Jane and her pink. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. FOR MARY JANE + </h2> + <p> + “I have a letter here from Mary Jane, my dear,” announced Aunt Hannah at + the luncheon table one day. + </p> + <p> + “Have you?” Billy raised interested eyes from her own letters. “What does + she say?” + </p> + <p> + “She will be here Thursday. Her train is due at the South Station at + four-thirty. She seems to be very grateful to you for your offer to let + her come right here for a month; but she says she's afraid you don't + realize, perhaps, just what you are doing—to take her in like that, + with her singing, and all.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! She doesn't refuse, does she?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; she doesn't refuse—but she doesn't accept either, exactly, + as I can see. I've read the letter over twice, too. I'll let you judge for + yourself by and by, when you have time to read it.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. I don't want to read it. She's just a little shy about + coming, that's all. She'll stay all right, when we come to meet her. What + time did you say it was, Thursday?” + </p> + <p> + “Half past four, South Station.” + </p> + <p> + “Thursday, at half past four. Let me see—that's the day of the + Carletons' 'At Home,' isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my grief and conscience, yes! But I had forgotten it. What shall we + do?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that will be easy. We'll just go to the Carletons' early and have + John wait, then take us from there to the South Station. Meanwhile we'll + make sure that the little blue room is all ready for her. I put in my + white enamel work-basket yesterday, and that pretty little blue case for + hairpins and curling tongs that I bought at the fair. I want the room to + look homey to her, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “As if it could look any other way, if <i>you</i> had anything to do with + it,” sighed Aunt Hannah, admiringly. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “If we get stranded we might ask the Henshaw boys to help us out, Aunt + Hannah. They'd probably suggest guns and swords. That's the way they fixed + up <i>my</i> room.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah raised shocked hands of protest. + </p> + <p> + “As if we would! Mercy, what a time that was!” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “I never shall forget, <i>never</i>, my first glimpse of that room when + Mrs. Hartwell switched on the lights. Oh, Aunt Hannah, I wish you could + have seen it before they took out those guns and spiders!” + </p> + <p> + “As if I didn't see quite enough when I saw William's face that morning he + came for me!” retorted Aunt Hannah, spiritedly. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Uncle William! What an old saint he has been all the way through,” + mused Billy aloud. “And Cyril—who would ever have believed that the + day would come when Cyril would say to me, as he did last night, that he + felt as if Marie had been gone a month. It's been just seven days, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. She comes to-morrow, doesn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and I'm glad. I shall tell Marie she needn't leave Cyril on <i>my</i> + hands again. Bertram says that at home Cyril hasn't played a dirge since + his engagement; but I notice that up here—where Marie might be, but + isn't—his tunes would never be mistaken for ragtime. By the way,” + she added, as she rose from the table, “that's another surprise in store + for Hugh Calderwell. He always declared that Cyril wasn't a marrying man, + either, any more than Bertram. You know he said Bertram only cared for + girls to paint; but—” She stopped and looked inquiringly at Rosa, + who had appeared at that moment in the hall doorway. + </p> + <p> + “It's the telephone, Miss Neilson. Mr. Bertram Henshaw wants you.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later Aunt Hannah heard Billy at the piano. For fifteen, + twenty, thirty minutes the brilliant scales and arpeggios rippled through + the rooms and up the stairs to Aunt Hannah, who knew, by the very sound of + them, that some unusual nervousness was being worked off at the finger + tips that played them. At the end of forty-five minutes Aunt Hannah went + down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, my dear, excuse me, but have you forgotten what time it is? + Weren't you going out with Bertram?” + </p> + <p> + Billy stopped playing at once, but she did not turn her head. Her fingers + busied themselves with some music on the piano. + </p> + <p> + “We aren't going, Aunt Hannah,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram can't.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Can't!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he didn't want to—so of course I said not to. He's been + painting this morning on a new portrait, and she said he might stay to + luncheon and keep right on for a while this afternoon, if he liked. And—he + did like, so he stayed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how—how—” Aunt Hannah stopped helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, not at all,” interposed Billy, lightly. “He told me all about it + the other night. It's going to be a very wonderful portrait; and, of + course, I wouldn't want to interfere with—his work!” And again a + brilliant scale rippled from Billy's fingers after a crashing chord in the + bass. + </p> + <p> + Slowly Aunt Hannah turned and went up-stairs. Her eyes were troubled. Not + since Billy's engagement had she heard Billy play like that. + </p> + <p> + Bertram did not find a pensive Billy awaiting him that evening. He found a + bright-eyed, flushed-cheeked Billy, who let herself be kissed—once—but + who did not kiss back; a blithe, elusive Billy, who played tripping little + melodies, and sang jolly little songs, instead of sitting before the fire + and talking; a Billy who at last turned, and asked tranquilly: + </p> + <p> + “Well, how did the picture go?” + </p> + <p> + Bertram rose then, crossed the room, and took Billy very gently into his + arms. + </p> + <p> + “Sweetheart, you were a dear this noon to let me off like that,” he began + in a voice shaken with emotion. “You don't know, perhaps, exactly what you + did. You see, I was nearly wild between wanting to be with you, and + wanting to go on with my work. And I was just at that point where one + little word from you, one hint that you wanted me to come anyway—and + I should have come. But you didn't say it, nor hint it. Like the brave + little bit of inspiration that you are, you bade me stay and go on with my + work.” + </p> + <p> + The “inspiration's” head drooped a little lower, but this only brought a + wealth of soft bronze hair to just where Bertram could lay his cheek + against it—and Bertram promptly took advantage of his opportunity. + “And so I stayed, Billy, and I did good work; I know I did good work. Why, + Billy,”—Bertram stepped back now, and held Billy by the shoulders at + arms' length—“Billy, that's going to be the best work I've ever + done. I can see it coming even now, under my fingers.” + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her head and looked into her lover's face. His eyes were + glowing. His cheeks were flushed. His whole countenance was aflame with + the soul of the artist who sees his vision taking shape before him. And + Billy, looking at him, felt suddenly—ashamed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bertram, I'm proud, proud, <i>proud</i> of you!” she breathed. “Come, + let's go over to the fire-and talk!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND + </h2> + <p> + Billy with John and Peggy met Marie Hawthorn at the station. “Peggy” was + short for “Pegasus,” and was what Billy always called her luxurious, + seven-seated touring car. + </p> + <p> + “I simply won't call it 'automobile,'” she had declared when she bought + it. “In the first place, it takes too long to say it, and in the second + place, I don't want to add one more to the nineteen different ways to + pronounce it that I hear all around me every day now. As for calling it my + 'car,' or my 'motor car'—I should expect to see a Pullman or one of + those huge black trucks before my door, if I ordered it by either of those + names. Neither will I insult the beautiful thing by calling it a + 'machine.' Its name is Pegasus. I shall call it 'Peggy.'” + </p> + <p> + And “Peggy” she called it. John sniffed his disdain, and Billy's friends + made no secret of their amused tolerance; but, in an astonishingly short + time, half the automobile owners of her acquaintance were calling their + own cars “Peggy”; and even the dignified John himself was heard to order + “some gasoline for Peggy,” quite as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + When Marie Hawthorn stepped from the train at the North Station she + greeted Billy with affectionate warmth, though at once her blue eyes swept + the space beyond expectantly and eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Billy's lips curved in a mischievous smile. + </p> + <p> + “No, he didn't come,” she said. “He didn't want to—a little bit.” + </p> + <p> + Marie grew actually pale. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't <i>want</i> to!” she stammered. + </p> + <p> + Billy gave her a spasmodic hug. + </p> + <p> + “Goosey! No, he didn't—a <i>little</i> bit; but he did a great <i>big</i> + bit. As if you didn't know he was dying to come, Marie! But he simply + couldn't—something about his concert Monday night. He told me over + the telephone; but between his joy that you were coming, and his rage that + he couldn't see you the first minute you did come, I couldn't quite make + out what was the trouble. But he's coming to dinner to-night, so he'll + doubtless tell you all about it.” + </p> + <p> + Marie sighed her relief. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right then. I was afraid he was sick—when I didn't + see him.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “No, he isn't sick, Marie; but you needn't go away again before the + wedding—not to leave him on my hands. I wouldn't have believed Cyril + Henshaw, confirmed old bachelor and avowed woman-hater, could have acted + the part of a love-sick boy as he has the last week or two.” + </p> + <p> + The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow + hair. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, dear, he—he didn't!” + </p> + <p> + “Marie, dear—he—he did!” + </p> + <p> + Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepened as + she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from the + little hand bag she carried. + </p> + <p> + Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats + buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose was + turned toward home. Then Billy asked: + </p> + <p> + “Have you settled on where you're going to live?” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite. We're going to talk of that to-night; but we <i>do</i> know + that we aren't going to live at the Strata.” + </p> + <p> + “Marie!” + </p> + <p> + Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in her + friend's voice. + </p> + <p> + “But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure,” she argued hastily. “There + will be you and Bertram—” + </p> + <p> + “We sha'n't be there for a year, nearly,” cut in Billy, with swift + promptness. “Besides, I think it would be lovely—all together.” + </p> + <p> + Marie smiled, but she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Lovely—but not practical, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed ruefully. + </p> + <p> + “I know; you're worrying about those puddings of yours. You're afraid + somebody is going to interfere with your making quite so many as you want + to; and Cyril is worrying for fear there'll be somebody else in the circle + of his shaded lamp besides his little Marie with the light on her hair, + and the mending basket by her side.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, what are you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + Billy threw a roguish glance into her friend's amazed blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just a little picture Cyril drew once for me of what home meant for + him: a room with a table and a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it + with the light on her hair and a great basket of sewing by her side.” + </p> + <p> + Marie's eyes softened. + </p> + <p> + “Did he say—that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Oh, he declared he shouldn't want her to sit under that lamp all the + time, of course; but he hoped she'd like that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + Marie threw a quick glance at the stolid back of John beyond the two empty + seats in front of them. Although she knew he could not hear her words, + instinctively she lowered her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know—then—about—me?” she asked, with heightened + color. + </p> + <p> + “No, only that there was a girl somewhere who, he hoped, would sit under + the lamp some day. And when I asked him if the girl did like that sort of + thing, he said yes, he thought so; for she had told him once that the + things she liked best of all to do were to mend stockings and make + puddings. Then I knew, of course, 'twas you, for I'd heard you say the + same thing. So I sent him right along out to you in the summer-house.” + </p> + <p> + The pink flush on Marie's face grew to a red one. Her blue eyes turned + again to John's broad back, then drifted to the long, imposing line of + windowed walls and doorways on the right. The automobile was passing + smoothly along Beacon Street now with the Public Garden just behind them + on the left. After a moment Marie turned to Billy again. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so glad he wants—just puddings and stockings,” she began a + little breathlessly. “You see, for so long I supposed he <i>wouldn't</i> + want anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing + beautifully; a wife he'd be proud of—like you.” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Nonsense!” laughed Billy. “Cyril never wanted me, and I never wanted + him—only once for a few minutes, so to speak, when I thought, I did. + In spite of our music, we aren't a mite congenial. I like people around; + he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. He likes rainy days, and I + abhor them. Mercy! Life with me for him would be one long jangling + discord, my love, while with you it'll be one long sweet song!” + </p> + <p> + Marie drew a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on a point far ahead up the + curveless street. + </p> + <p> + “I hope it will, indeed!” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + Not until they were almost home did Billy say suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is coming + to-morrow to stay a while at the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Er—yes, Cyril told me,” admitted Marie. + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't like it, I suppose; eh?” she queried shrewdly. + </p> + <p> + “N-no, I'm afraid he didn't—very well. He said she'd be—one + more to be around.” + </p> + <p> + “There, what did I tell you?” dimpled Billy. “You can see what you're + coming to when you do get that shaded lamp and the mending basket!” + </p> + <p> + A moment later, coming in sight of the house, Billy saw a tall, + smooth-shaven man standing on the porch. The man lifted his hat and waved + it gayly, baring a slightly bald head to the sun. + </p> + <p> + “It's Uncle William—bless his heart!” cried Billy. “They're all + coming to dinner, then he and Aunt Hannah and Bertram and I are going down + to the Hollis Street Theatre and let you and Cyril have a taste of what + that shaded lamp is going to be. I hope you won't be lonesome,” she + finished mischievously, as the car drew up before the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. AT THE SIGN OF THE PINK + </h2> + <p> + After a week of beautiful autumn weather, Thursday dawned raw and cold. By + noon an east wind had made the temperature still more uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + At two o'clock Aunt Hannah tapped at Billy's chamber door. She showed a + troubled face to the girl who answered her knock. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, <i>would</i> you mind very much if I asked you to go alone to the + Carletons' and to meet Mary Jane?” she inquired anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no—that is, of course I should <i>mind</i>, dear, because I + always like to have you go to places with me. But it isn't necessary. You + aren't sick; are you?” + </p> + <p> + “N-no, not exactly; but I have been sneezing all the morning, and taking + camphor and sugar to break it up—if it is a cold. But it is so raw + and Novemberish out, that—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course you sha'n't go, you poor dear! Mercy! don't get one of + those dreadful colds on to you before the wedding! Have you felt a draft? + Where's another shawl?” Billy turned and cast searching eyes about the + room—Billy always kept shawls everywhere for Aunt Hannah's shoulders + and feet. Bertram had been known to say, indeed, that a room, according to + Aunt Hannah, was not fully furnished unless it contained from one to four + shawls, assorted as to size and warmth. Shawls, certainly, did seem to be + a necessity with Aunt Hannah, as she usually wore from one to three at the + same time—which again caused Bertram to declare that he always + counted Aunt Hannah's shawls when he wished to know what the thermometer + was. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm not cold, and I haven't felt a draft,” said Aunt Hannah now. “I + put on my thickest gray shawl this morning with the little pink one for + down-stairs, and the blue one for breakfast; so you see I've been very + careful. But I <i>have</i> sneezed six times, so I think 'twould be safer + not to go out in this east wind. You were going to stop for Mrs. Granger, + anyway, weren't you? So you'll have her with you for the tea.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, don't worry. I'll take your cards and explain to Mrs. Carleton + and her daughters.” + </p> + <p> + “And, of course, as far as Mary Jane is concerned, I don't know her any + more than you do; so I couldn't be any help there,” sighed Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit,” smiled Billy, cheerily. “Don't give it another thought, my + dear. I sha'n't have a bit of trouble. All I'll have to do is to look for + a girl alone with a pink. Of course I'll have mine on, too, and she'll be + watching for me. So just run along and take your nap, dear, and be all + rested and ready to welcome her when she comes,” finished Billy, stooping + to give the soft, faintly pink cheek a warm kiss. + </p> + <p> + “Well, thank you, my dear; perhaps I will,” sighed Aunt Hannah, drawing + the gray shawl about her as she turned away contentedly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Carleton's tea that afternoon was, for Billy, not an occasion of + unalloyed joy. It was the first time she had appeared at a gathering of + any size since the announcement of her engagement; and, as she dolefully + told Bertram afterwards, she had very much the feeling of the picture hung + on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “And they <i>did</i> put up their lorgnettes and say, 'Is <i>that</i> the + one?'” she declared; “and I know some of them finished with 'Did you + ever?' too,” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + But Billy did not stay long in Mrs. Carleton's softly-lighted, + flower-perfumed rooms. At ten minutes past four she was saying good-by to + a group of friends who were vainly urging her to remain longer. + </p> + <p> + “I can't—I really can't,” she declared. “I'm due at the South + Station at half past four to meet a Miss Arkwright, a young cousin of Aunt + Hannah's, whom I've never seen before. We're to meet at the sign of the + pink,” she explained smilingly, just touching the single flower she wore. + </p> + <p> + Her hostess gave a sudden laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see, my dear; if I remember rightly, you've had experience before, + meeting at this sign of the pink. At least, I have a very vivid + recollection of Mr. William Henshaw's going once to meet a <i>boy</i> with + a pink, who turned out to be a girl. Now, to even things up, your girl + should turn out to be a boy!” + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled and reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—but I don't think to-day will strike the balance,” she + retorted, backing toward the door. “This young lady's name is 'Mary Jane'; + and I'll leave it to you to find anything very masculine in that!” + </p> + <p> + It was a short drive from Mrs. Carleton's Commonwealth Avenue home to the + South Station, and Peggy made as quick work of it as the narrow, congested + cross streets would allow. In ample time Billy found herself in the great + waiting-room, with John saying respectfully in her ear: + </p> + <p> + “The man says the train comes in on Track Fourteen, Miss, an' it's on + time.” + </p> + <p> + At twenty-nine minutes past four Billy left her seat and walked down the + train-shed platform to Track Number Fourteen. She had pinned the pink now + to the outside of her long coat, and it made an attractive dash of white + against the dark-blue velvet. Billy was looking particularly lovely + to-day. Framing her face was the big dark-blue velvet picture hat with its + becoming white plumes. + </p> + <p> + During the brief minutes' wait before the clanging locomotive puffed into + view far down the long track, Billy's thoughts involuntarily went back to + that other watcher beside a train gate not quite five years before. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Uncle William!” she murmured tenderly. Then suddenly she laughed—so + nearly aloud that a man behind her gave her a covert glance from curious + eyes. “My! but what a jolt I must have been to Uncle William!” Billy was + thinking. + </p> + <p> + The next minute she drew nearer the gate and regarded with absorbed + attention the long line of passengers already sweeping up the narrow aisle + between the cars. + </p> + <p> + Hurrying men came first, with long strides, and eyes that looked straight + ahead. These Billy let pass with a mere glance. The next group showed a + sprinkling of women—women whose trig hats and linen collars spelled + promptness as well as certainty of aim and accomplishment. To these, also, + Billy paid scant attention. Couples came next—the men anxious-eyed, + and usually walking two steps ahead of their companions; the women plainly + flustered and hurried, and invariably buttoning gloves or gathering up + trailing ends of scarfs or boas. + </p> + <p> + The crowd was thickening fast, now, and Billy's eyes were alert. Children + were appearing, and young women walking alone. One of these wore a bunch + of violets. Billy gave her a second glance. Then she saw a pink—but + it was on the coat lapel of a tall young fellow with a brown beard; so + with a slight frown she looked beyond down the line. + </p> + <p> + Old men came now, and old women; fleshy women, and women with small + children and babies. Couples came, too—dawdling couples, plainly + newly married: the men were not two steps ahead, and the women's gloves + were buttoned and their furs in place. + </p> + <p> + Gradually the line thinned, and soon there were left only an old man with + a cane, and a young woman with three children. Yet nowhere had Billy seen + a girl wearing a white carnation, and walking alone. + </p> + <p> + With a deeper frown on her face Billy turned and looked about her. She + thought that somewhere in the crowd she had missed Mary Jane, and that she + would find her now, standing near. But there was no one standing near + except the good-looking young fellow with the little pointed brown beard, + who, as Billy noticed a second time, was wearing a white carnation. + </p> + <p> + As she glanced toward him, their eyes met. Then, to Billy's unbounded + amazement, the man advanced with uplifted hat. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, but is not this—Miss Neilson?” + </p> + <p> + Billy drew back with just a touch of hauteur. + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so—yet I was expecting to see you with Aunt Hannah. I am + M. J. Arkwright, Miss Neilson.” + </p> + <p> + For a brief instant Billy stared dazedly. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean—Mary Jane?” she gasped. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I do.” His lips twitched. + </p> + <p> + “But I thought—we were expecting—” She stopped helplessly. For + one more brief instant she stared; then, suddenly, a swift change came to + her face. Her eyes danced. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—oh!” she chuckled. “How perfectly funny! You <i>have</i> evened + things up, after all. To think that Mary Jane should be a—” She + paused and flashed almost angrily suspicious eyes into his face. “But mine + <i>was</i> 'Billy,'” she cried. “Your name isn't really—Mary Jane'?” + </p> + <p> + “I am often called that.” His brown eyes twinkled, but they did not swerve + from their direct gaze into her own. + </p> + <p> + “But—” Billy hesitated, and turned her eyes away. She saw then that + many curious glances were already being flung in her direction. The color + in her cheeks deepened. With an odd little gesture she seemed to toss + something aside. “Never mind,” she laughed a little hysterically. “If + you'll pick up your bag, please, Mr. Mary Jane, and come with me. John and + Peggy are waiting. Or—I forgot—you have a trunk, of course?” + </p> + <p> + The man raised a protesting hand. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; but, Miss Neilson, really—I couldn't think of + trespassing on your hospitality—now, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But we—we invited you,” stammered Billy. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You invited <i>Miss</i> Mary Jane.” + </p> + <p> + Billy bubbled into low laughter. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, but it <i>is</i> funny,” she sighed. “You see <i>I</i> + came once just the same way, and now to have the tables turned like this! + What will Aunt Hannah say—what will everybody say? Come, I want them + to begin—to say it,” she chuckled irrepressibly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, but I shall go to a hotel, of course. Later, if you'll be so + good as to let me call, and explain—!” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm afraid Aunt Hannah will think—” Billy stopped abruptly. + Some distance away she saw John coming toward them. She turned hurriedly + to the man at her side. Her eyes still danced, but her voice was mockingly + serious. “Really, Mr. Mary Jane, I'm afraid you'll have to come to dinner; + then you can settle the rest with Aunt Hannah. John is almost upon us—and + <i>I</i> don't want to make explanations. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “John,” she said airily to the somewhat dazed chauffeur (who had been told + he was to meet a young woman), “take Mr. Arkwright's bag, please, and show + him where Peggy is waiting. It will be five minutes, perhaps, before I can + come—if you'll kindly excuse me,” she added to Arkwright, with a + flashing glance from merry eyes. “I have some—telephoning to do.” + </p> + <p> + All the way to the telephone booth Billy was trying to bring order out of + the chaos of her mind; but all the way, too, she was chuckling. + </p> + <p> + “To think that this thing should have happened to <i>me!</i>” she said, + almost aloud. “And here I am telephoning just like Uncle William—Bertram + said Uncle William <i>did</i> telephone about <i>me!</i>” + </p> + <p> + In due course Billy had Aunt Hannah at the other end of the wire. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened. Mary + Jane is—a man.” + </p> + <p> + Billy heard a dismayed gasp and a muttered “Oh, my grief and conscience!” + then a shaking “Wha-at?” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Mary Jane is a man.” Billy was enjoying herself hugely. + </p> + <p> + “A <i>ma-an!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; a great big man with a brown beard. He's waiting now with John and I + must go.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Billy, I don't understand,” chattered an agitated voice over the + line. “He—he called himself 'Mary Jane.' He hasn't any business to + be a big man with a brown beard! What shall we do? We don't want a big man + with a brown beard—here!” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed roguishly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. <i>You</i> asked him! How he will like that little blue + room—Aunt Hannah!” Billy's voice turned suddenly tragic. “For pity's + sake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the work-basket. I'd + <i>never</i> hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just that + kind!” + </p> + <p> + A half stifled groan came over the wire. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, he can't stay here.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. But I had + to bring him home to dinner; there was no other way, under the + circumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But good-by. I must go. <i>Remember + those curling tongs!</i>” And the receiver clicked sharply against the + hook. + </p> + <p> + In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwright were + speeding toward Corey Hill. It was during a slight pause in the + conversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure: + </p> + <p> + “I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought to be—warned.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind. What did she say?—if I may ask.” + </p> + <p> + There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered. + </p> + <p> + “She said you called yourself 'Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any + business to be a big man with a brown beard.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology,” he said. He hesitated, glanced + admiringly at the glowing, half-averted face near him, then went on + decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to his bridges. + “I signed both letters 'M. J. Arkwright,' but in the first one I quoted a + remark of a friend, and in that remark I was addressed as 'Mary Jane.' I + did not know but Aunt Hannah knew of the nickname.” (Arkwright was + speaking a little slowly now, as if weighing his words.) “But when she + answered, I saw that she did not; for, from something she said, I realized + that she thought I was a real Mary Jane. For the joke of the thing I let + it pass. But—if she noticed my letter carefully, she saw that I did + not accept your kind invitation to give 'Mary Jane' a home.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we noticed that,” nodded Billy, merrily. “But we didn't think you + meant it. You see we pictured you as a shy young thing. But, really,” she + went on with a low laugh, “you see your coming as a masculine 'Mary Jane' + was particularly funny—for me; for, though perhaps you didn't know + it, I came once to this very same city, wearing a pink, and was expected + to be Billy, a boy. And only to-day a lady warned me that your coming + might even things up. But I didn't believe it would—a Mary Jane!” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed. Again he hesitated, and seemed to be weighing his + words. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I heard about that coming of yours. I might almost say—that's + why I—let the mistake pass in Aunt Hannah's letter,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Billy turned with reproachful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how could—you? But then—it was a temptation!” She laughed + suddenly. “What sinful joy you must have had watching me hunt for 'Mary + Jane.'” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't,” acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. “I felt—ashamed. + And when I saw you were there alone without Aunt Hannah, I came very near + not speaking at all—until I realized that that would be even worse, + under the circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it would,” smiled Billy, brightly; “so I don't see but I shall + have to forgive you, after all. And here we are at home, Mr. Mary Jane. By + the way, what did you say that 'M. J.' did stand for?” she asked, as the + car came to a stop. + </p> + <p> + The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He was helping + his hostess to alight. A moment later a plainly agitated Aunt Hannah—her + gray shawl topped with a huge black one—opened the door of the + house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW + </h2> + <p> + At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billy + came into the living-room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, as + was frequently the case, were dining at Hillside. + </p> + <p> + Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier than she did this + afternoon with the bronze sheen of her pretty house gown bringing out the + bronze lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of her beautiful + hair. Her countenance, too, carried a peculiar something that the artist's + eye was quick to detect, and that the artist's fingers tingled to put on + canvas. + </p> + <p> + “Jove! Billy,” he said low in her ear, as he greeted her, “I wish I had a + brush in my hand this minute. I'd have a 'Face of a Girl' that would be + worth while!” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed and dimpled her appreciation; but down in her heart she was + conscious of a vague unrest. Billy wished, sometimes, that she did not so + often seem to Bertram—a picture. + </p> + <p> + She turned to Cyril with outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, Marie's coming,” she smiled in answer to the quick shifting of + Cyril's eyes to the hall doorway. “And Aunt Hannah, too. They're + up-stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mary Jane?” demanded William, a little anxiously + </p> + <p> + “Will's getting nervous,” volunteered Bertram, airily. “He wants to see + Mary Jane. You see we've told him that we shall expect him to see that she + doesn't bother us four too much, you know. He's expected always to remove + her quietly but effectually, whenever he sees that she is likely to + interrupt a tête-á-tête. Naturally, then, Will wants to see Mary Jane.” + </p> + <p> + Billy began to laugh hysterically. She dropped into a chair and raised + both her hands, palms outward. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, don't—please don't!” she choked, “or I shall die. I've had + all I can stand, already.” + </p> + <p> + “All you can stand?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Is she so—impossible?” This last was from Bertram, spoken softly, + and with a hurried glance toward the hall. + </p> + <p> + Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulled + her face into sobriety—all but her eyes—and announced: + </p> + <p> + “Mary Jane is—a man.” + </p> + <p> + “Wha-at?” + </p> + <p> + “A <i>man!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” + </p> + <p> + Three masculine forms sat suddenly erect. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Oh, Uncle William, I know now just how you felt—I know, I + know,” gurgled Billy, incoherently. “There he stood with his pink just as + I did—only he had a brown beard, and he didn't have Spunk—and + I had to telephone to prepare folks, just as you did. And the room—the + room! I fixed the room, too,” she babbled breathlessly, “only I had + curling tongs and hair pins in it instead of guns and spiders!” + </p> + <p> + “Child, child! what <i>are</i> you talking about?” William's face was red. + </p> + <p> + “A <i>man!</i>—<i>Mary Jane!</i>” Cyril was merely cross. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, what does this mean?” Bertram had grown a little white. + </p> + <p> + Billy began to laugh again, yet she was plainly trying to control herself. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you. I must tell you. Aunt Hannah is keeping him up-stairs so I + can tell you,” she panted. “But it was so funny, when I expected a girl, + you know, to see him with his brown beard, and he was so tall and big! + And, of course, it made me think how <i>I</i> came, and was a girl when + you expected a boy; and Mrs. Carleton had just said to-day that maybe this + girl would even things up. Oh, it was so funny!” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, my-my dear,” remonstrated Uncle William, mildly. + </p> + <p> + “But what <i>is</i> his name?” demanded Cyril. + </p> + <p> + “Did the creature sign himself 'Mary Jane'?” exploded Bertram. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know his name, except that it's 'M. J.'—and that's how he + signed the letters. But he <i>is</i> called 'Mary Jane' sometimes, and in + the letter he quoted somebody's speech—I've forgotten just how—but + in it he was called 'Mary Jane,' and, of course, Aunt Hannah took him for + a girl,” explained Billy, grown a little more coherent now. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't he write again?” asked William. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why didn't he correct the mistake, then?” demanded Bertram. + </p> + <p> + Billy chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “He didn't want to, I guess. He thought it was too good a joke.” + </p> + <p> + “Joke!” scoffed Cyril. + </p> + <p> + “But, see here, Billy, he isn't going to live here—now?” Bertram's + voice was almost savage. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, he isn't going to live here—now,” interposed smooth tones + from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Mr.—Arkwright!” breathed Billy, confusedly. + </p> + <p> + Three crimson-faced men sprang to their feet. The situation, for a moment, + threatened embarrassed misery for all concerned; but Arkwright, with a + cheery smile, advanced straight toward Bertram, and held out a friendly + hand. + </p> + <p> + “The proverbial fate of listeners,” he said easily; “but I don't blame you + at all. No, 'he' isn't going to live here,” he went on, grasping each + brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; “and what + is more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance his little + joke has caused. He might add that he's heartily-ashamed of himself, as + well; but if any of you—” Arkwright turned to the three tall men + still standing by their chairs—“if any of you had suffered what he + has at the hands of a swarm of youngsters for that name's sake, you + wouldn't blame him for being tempted to get what fun he could out of Mary + Jane—if there ever came a chance!” + </p> + <p> + Naturally, after this, there could be nothing stiff or embarrassing. Billy + laughed in relief, and motioned Mr. Arkwright to a seat near her. William + said “Of course, of course!” and shook hands again. Bertram and Cyril + laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: “But what does the 'M. + J.' stand for, anyhow?” Nobody answered this, however; perhaps because + Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met his match + for wit and satire; and “Mr. Mary Jane,” as he was promptly called by + every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to be a most entertaining guest. + </p> + <p> + After dinner somebody suggested music. + </p> + <p> + Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still frowning, he turned to a + bookcase near him and began to take down and examine some of the books. + </p> + <p> + Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Which is it, Cyril?” he called with cheerful impertinence; “stool, piano, + or audience that is the matter to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Only a shrug from Cyril answered. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes were + slightly puzzled, “Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals and + the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his + chair. “I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” nodded Bertram again. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement. + </p> + <p> + “I believe—Mr. Mary Jane—sings,” observed Billy, at this + point, demurely. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, of course,” chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness. + “That's what she—I mean he—was coming to Boston for—to + study music.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you sing, please?” asked Billy. “Can you—without your notes? + I have lots of songs if you want them.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment—but only a moment—Arkwright hesitated; then he + rose and went to the piano. + </p> + <p> + With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped to the + keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test the touch of + the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made every listener turn + in amazed delight, a well-trained tenor began the “Thro' the leaves the + night winds moving,” of Schubert's Serenade. + </p> + <p> + Cyril's chin had lifted at the first tone. He was listening now with very + obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was showing by his attitude the keenest + appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in their chairs, were + contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie in her corner was + motionless with rapture. As to Billy—Billy was plainly oblivious of + everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcely to move or to + breathe till the song's completion; then there came a low “Oh, how + beautiful!” through her parted lips. + </p> + <p> + Bertram, looking at her, was conscious of a vague irritation. + </p> + <p> + “Arkwright, you're a lucky dog,” he declared almost crossly. “I wish I + could sing like that!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could paint a 'Face of a Girl,'” smiled the tenor as he turned + from the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop,” objected Billy, springing to her + feet and going to her music cabinet by the piano. “There's a little song + of Nevin's I want you to sing. There, here it is. Just let me play it for + you.” And she slipped into the place the singer had just left. + </p> + <p> + It was the beginning of the end. After Nevin came De Koven, and after De + Koven, Gounod. Then came Nevin again, Billy still playing the + accompaniment. Next followed a duet. Billy did not consider herself much + of a singer, but her voice was sweet and true, and not without training. + It blended very prettily with the clear, pure tenor. + </p> + <p> + William and Aunt Hannah still smiled contentedly in their chairs, though + Aunt Hannah had reached for the pink shawl near her—the music had + sent little shivers down her spine. Cyril, with Marie, had slipped into + the little reception-room across the hall, ostensibly to look at some + plans for a house, although—as everybody knew—they were not + intending to build for a year. + </p> + <p> + Bertram, still sitting stiffly erect in his chair, was not conscious of a + vague irritation now. He was conscious of a very real, and a very decided + one—an irritation that was directed against himself, against Billy, + and against this man, Arkwright; but chiefly against music, <i>per se</i>. + He hated music. He wished he could sing. He wondered how long it took to + teach a man to sing, anyhow; and he wondered if a man could sing—who + never had sung. + </p> + <p> + At this point the duet came to an end, and Billy and her guest left the + piano. Almost at once, after this, Arkwright made his very graceful + adieus, and went off with his suit-case to the hotel where, as he had + informed Aunt Hannah, his room was already engaged. + </p> + <p> + William went home then, and Aunt Hannah went up-stairs. Cyril and Marie + withdrew into a still more secluded corner to look at their plans, and + Bertram found himself at last alone with Billy. He forgot, then, in the + blissful hour he spent with her before the open fire, how he hated music; + though he did say, just before he went home that night: + </p> + <p> + “Billy, how long does it take—to learn to sing?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I don't know, I'm sure,” replied Billy, abstractedly; then, with + sudden fervor: “Oh, Bertram, hasn't Mr. Mary Jane a beautiful voice?” + </p> + <p> + Bertram wished then he had not asked the question; but all he said was: + </p> + <p> + “'Mr. Mary Jane,' indeed! What an absurd name!” + </p> + <p> + “But doesn't he sing beautifully?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Oh, yes, he sings all right,” said Bertram's tongue. Bertram's manner + said: “Oh, yes, anybody can sing.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME + </h2> + <p> + On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy sat sewing + with Aunt Hannah in the little sitting-room at the end of the hall + upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning,—which meant + that she was feeling unusually well. + </p> + <p> + “Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,” remarked Billy, as she + critically examined a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched across + the darning-egg in her hand; “only she'd want a bigger hole. She does so + love to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning white + china sea—and you'd think the safety of an army depended on the way + each plank was laid, too,” she concluded. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in his + socks,” resumed Billy, after a moment's silence. “If you'll believe it, + that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playing that + concerto so superbly. It did, actually—right in the middle of the + adagio movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music I had + all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then and asking + her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the gasp broke at once into + what—in Aunt Hannah—passed for a chuckle. “If I remember + rightly, when I was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William + told me that Cyril wouldn't wear any sock after it came to mending.” + </p> + <p> + “Horrors!” Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. “That will never do + in the world. It would break Marie's heart. You know how she dotes on + darning.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “By the way, where is she this + morning?” + </p> + <p> + Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically. + </p> + <p> + “Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I believe. Really, Aunt + Hannah, between her home-hunting in the morning, and her furniture-and-rug + hunting in the afternoon, and her poring over house-plans in the evening, + I can't get her to attend to her clothes at all. Never did I see a bride + so utterly indifferent to her trousseau as Marie Hawthorn—and her + wedding less than a month away!” + </p> + <p> + “But she's been shopping with you once or twice, since she came back, + hasn't she? And she said it was for her trousseau.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Her trousseau! Oh, yes, it was. I'll tell you what she got for her + trousseau that first day. We started out to buy two hats, some lace for + her wedding gown, some crêpe de Chine and net for a little dinner frock, + and some silk for a couple of waists to go with her tailored suit; and + what did we get? We purchased a new-style egg-beater and a set of cake + tins. Marie got into the kitchen department and I simply couldn't get her + out of it. But the next day I was not to be inveigled below stairs by any + plaintive prayer for a nutmeg-grater or a soda spoon. She <i>shopped</i> + that day, and to some purpose. We accomplished lots.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned. + </p> + <p> + “But she must have <i>some</i> things started!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she has—'most everything now. <i>I've</i> seen to that. Of + course her outfit is very simple, anyway. Marie hasn't much money, you + know, and she simply won't let me do half what I want to. Still, she had + saved up some money, and I've finally convinced her that a trousseau + doesn't consist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that Cyril would want + her to look pretty. That name will fetch her every time, and I've learned + to use it beautifully. I think if I told her Cyril approved of short hair + and near-sightedness she'd I cut off her golden locks and don spectacles + on the spot.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the only one + in the house who is ruled by a magic name!” + </p> + <p> + The color deepened in Billy's cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, any girl—cares something—for the man she + loves. Just as if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for + Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking + with last evening—just after he left us, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Winthrop—Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is—is + painting her portrait, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt Hannah. “Hm-m; well, she has a + beautiful face.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she has.” Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a little tune + as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket. + </p> + <p> + “There's a peculiar something in her face,” mused Aunt Hannah, aloud. + </p> + <p> + The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in your face. + Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it,' he says. I + wonder now—if he does catch it, does she lose it?” Flippant as were + the words, the voice that uttered them shook a little. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently—Aunt Hannah had heard only the + flippancy, not the shake. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to the + floor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon,” she said lightly, as she stooped + to pick up the egg. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I'm sure he told me—” Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a + questioning pause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, brightly; “but he's told me something since. + He isn't going. He telephoned me this morning. Miss Winthrop wanted the + sitting changed from to-morrow to this afternoon. He said he knew I'd + understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; but—” Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir + of an electric bell had sounded through the house. A few moments later + Rosa appeared in the open doorway. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music,” she + announced. + </p> + <p> + “Tell him I'll be down at once,” directed the mistress of Hillside. + </p> + <p> + As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly to + her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about some duets + he had, and he said he'd bring them over. I didn't know he'd come so soon, + though.” + </p> + <p> + Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low, familiar + strain of music drifted out from the living-room. Billy caught her breath, + and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiar strain of music + had become a lullaby—one of Billy's own—and sung now by a + melting tenor voice that lingered caressingly and understandingly on every + tender cadence. + </p> + <p> + Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the last low + “lul-la-by” vibrated into silence; then with shining eyes and outstretched + hands she entered the living-room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that was—beautiful,” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight. + </p> + <p> + “I could not resist singing it just once—here,” he said a little + unsteadily, as their hands met. + </p> + <p> + “But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it was + mine,” choked Billy, still plainly very much moved. “You sang it as I've + never heard it sung before.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright shook his head slowly. + </p> + <p> + “The inspiration of the room—that is all,”, he said. “It is a + beautiful song. All of your songs are beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Billy blushed rosily. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. You know—more of them, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I know them all—unless you have some new ones out. Have you + some new ones, lately?” + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No; I haven't written anything since last spring.” + </p> + <p> + “But you're going to?” + </p> + <p> + She drew a long sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, oh, yes. I know that <i>now</i>—” With a swift biting of her + lower lip Billy caught herself up in time. As if she could tell this man, + this stranger, what she had told Bertram that night by the fire—that + she knew that now, <i>now</i> she would write beautiful songs, with his + love, and his pride in her, as incentives. “Oh, yes, I think I shall write + more one of these days,” she finished lightly. “But come, this isn't + singing duets! I want to see the music you brought.” + </p> + <p> + They sang then, one after another of the duets. To Billy, the music was + new and interesting. To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hear + her own voice blending with another's so perfectly—to feel herself a + part of such exquisite harmony. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh!” she breathed ecstatically, after the last note of a particularly + beautiful phrase. “I never knew before how lovely it was to sing duets.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” replied Arkwright in a voice that was not quite steady. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright's eyes were on the enraptured face of the girl so near him. It + was well, perhaps, that Billy did not happen to turn and catch their + expression. Still, it might have been better if she had turned, after all. + But Billy's eyes were on the music before her. Her fingers were busy with + the fluttering pages, searching for another duet. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you?” she murmured abstractedly. “I supposed <i>you'd</i> sung + them before; but you see I never did—until the other night. There, + let's try this one!” + </p> + <p> + “This one” was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a long + breath. + </p> + <p> + “There! that must positively be the last,” she declared reluctantly. “I'm + so hoarse now I can scarcely croak. You see, I don't pretend to sing, + really.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow,” retorted the + man, warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” smiled Billy; “that was nice of you to say so—for my + sake—and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. I + haven't had a chance to ask you yet; and—I think you said Mary Jane + was going to study for Grand Opera.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in + vaudeville.” + </p> + <p> + “Calderwell! Do you mean—Hugh Calderwell?” Billy's cheeks showed a + deeper color. + </p> + <p> + The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let that + name slip out just yet. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. “We tramped half over + Europe together last summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire. “But + this isn't telling me about your own plans,” she hurried on a little + precipitately. “You've studied before, of course. Your voice shows that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or two + of church work, besides a little concert practice of a mild sort.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you begun here, yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes, I've had my voice tried.” + </p> + <p> + Billy sat erect with eager interest. + </p> + <p> + “They liked it, of course?” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not saying that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I am,” declared Billy, with conviction. “They couldn't help + liking it.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had “liked it” he did not + intend to say. Their remarks had been quite too flattering to repeat even + to this very plainly interested young woman—delightful and + heart-warming as was this same show of interest, to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” was all he said. + </p> + <p> + Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair. + </p> + <p> + “And you'll begin to learn rôles right away?” + </p> + <p> + “I already have, some—after a fashion—before I came here.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on the + Boston Opera House stage, and we'll all go to hear you. How perfectly + lovely! I can hardly wait.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed—but his eyes glowed with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you hurrying things a little?” he ventured. + </p> + <p> + “But they do let the students appear,” argued Billy. “I knew a girl last + year who went on in 'Aida,' and she was a pupil at the School. She sang + first in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill for a Saturday + night. She did splendidly—so well that they gave her a chance later + at a subscription performance. Oh, you'll be there—and soon, too!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had your + flattering enthusiasm on the matter,” he smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I don't worry any,” nodded Billy, “only please don't 'arrive' too soon—not + before the wedding, you know,” she added jokingly. “We shall be too busy + to give you proper attention until after that.” + </p> + <p> + A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face. + </p> + <p> + “The—<i>wedding?</i>” he asked, a little faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril + Henshaw next month.” + </p> + <p> + The man opposite relaxed visibly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>Miss Hawthorn!</i> No, I didn't know,” he murmured; then, with + sudden astonishment he added: “And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you + say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You seem surprised.” + </p> + <p> + “I am.” Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. “You see, + Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageable all + the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised—naturally,” finished + Arkwright, as he rose to take his leave. + </p> + <p> + A swift crimson stained Billy's face. + </p> + <p> + “But surely you must know that—that—” + </p> + <p> + “That he has a right to change his mind, of course,” supplemented + Arkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue in the evident confusion that + would not let her finish her sentence. “But Calderwell made it so + emphatic, you see, about all the brothers. He said that William had lost + his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and that Bertram—” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is—is—” Billy had moistened her + lips, and plunged hurriedly in to prevent Arkwright's next words. But + again was she unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to + listen to a very different completion from the smiling lips of the man at + her side. + </p> + <p> + “Is an artist, of course,” said Arkwright. “That's what Calderwell + declared—that it would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve of + a cheek that the artist loved—to paint.” + </p> + <p> + Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if <i>now</i> she could tell + this man that Bertram Henshaw was engaged to her! He would find it out + soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell, would + think it was the curve of <i>her</i> cheek, or the tilt of <i>her</i> chin— + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand in + good-by. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID + </h2> + <p> + Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy and Aunt + Hannah to spend the day with them. This time, however, there was to be an + additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn. + </p> + <p> + And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! First the + Strata itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril's domain + on the top floor, the house was as spick-and-span as Pete's eager old + hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's den and studio, + great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightened the sombre + richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire in the den a + sleek gray cat—adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade of the + roses (Bertram had seen to that!)—winked and blinked sleepy yellow + eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest “Face of a Girl” had made way for a + group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy Neilson in + one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos of treasures filled + shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a small black velvet + square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea enamel mirror knobs. In + Cyril's rooms—usually so austerely bare—a handsome Oriental + rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at purchases made at the + instigation of a taste other than his own. + </p> + <p> + When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that was + suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete's face the + dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were fighting for + mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's friendly greeting; + but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped over the threshold with a + cheery “Good morning, Pete.” + </p> + <p> + “Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,” stammered the man,—delight + now in sole possession. + </p> + <p> + “She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,” smiled the eldest + Henshaw, hurrying forward. + </p> + <p> + “I wish she had now,” whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick + stride, had reached Billy's side first. + </p> + <p> + From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet. + </p> + <p> + “The rug has come, and the curtains, too,” called a “householder” sort of + voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. “You + must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner.” The voice, apparently, + spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw + only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind + Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a little + fearsome, but very dear. + </p> + <p> + “You know—I've never been—where you live—before,” + explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her + to take the furs from her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the + fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head with + majestic condescension. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Spunkie, come here,” commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the + slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. “Spunkie, when I am your mistress, + you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I were going + to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an + understudy to my frisky little Spunk!” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he + said: + </p> + <p> + “Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.” The cat had jumped into Billy's lap + with a matter-of-course air that was unmistakable—and to Bertram, + adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than + were his brother's. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think any one is—<i>worrying</i>,” he said with quiet + emphasis. + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I should think they might be,” she answered. “Only think how dreadfully + upsetting I was in the first place!” + </p> + <p> + William's beaming face grew a little stern. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knew it but Kate—and she didn't <i>know</i> it; she only + imagined it,” he said tersely. + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not so sure,” she demurred. “As I look back at it now, I think I can + discern a few evidences myself—that I was upsetting. I was a bother + to Bertram in his painting, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “You were an inspiration,” corrected Bertram. “Think of the posing you did + for me.” + </p> + <p> + A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before her lover + could question its meaning, it was gone. + </p> + <p> + “And I know I was a torment to Cyril.” Billy had turned to the musician + now. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I admit you were a little—upsetting, at times,” retorted that + individual, with something of his old imperturbable rudeness. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” cut in William, sharply. “You were never anything but a + comfort in the house, Billy, my dear—and you never will be.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” murmured Billy, demurely. “I'll remember that—when Pete + and I disagree about the table decorations, and Dong Ling doesn't like the + way I want my soup seasoned.” + </p> + <p> + An anxious frown showed on Bertram's face. + </p> + <p> + “Billy,” he said in a low voice, as the others laughed at her sally, “you + needn't have Pete nor Dong Ling here if you don't want them.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't want them!” echoed Billy, indignantly. “Of course I want them!” + </p> + <p> + “But—Pete <i>is</i> old, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and where's he grown old? For whom has he worked the last fifty + years, while he's been growing old? I wonder if you think I'd let Pete + leave this house as long as he <i>wants</i> to stay! As for Dong Ling—” + </p> + <p> + A sudden movement of Bertram's hand arrested her words. She looked up to + find Pete in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner is served, sir,” announced the old butler, his eyes on his + master's face. + </p> + <p> + William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner,” he declared. + </p> + <p> + It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely have been + otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-room doing + their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead of + tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of with + delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would have known + the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where to put + their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billy at the + other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to Bertram, + the Strata would have the “dearest little mistress that ever was born.” As + if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of the turkey or the + toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannah and William, in + the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it was well, of + course, that the dinner was a good one. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said Cyril, when dinner was over, “suppose you come up and see + the rug.” + </p> + <p> + In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights of + stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah—Cyril's + rooms were always cool. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I knew we should need it,” she nodded to Bertram, as she picked + up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when she came in. + “That's why I brought it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how <i>can</i> you stand it?—to + climb stairs like this,” panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of the + last flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair—from + which Marie had rescued a curtain just in time. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm not sure I could—if I were always to eat a Thanksgiving + dinner just before,” laughed Cyril. “Maybe I ought to have waited and let + you rest an hour or two.” + </p> + <p> + “But 'twould have been too dark, then, to see the rug,” objected Marie. + “It's a genuine Persian—a Kirman, you know; and I'm so proud of it,” + she added, turning to the others. “I wanted you to see the colors by + daylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime.” + </p> + <p> + “Fancy Cyril <i>liking</i> any sort of a rug at any time,” chuckled + Bertram, his eyes on the rich, softly blended colors of the rug before + him. “Honestly, Miss Marie,” he added, turning to the little bride elect, + “how did you ever manage to get him to buy <i>any</i> rug? He won't have + so much as a ravelling on the floor up here to walk on.” + </p> + <p> + A startled dismay came into Marie's blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I thought he wanted rugs,” she faltered. “I'm sure he said—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I want rugs,” interrupted Cyril, irritably. “I want them + everywhere except in my own especial den. You don't suppose I want to hear + other people clattering over bare floors all day, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turned to + the little music teacher. “I hope, Miss Marie, that you wear rubber heels + on your shoes,” he observed solicitously. + </p> + <p> + Even Cyril laughed at this, though all he said was: + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, I got you up here to look at the rug.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram, however, was not to be silenced. + </p> + <p> + “And another thing, Miss Marie,” he resumed, with the air of a true and + tried adviser. “Just let me give you a pointer. I've lived with your + future husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about.” + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, be still,” growled Cyril. + </p> + <p> + Bertram refused to be still. + </p> + <p> + “Whenever you want to know anything about Cyril, listen to his playing. + For instance: if, after dinner, you hear a dreamy waltz or a sleepy + nocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there falls + anything like a dirge, or the wail of a lost spirit gone mad, better look + to your soup and see if it hasn't been scorched, or taste of your pudding + and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar.” + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, will you be still?” cut in Cyril, testily, again. + </p> + <p> + “After all, judging from what Billy tells me,” resumed Bertram, + cheerfully, “what I've said won't be so important to you, for you aren't + the kind that scorches soups or uses salt for sugar. So maybe I'd better + put it to you this way: if you want a new sealskin coat or an extra + diamond tiara, tackle him when he plays like this!” And with a swift turn + Bertram dropped himself to the piano stool and dashed into a rollicking + melody that half the newsboys of Boston were whistling. + </p> + <p> + What happened next was a surprise to every one. Bertram, very much as if + he were a naughty little boy, was jerked by a wrathful brother's hand off + the piano stool. The next moment the wrathful brother himself sat at the + piano, and there burst on five pairs of astonished ears a crashing + dissonance which was but the prelude to music such as few of the party + often heard. + </p> + <p> + Spellbound they listened while rippling runs and sonorous harmonies filled + the room to overflowing, as if under the fingers of the player there were—not + the keyboard of a piano—but the violins, flutes, cornets, trombones, + bass viols and kettledrums of a full orchestra. + </p> + <p> + Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood. She knew that in those + tripping melodies and crashing chords were Cyril's joy at the presence of + Marie, his wrath at the flippancy of Bertram, his ecstasy at that for + which the rug and curtains stood—the little woman sewing in the + radiant circle of a shaded lamp. Billy knew that all this and more were + finding voice at Cyril's finger tips. The others, too, understood in a + way; but they, unlike Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few + score bits of wood and ivory a vent for their moods and fancies. + </p> + <p> + The music was softer now. The resounding chords and purling runs had + become a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a maze of + exquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid, like a + mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadows of + its forest home. + </p> + <p> + In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertram who + broke the pause with a long-drawn: + </p> + <p> + “By George!” Then, a little unsteadily: “If it's I that set you going like + that, old chap, I'll come up and play ragtime every day!” + </p> + <p> + Cyril shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “If you've seen all you want of the rug we'll go down-stairs,” he said + nonchalantly. + </p> + <p> + “But we haven't!” chorussed several indignant voices. And for the next few + minutes not even the owner of the beautiful Kirman could find any fault + with the quantity or the quality of the attention bestowed on his new + possession. But Billy, under cover of the chatter, said reproachfully in + his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Cyril, to think you can play like that—and won't—on + demand!” + </p> + <p> + “I can't—on demand,” shrugged Cyril again. + </p> + <p> + On the way down-stairs they stopped at William's rooms. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to see a couple of Batterseas I got last week,” cried the + collector eagerly, as he led the way to the black velvet square. “They're + fine—and I think she looks like you,” he finished, turning to Billy, + and holding out one of the knobs, on which was a beautifully executed + miniature of a young girl with dark, dreamy eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how pretty!” exclaimed Marie, over Billy's shoulder. “But what are + they?” + </p> + <p> + The collector turned, his face alight. + </p> + <p> + “Mirror knobs. I've got lots of them. Would you like to see them—really? + They're right here.” + </p> + <p> + The next minute Marie found herself looking into a cabinet where lay a + score or more of round and oval discs of glass, porcelain, and metal, + framed in silver, gilt, and brass, and mounted on long spikes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how pretty,” cried Marie again; “but how—how queer! Tell me + about them, please.” + </p> + <p> + William drew a long breath. His eyes glistened. William loved to talk—when + he had a curio and a listener. + </p> + <p> + “I will. Our great-grandmothers used them, you know, to support their + mirrors, or to fasten back their curtains,” he explained ardently. “Now + here's another Battersea enamel, but it isn't so good as my new ones—that + face is almost a caricature.” + </p> + <p> + “But what a beautiful ship—on that round one!” exclaimed Marie. “And + what's this one?—glass?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but that's not so rare as the others. Still, it's pretty enough. Did + you notice this one, with the bright red and blue and green on the white + background?—regular Chinese mode of decoration, that is.” + </p> + <p> + “Er—any time, William,” began Bertram, mischievously; but William + did not seem to hear. + </p> + <p> + “Now in this corner,” he went on, warming to his subject, “are the + enamelled porcelains. They were probably made at the Worcester works—England, + you know; and I think many of them are quite as pretty as the Batterseas. + You see it was at Worcester that they invented that variation of the + transfer printing process that they called bat printing, where they used + oil instead of ink, and gelatine instead of paper. Now engravings for that + kind of printing were usually in stipple work—dots, you know—so + the prints on these knobs can easily be distinguished from those of the + transfer printing. See? Now, this one is—” + </p> + <p> + “Er, of course, William, any time—” interposed Bertram again, his + eyes twinkling. + </p> + <p> + William stopped with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. 'Tis time I talked of something else, Bertram,” he conceded. + </p> + <p> + “But 'twas lovely, and I <i>was</i> interested, really,” claimed Marie. + “Besides, there are such a lot of things here that I'd like to see,” she + finished, turning slowly about. + </p> + <p> + “These are what he was collecting last year,” murmured Billy, hovering + over a small cabinet where were some beautiful specimens of antique + jewelry brooches, necklaces, armlets, Rajah rings, and anklets, gorgeous + in color and exquisite in workmanship. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here is something you <i>will</i> enjoy,” declared Bertram, with an + airy flourish. “Do you see those teapots? Well, we can have tea every day + in the year, and not use one of them but five times. I've counted. There + are exactly seventy-three,” he concluded, as he laughingly led the way + from the room. + </p> + <p> + “How about leap year?” quizzed Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! Trust Will to find another 'Old Blue' or a 'perfect treasure of a + black basalt' by that time,” shrugged Bertram. + </p> + <p> + Below William's rooms was the floor once Bertram's, but afterwards given + over to the use of Billy and Aunt Hannah. The rooms were open to-day, and + were bright with sunshine and roses; but they were very plainly + unoccupied. + </p> + <p> + “And you don't use them yet?” remonstrated Billy, as she paused at an open + door. + </p> + <p> + “No. These are Mrs. Bertram Henshaw's rooms,” said the youngest Henshaw + brother in a voice that made Billy hurry away with a dimpling blush. + </p> + <p> + “They were Billy's—and they can never seem any one's but Billy's, + now,” declared William to Marie, as they went down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “And now for the den and some good stories before the fire,” proposed + Bertram, as the six reached the first floor again. + </p> + <p> + “But we haven't seen your pictures, yet,” objected Billy. + </p> + <p> + Bertram made a deprecatory gesture. + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing much—” he began; but he stopped at once, with an + odd laugh. “Well, I sha'n't say <i>that</i>,” he finished, flinging open + the door of his studio, and pressing a button that flooded the room with + light. The next moment, as they stood before those plaques and panels and + canvases—on each of which was a pictured “Billy”—they + understood the change in his sentence, and they laughed appreciatively. + </p> + <p> + “'Much,' indeed!” exclaimed William. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how lovely!” breathed Marie. + </p> + <p> + “My grief and conscience, Bertram! All these—and of Billy? I knew + you had a good many, but—” Aunt Hannah paused impotently, her eyes + going from Bertram's face to the pictures again. + </p> + <p> + “But how—when did you do them?” queried Marie. + </p> + <p> + “Some of them from memory. More of them from life. A lot of them were just + sketches that I did when she was here in the house four or five years + ago,” answered Bertram; “like this, for instance.” And he pulled into a + better light a picture of a laughing, dark-eyed girl holding against her + cheek a small gray kitten, with alert, bright eyes. “The original and only + Spunk,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + “What a dear little cat!” cried Marie. + </p> + <p> + “You should have seen it—in the flesh,” remarked Cyril, dryly. “No + paint nor painter could imprison that untamed bit of Satanic mischief on + any canvas that ever grew!” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed—everybody but Billy. Billy, indeed, of them all, + had been strangely silent ever since they entered the studio. She stood + now a little apart. Her eyes were wide, and a bit frightened. Her fingers + were twisting the corners of her handkerchief nervously. She was looking + to the right and to the left, and everywhere she saw—herself. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes it was her full face, sometimes her profile; sometimes there + were only her eyes peeping from above a fan, or peering from out brown + shadows of nothingness. Once it was merely the back of her head showing + the mass of waving hair with its high lights of burnished bronze. Again it + was still the back of her head with below it the bare, slender neck and + the scarf-draped shoulders. In this picture the curve of a half-turned + cheek showed plainly, and in the background was visible a hand holding + four playing cards, at which the pictured girl was evidently looking. + Sometimes it was a merry Billy with dancing eyes; sometimes a demure Billy + with long lashes caressing a flushed cheek. Sometimes it was a wistful + Billy with eyes that looked straight into yours with peculiar appeal. But + always it was—Billy. + </p> + <p> + “There, I think the tilt of this chin is perfect.” It was Bertram + speaking. + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a sudden cry. Her face whitened. She stumbled forward. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Bertram, you—you didn't mean the—the tilt of the + chin,” she faltered wildly. + </p> + <p> + The man turned in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Why—Billy!” he stammered. “Billy, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + The girl fell back at once. She tried to laugh lightly. She had seen the + dismayed questioning in her lover's eyes, and in the eyes of William and + the others. + </p> + <p> + “N-nothing,” she gesticulated hurriedly. “It was nothing at all, truly.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Billy, it <i>was</i> something.” Bertram's eyes were still troubled. + “Was it the picture? I thought you liked this picture.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed again—this time more naturally. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, I'm ashamed of you—expecting me to say I 'like' any of + this,” she scolded, with a wave of her hands toward the omnipresent Billy. + “Why, I feel as if I were in a room with a thousand mirrors, and that I'd + been discovered putting rouge on my cheeks and lampblack on my eyebrows!” + </p> + <p> + William laughed fondly. Aunt Hannah and Marie gave an indulgent smile. + Cyril actually chuckled. Bertram only still wore a puzzled expression as + he laid aside the canvas in his hands. + </p> + <p> + Billy examined intently a sketch she had found with its back to the wall. + It was not a pretty sketch; it was not even a finished one, and Billy did + not in the least care what it was. But her lips cried interestedly: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bertram, what is this?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Bertram was still engaged, apparently, in putting + away some sketches. Over by the doorway leading to the den Marie and Aunt + Hannah, followed by William and Cyril, were just disappearing behind a + huge easel. In another minute the merry chatter of their voices came from + the room beyond. Bertram hurried then straight across the studio to the + girl still bending over the sketch in the corner. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram!” gasped Billy, as a kiss brushed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! They're gone. Besides, what if they did see? Billy, what was the + matter with the tilt of that chin?” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave an hysterical little laugh—at least, Bertram tried to + assure himself that it was a laugh, though it had sounded almost like a + sob. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, if you say another word about—about the tilt of that chin, + I shall <i>scream!</i>” she panted. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Billy!” + </p> + <p> + With a nervous little movement Billy turned and began to reverse the + canvases nearest her. + </p> + <p> + “Come, sir,” she commanded gayly. “Billy has been on exhibition quite long + enough. It is high time she was turned face to the wall to meditate, and + grow more modest.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make a move to assist her. His + ardent gray eyes were following her slim, graceful figure admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, it doesn't seem true, yet, that you're really mine,” he said at + last, in a low voice shaken with emotion. + </p> + <p> + Billy turned abruptly. A peculiar radiance shone in her eyes and glorified + her face. As she stood, she was close to a picture on an easel and full in + the soft glow of the shaded lights above it. + </p> + <p> + “Then you <i>do</i> want me,” she began, “—just <i>me!</i>—not + to—” she stopped short. The man opposite had taken an eager step + toward her. On his face was the look she knew so well, the look she had + come almost to dread—the “painting look.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, stand just as you are,” he was saying. “Don't move. Jove! But that + effect is perfect with those dark shadows beyond, and just your hair and + face and throat showing. I declare, I've half a mind to sketch—” But + Billy, with a little cry, was gone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. A JOB FOR PETE—AND FOR BERTRAM + </h2> + <p> + The early days in December were busy ones, certainly, in the little house + on Corey Hill. Marie was to be married the twelfth. It was to be a home + wedding, and a very simple one—according to Billy, and according to + what Marie had said it was to be. Billy still serenely spoke of it as a + “simple affair,” but Marie was beginning to be fearful. As the days + passed, bringing with them more and more frequent evidences either + tangible or intangible of orders to stationers, caterers, and florists, + her fears found voice in a protest. + </p> + <p> + “But Billy, it was to be a <i>simple</i> wedding,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “And so it is.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is this I hear about a breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + Billy's chin assumed its most stubborn squareness. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, I'm sure, what you did hear,” she retorted calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. The chin was just as stubborn, but the smiling lips above + it graced it with an air of charming concession. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, dear,” coaxed the mistress of Hillside, “don't fret. + Besides, I'm sure I should think you, of all people, would want your + guests <i>fed!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “But this is so elaborate, from what I hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! Not a bit of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosa says there'll be salads and cakes and ices—and I don't know + what all.” + </p> + <p> + Billy looked concerned. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, Marie, if you'd <i>rather</i> have oatmeal and + doughnuts,” she began with kind solicitude; but she got no farther. + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” besought the bride elect. “Won't you be serious? And there's the + cake in wedding boxes, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner than—just + fingers,” apologized an anxiously serious voice. + </p> + <p> + Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on. + </p> + <p> + “And the flowers—roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't + let you do all this for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, dear!” laughed Billy. “Why, I love to do it. Besides, when + you're gone, just think how lonesome I'll be! I shall have to adopt + somebody else then—now that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but a + disappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you,” she finished + whimsically. + </p> + <p> + Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows. + </p> + <p> + “And for my trousseau—there were so many things that you simply + would buy!” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't get one of the egg-beaters,” Billy reminded her anxiously. + </p> + <p> + Marie smiled now, but she shook her head, too. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, I cannot have you do all this for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + At the unexpectedly direct question, Marie fell back a little. + </p> + <p> + “Why, because I—I can't,” she stammered. “I can't get them for + myself, and—and—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you love me?” + </p> + <p> + A pink flush stole to Marie's face. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do, dearly.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't I love you?” + </p> + <p> + The flush deepened. + </p> + <p> + “I—I hope so.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why won't you let me do what I want to, and be happy in it? Money, + just money, isn't any good unless you can exchange it for something you + want. And just now I want pink roses and ice cream and lace flounces for + you. Marie,”—Billy's voice trembled a little—“I never had a + sister till I had you, and I have had such a good time buying things that + I thought you wanted! But, of course, if you don't want them—” The + words ended in a choking sob, and down went Billy's head into her folded + arms on the desk before her. + </p> + <p> + Marie sprang to her feet and cuddled the bowed head in a loving embrace. + </p> + <p> + “But I do want them, dear; I want them all—every single one,” she + urged. “Now promise me—promise me that you'll do them all, just as + you'd planned! You will, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + There was the briefest of hesitations, then came the muffled reply: + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if you really want them.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, dear—indeed I do. I love pretty weddings, and I—I + always hoped that I could have one—if I ever married. So you must + know, dear, how I really do want all those things,” declared Marie, + fervently. “And now I must go. I promised to meet Cyril at Park Street at + three o'clock.” And she hurried from the room—and not until she was + half-way to her destination did it suddenly occur to her that she had been + urging, actually urging Miss Billy Neilson to buy for her pink roses, ice + cream, and lace flounces. + </p> + <p> + Her cheeks burned with shame then. But almost at once she smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Now wasn't that just like Billy?” she was saying to herself, with a + tender glow in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + It was early in December that Pete came one day with a package for Marie + from Cyril. Marie was not at home, and Billy herself went downstairs to + take the package from the old man's hands. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Cyril said to give it to Miss Hawthorn,” stammered the old servant, + his face lighting up as Billy entered the room; “but I'm sure he wouldn't + mind <i>your</i> taking it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry it back + with you,” she smiled. “I'll see that Miss Hawthorn has it the very first + moment she comes in.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face.” He + hesitated, then turned slowly. “Good day, Miss Billy.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as she + looked after the old man, who was now almost to the door. Something in his + bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step toward him. + </p> + <p> + “You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete,” she said pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a little + proudly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss. I—I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, some—to + make him so,” smiled the girl, vaguely wishing that she could say + something that would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before + her. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Billy thought she had succeeded. The old servant drew himself + stiffly erect. In his eyes shone the loyal pride of more than fifty years' + honest service. Almost at once, however, the pride died away, and the + wistfulness returned. + </p> + <p> + “Thank ye, Miss; but I don't lay no claim to that, of course,” he said. + “Mr. Cyril's a fine man, and we shall miss him; but—I cal'late + changes must come—to all of us.” + </p> + <p> + Billy's brown eyes grew a little misty. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they must,” she admitted. + </p> + <p> + The old man hesitated; then, as if impelled by some hidden force, he + plunged on: + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and they'll be comin' to you one of these days, Miss, and that's + what I was wantin' to speak to ye about. I understand, of course, that + when you get there you'll be wantin' younger blood to serve ye. My feet + ain't so spry as they once was, and my old hands blunder sometimes, in + spite of what my head bids 'em do. So I wanted to tell ye—that of + course I shouldn't expect to stay. I'd go.” + </p> + <p> + As he said the words, Pete stood with head and shoulders erect, his eyes + looking straight forward but not at Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you <i>want</i> to stay?” The girlish voice was a little + reproachful. + </p> + <p> + Pete's head drooped. + </p> + <p> + “Not if—I'm not wanted,” came the husky reply. + </p> + <p> + With an impulsive movement Billy came straight to the old man's side and + held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Pete!” + </p> + <p> + Amazement, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed the old + man's face; then a flood of dull red blotted them all out and left only + worshipful rapture. With a choking cry he took the slim little hand in + both his rough and twisted ones much as if he were possessing himself of a + treasured bit of eggshell china. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Billy!” + </p> + <p> + “Pete, there aren't a pair of feet in Boston, nor a pair of hands, either, + that I'd rather have serve me than yours, no matter if they stumble and + blunder all day! I shall love stumbles and blunders—if you make + them. Now run home, and don't ever let me hear another syllable about your + leaving!” + </p> + <p> + They were not the words Billy had intended to say. She had meant to speak + of his long, faithful service, and of how much they appreciated it; but, + to her surprise, Billy found her own eyes wet and her own voice trembling, + and the words that she would have said she found fast shut in her throat. + So there was nothing to do but to stammer out something—anything, + that would help to keep her from yielding to that absurd and awful desire + to fall on the old servant's neck and cry. + </p> + <p> + “Not another syllable!” she repeated sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Billy!” choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anything but + his usual dignity. + </p> + <p> + Bertram called that evening. When Billy came to him in the living-room, + her slender self was almost hidden behind the swirls of damask linen in + her arms. + </p> + <p> + Bertram's eyes grew mutinous. + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect me to hug all that?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + Billy flashed him a mischievous glance. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not! You don't <i>have</i> to hug anything, you know.” + </p> + <p> + For answer he impetuously swept the offending linen into the nearest chair + and drew the girl into his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's table-cloth!” she cried, with + reproachful eyes. + </p> + <p> + Bertram sniffed imperturbably. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie,” he alleged. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it. See here, Billy.” He loosened his clasp and held the + girl off at arm's length, regarding her with stormy eyes. “It's Marie, + Marie, Marie—always. If I telephone in the morning, you've gone + shopping with Marie. If I want you in the afternoon for something, you're + at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call in the evening—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm here,” interrupted Billy, with decision. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you're here,” admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, “and so are dozens + of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of lace and + flummydiddles you call 'doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and they fill + your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of room for + me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced. + </p> + <p> + “The twelfth;—that is, there'll be a—pause, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm thankful if—eh?” broke off the man, with a sudden change + of manner. “What do you mean by 'a pause'?” + </p> + <p> + Billy cast down her eyes demurely. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course <i>this</i> ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; but + I've sort of regarded it as an—understudy for one that's coming next + October, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, you darling!” breathed a supremely happy voice in a shell-like ear—Billy + was not at arm's length now. + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness. + </p> + <p> + “And now I must go back to my sewing,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again. + </p> + <p> + “That is,” she amended, “I must be practising my part of—the + understudy, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “You darling!” breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let her go. + </p> + <p> + “But, honestly, is it all necessary?” he sighed despairingly, as she + seated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. “Do you have to + do so much of it all?” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” smiled Billy, “unless you want your brother to run the risk of + leading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen apron + with an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so bad as that?” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not—quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterly + oblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told her that + Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman.” + </p> + <p> + “As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!” scoffed + Bertram, merrily. + </p> + <p> + “I know; but I didn't mention that part,” smiled Billy. “I just singled + out the dowdy one.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it work?” + </p> + <p> + Billy made a gesture of despair. + </p> + <p> + “Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then + at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea that she <i>was</i> + a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued every lurking + wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the + living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to + assure her at least four times every day now that she is <i>not</i> a + dowdy woman.” + </p> + <p> + “You poor dear,” laughed Bertram. “No wonder you don't have time to give + to me!” + </p> + <p> + A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I'm not the <i>only</i> one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, + sir,” she reminded him. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you <i>let</i> me off, then,” argued Bertram, anxiously. “And you + said—” + </p> + <p> + “That I didn't wish to interfere with your work—which was quite + true,” interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. “By the way,”—Billy + was examining her stitches very closely now—“how is Miss Winthrop's + portrait coming on?” + </p> + <p> + “Splendidly!—that is, it <i>was</i>, until she began to put off the + sittings for her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next + week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight,” finished Bertram, gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one—and more + sittings?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes,” laughed Bertram, a little shortly. “You see, she's changed + the pose twice already.” + </p> + <p> + “Changed it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different.” + </p> + <p> + “But can't you—don't you have something to say about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow. + But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and in the + habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those + circumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out + of tune with the pose. Besides, I will own, so far her suggestions have + made for improvement—probably because she's been happy in making + them, so her expression has been good.” + </p> + <p> + Billy wet her lips. + </p> + <p> + “I saw her the other night,” she said lightly. (If the lightness was a + little artificial Bertram did not seem to notice it.) “She is certainly—very + beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the little + room. His eyes were alight. On his face the “painting look” was king. + “It's going to mean a lot to me—this picture, Billy. In the first + place I'm just at the point in my career where a big success would mean a + lot—and where a big failure would mean more. And this portrait is + bound to be one or the other from the very nature of the thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I-is it?” Billy's voice was a little faint. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of what + she is. She is, of course, the most famous subject I've had, and half the + artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is being done + by Henshaw. You can see what it'll be—if I fail.” + </p> + <p> + “But you won't fail, Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + The artist lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not; but—” He hesitated, frowned, and dropped himself + into a chair. His eyes studied the fire moodily. “You see,” he resumed, + after a moment, “there's a peculiar, elusive something about her + expression—” (Billy stirred restlessly and gave her thread so savage + a jerk that it broke)”—a something that isn't easily caught by the + brush. Anderson and Fullam—big fellows, both of them—didn't + catch it. At least, I've understood that neither her family nor her + friends are satisfied with <i>their</i> portraits. And to succeed where + Anderson and Fullam failed—Jove! Billy, a chance like that doesn't + come to a fellow twice in a lifetime!” Bertram was out of his chair, + again, tramping up and down the little room. + </p> + <p> + Billy tossed her work aside and sprang to her feet. Her eyes, too, were + alight, now. + </p> + <p> + “But you aren't going to fail, dear,” she cried, holding out both her + hands. “You're going to succeed!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram caught the hands and kissed first one then the other of their soft + little palms. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am,” he agreed passionately, leading her to the sofa, and + seating himself at her side. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you must really <i>feel</i> it,” she urged; “feel the '<i>sure</i>' + in yourself. You have to!—to doing things. That's what I told Mary + Jane yesterday, when he was running on about what <i>he</i> wanted to do—in + his singing, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram stiffened a little. A quick frown came to his face. + </p> + <p> + “Mary Jane, indeed! Of all the absurd names to give a full-grown, six-foot + man! Billy, do, for pity's sake, call him by his name—if he's got + one.” + </p> + <p> + Billy broke into a rippling laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could, dear,” she sighed ingenuously. + </p> + <p> + “Honestly, it bothers me because I <i>can't</i> think of him as anything + but 'Mary Jane.' It seems so silly!” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly does—when one remembers his beard.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's shaved that off now. He looks rather better, too.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram turned a little sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see the fellow—often?” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed merrily. + </p> + <p> + “No. He's about as disgruntled as you are over the way the wedding + monopolizes everything. He's been up once or twice to see Aunt Hannah and + to get acquainted, as he expresses it, and once he brought up some music + and we sang; but he declares the wedding hasn't given him half a show.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! Well, that's a pity, I'm sure,” rejoined Bertram, icily. + </p> + <p> + Billy turned in slight surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Bertram, don't you like Mary Jane?” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, for heaven's sake! <i>Hasn't</i> he got any name but that?” + </p> + <p> + Billy clapped her hands together suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “There, that makes me think. He told Aunt Hannah and me to guess what his + name was, and we never hit it once. What do you think it is? The initials + are M. J.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't say, I'm sure. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he didn't tell us. You see he left us to guess it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” mused Billy, abstractedly, her eyes on the dancing fire. The next + minute she stirred and settled herself more comfortably in the curve of + her lover's arm. “But there! who cares what his name is? I'm sure I + don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” echoed Bertram in a voice that he tried to make not too fervent. + He had not forgotten Billy's surprised: “Why, Bertram, don't you like Mary + Jane?” and he did not like to call forth a repetition of it. Abruptly, + therefore, he changed the subject. “By the way, what did you do to Pete + to-day?” he asked laughingly. “He came home in a seventh heaven of + happiness babbling of what an angel straight from the sky Miss Billy was. + Naturally I agreed with him on that point. But what did you do to him?” + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—only engaged him for our butler—for life.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see. That was dear of you, Billy.” + </p> + <p> + “As if I'd do anything else! And now for Dong Ling, I suppose, some day.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, maybe I can help you there,” he hinted. “You see, his Celestial + Majesty came to me himself the other day, and said, after sundry and + various preliminaries, that he should be 'velly much glad' when the + 'Little Missee' came to live with me, for then he could go back to China + with a heart at rest, as he had money 'velly much plenty' and didn't wish + to be 'Melican man' any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me,” smiled Billy, “what a happy state of affairs—for him. But + for you—do you realize, young man, what that means for you? A new + wife and a new cook all at once? And you know I'm not Marie!” + </p> + <p> + “Ho! I'm not worrying,” retorted Bertram with a contented smile; “besides, + as perhaps you noticed, it wasn't Marie that I asked—to marry me!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. A CLOCK AND AUNT HANNAH + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Kate Hartwell, the Henshaw brothers' sister from the West, was + expected on the tenth. Her husband could not come, she had written, but + she would bring with her, little Kate, the youngest child. The boys, Paul + and Egbert, would stay with their father. + </p> + <p> + Billy received the news of little Kate's coming with outspoken delight. + </p> + <p> + “The very thing!” she cried. “We'll have her for a flower girl. She was a + dear little creature, as I remember her.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah gave a sudden low laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I remember,” she observed. “Kate told me, after you spent the first + day with her, that you graciously informed her that little Kate was almost + as nice as Spunk. Kate did not fully appreciate the compliment, I fear.” + </p> + <p> + Billy made a wry face. + </p> + <p> + “Did I say that? Dear me! I <i>was</i> a terror in those days, wasn't I? + But then,” and she laughed softly, “really, Aunt Hannah, that was the + prettiest thing I knew how to say, for I considered Spunk the top-notch of + desirability.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I should have liked to know Spunk,” smiled Marie from the other + side of the sewing table. + </p> + <p> + “He was a dear,” declared Billy. “I had another 'most as good when I first + came to Hillside, but he got lost. For a time it seemed as if I never + wanted another, but I've about come to the conclusion now that I do, and + I've told Bertram to find one for me if he can. You see I shall be + lonesome after you're gone, Marie, and I'll have to have <i>something</i>,” + she finished mischievously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mind the inference—as long as I know your admiration of + cats,” laughed Marie. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see; Kate writes she is coming the tenth,” murmured Aunt Hannah, + going back to the letter in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” nodded Billy. “That will give time to put little Kate through her + paces as flower girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and it will give Big Kate time to <i>try</i> to make your breakfast + a supper, and your roses pinks—or sunflowers,” cut in a new voice, + dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Cyril!” chorussed the three ladies in horror, adoration, and amusement—according + to whether the voice belonged to Aunt Hannah, Marie, or Billy. + </p> + <p> + Cyril shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he apologized; “but Rosa said you were in here + sewing, and I told her not to bother. I'd announce myself. Just as I got + to the door I chanced to hear Billy's speech, and I couldn't resist making + the amendment. Maybe you've forgotten Kate's love of managing—but I + haven't,” he finished, as he sauntered over to the chair nearest Marie. + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven't—forgotten,” observed Billy, meaningly. + </p> + <p> + “Nor I—nor anybody else,” declared a severe voice—both the + words and the severity being most extraordinary as coming from the usually + gentle Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, never mind,” spoke up Billy, quickly. “Everything's all right + now, so let's forget it. She always meant it for kindness, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Even when she told you in the first place what a—er—torment + you were to us?” quizzed Cyril. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” flashed Billy. “She was being kind to <i>you</i>, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” vouchsafed Cyril. + </p> + <p> + For a moment no one spoke. Cyril's eyes were on Marie, who was nervously + trying to smooth back a few fluffy wisps of hair that had escaped from + restraining combs and pins. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with the hair, little girl?” asked Cyril in a voice + that was caressingly irritable. “You've been fussing with that + long-suffering curl for the last five minutes!” + </p> + <p> + Marie's delicate face flushed painfully. + </p> + <p> + “It's got loose—my hair,” she stammered, “and it looks so dowdy that + way!” + </p> + <p> + Billy dropped her thread suddenly. She sprang for it at once, before Cyril + could make a move to get it. She had to dive far under a chair to capture + it—which may explain why her face was so very red when she finally + reached her seat again. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the tenth, Billy, Marie, and Aunt Hannah were once more + sewing together, this time in the little sitting-room at the end of the + hall up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + Billy's fingers, in particular, were flying very fast. + </p> + <p> + “I told John to have Peggy at the door at eleven,” she said, after a time; + “but I think I can finish running in this ribbon before then. I haven't + much to do to get ready to go.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope Kate's train won't be late,” worried Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not,” replied Billy; “but I told Rosa to delay luncheon, anyway, + till we get here. I—” She stopped abruptly and turned a listening + ear toward the door of Aunt Hannah's room, which was open. A clock was + striking. “Mercy! that can't be eleven now,” she cried. “But it must be—it + was ten before I came up-stairs.” She got to her feet hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah put out a restraining hand. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, dear, that's half-past ten.” + </p> + <p> + “But it struck eleven.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. It does—at half-past ten.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the little wretch,” laughed Billy, dropping back into her chair and + picking up her work again. “The idea of its telling fibs like that and + frightening people half out of their lives! I'll have it fixed right away. + Maybe John can do it—he's always so handy about such things.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want it fixed,” demurred Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + Billy stared a little. + </p> + <p> + “You don't want it fixed! Maybe you like to have it strike eleven when + it's half-past ten!” Billy's voice was merrily sarcastic. + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes, I do,” stammered the lady, apologetically. “You see, I—I + worked very hard to fix it so it would strike that way.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Aunt Hannah!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did,” retorted the lady, with unexpected spirit. “I wanted to + know what time it was in the night—I'm awake such a lot.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't see.” Billy's eyes were perplexed. “Why must you make it tell + fibs in order to—to find out the truth?” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah elevated her chin a little. + </p> + <p> + “Because that clock was always striking one.” + </p> + <p> + “One!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—half-past, you know; and I never knew which half-past it was.” + </p> + <p> + “But it must strike half-past now, just the same!” + </p> + <p> + “It does.” There was the triumphant ring of the conqueror in Aunt Hannah's + voice. “But now it strikes half-past <i>on the hour</i>, and the clock in + the hall tells me <i>then</i> what time it is, so I don't care.” + </p> + <p> + For one more brief minute Billy stared, before a sudden light of + understanding illumined her face. Then her laugh rang out gleefully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah,” she gurgled. “If Bertram wouldn't call you + the limit—making a clock strike eleven so you'll know it's half-past + ten!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah colored a little, but she stood her ground. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's only half an hour, anyway, now, that I don't know what time + it is,” she maintained, “for one or the other of those clocks strikes the + hour every thirty minutes. Even during those never-ending three ones that + strike one after the other in the middle of the night, I can tell now, for + the hall clock has a different sound for the half-hours, you know, so I + can tell whether it's one or a half-past.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” chuckled Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I think it's a splendid idea,” chimed in Marie, valiantly; “and + I'm going to write it to mother's Cousin Jane right away. She's an + invalid, and she's always lying awake nights wondering what time it is. + The doctor says actually he believes she'd get well if he could find some + way of letting her know the time at night, so she'd get some sleep; for + she simply can't go to sleep till she knows. She can't bear a light in the + room, and it wakes her all up to turn an electric switch, or anything of + that kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn't she have one of those phosphorous things?” questioned Billy. + </p> + <p> + Marie laughed quietly. + </p> + <p> + “She did. I sent her one,—and she stood it just one night.” + </p> + <p> + “Stood it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She declared it gave her the creeps, and that she wouldn't have the + spooky thing staring at her all night like that. So it's got to be + something she can hear, and I'm going to tell her Mrs. Stetson's plan + right away.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm sure I wish you would,” cried that lady, with prompt interest; + “and she'll like it, I'm sure. And tell her if she can hear a <i>town</i> + clock strike, it's just the same, and even better; for there aren't any + half-hours at all to think of there.” + </p> + <p> + “I will—and I think it's lovely,” declared Marie. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it's lovely,” smiled Billy, rising; “but I fancy I'd better go + and get ready to meet Mrs. Hartwell, or the 'lovely' thing will be telling + me that it's half-past eleven!” And she tripped laughingly from the room. + </p> + <p> + Promptly at the appointed time John with Peggy drew up before the door, + and Billy, muffled in furs, stepped into the car, which, with its + protecting top and sides and glass wind-shield, was in its winter dress. + </p> + <p> + “Yes'm, 'tis a little chilly, Miss,” said John, in answer to her greeting, + as he tucked the heavy robes about her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I shall be very comfortable, I'm sure,” smiled Billy. “Just + don't drive too rapidly, specially coming home. I shall have to get a + limousine, I think, when my ship comes in, John.” + </p> + <p> + John's grizzled old face twitched. So evident were the words that were not + spoken that Billy asked laughingly: + </p> + <p> + “Well, John, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + John reddened furiously. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, Miss. I was only thinkin' that if you didn't 'tend ter haulin' + in so many other folks's ships, yours might get in sooner.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, John! Nonsense! I—I love to haul in other folks's ships,” + laughed the girl, embarrassedly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss; I know you do,” grunted John. + </p> + <p> + Billy colored. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—that is, I mean—I don't do it—very much,” she + stammered. + </p> + <p> + John did not answer apparently; but Billy was sure she caught a + low-muttered, indignant “much!” as he snapped the door shut and took his + place at the wheel. + </p> + <p> + To herself she laughed softly. She thought she possessed the secret now of + some of John's disapproving glances toward her humble guests of the summer + before. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. SISTER KATE + </h2> + <p> + At the station Mrs. Hartwell's train was found to be gratifyingly on time; + and in due course Billy was extending a cordial welcome to a tall, + handsome woman who carried herself with an unmistakable air of assured + competence. Accompanying her was a little girl with big blue eyes and + yellow curls. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad to see you both,” smiled Billy, holding out a friendly + hand to Mrs. Hartwell, and stooping to kiss the round cheek of the little + girl. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, you are very kind,” murmured the lady; “but—are you + alone, Billy? Where are the boys?” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle William is out of town, and Cyril is rushed to death and sent his + excuses. Bertram did mean to come, but he telephoned this morning that he + couldn't, after all. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to make the + best of just me,” condoled Billy. “They'll be out to the house this + evening, of course—all but Uncle William. He doesn't return until + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, doesn't he?” murmured the lady, reaching for her daughter's hand. + </p> + <p> + Billy looked down with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “And this is little Kate, I suppose,” she said, “whom I haven't seen for + such a long, long time. Let me see, you are how old now?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm eight. I've been eight six weeks.” + </p> + <p> + Billy's eyes twinkled. + </p> + <p> + “And you don't remember me, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + The little girl shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No; but I know who you are,” she added, with shy eagerness. “You're going + to be my Aunt Billy, and you're going to marry my Uncle William—I + mean, my Uncle Bertram.” + </p> + <p> + Billy's face changed color. Mrs. Hartwell gave a despairing gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Kate, my dear, I told you to be sure and remember that it was your Uncle + Bertram now. You see,” she added in a discouraged aside to Billy, “she + can't seem to forget the first one. But then, what can you expect?” + laughed Mrs. Hartwell, a little disagreeably. “Such abrupt changes from + one brother to another are somewhat disconcerting, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Billy bit her lip. For a moment she said nothing, then, a little + constrainedly, she rejoined: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. Still—let us hope we have the right one, now.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwell raised her eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, I'm not so confident of that. <i>My</i> choice has been + and always will be—William.” + </p> + <p> + Billy bit her lip again. This time her brown eyes flashed a little. + </p> + <p> + “Is that so? But you see, after all, <i>you</i> aren't making the—the + choice.” Billy spoke lightly, gayly; and she ended with a bright little + laugh, as if to hide any intended impertinence. + </p> + <p> + It was Mrs. Hartwell's turn to bite her lip—and she did it. + </p> + <p> + “So it seems,” she rejoined frigidly, after the briefest of pauses. + </p> + <p> + It was not until they were on their way to Corey Hill some time later that + Mrs. Hartwell turned with the question: + </p> + <p> + “Cyril is to be married in church, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No. They both preferred a home wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a pity! Church weddings are so attractive!” + </p> + <p> + “To those who like them,” amended Billy in spite of herself. + </p> + <p> + “To every one, I think,” corrected Mrs. Hartwell, positively. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. She was beginning to discern that it did not do much harm—nor + much good—to disagree with her guest. + </p> + <p> + “It's in the evening, then, of course?” pursued Mrs. Hartwell. + </p> + <p> + “No; at noon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how could you let them?” + </p> + <p> + “But they preferred it, Mrs. Hartwell.” + </p> + <p> + “What if they did?” retorted the lady, sharply. “Can't you do as you + please in your own home? Evening weddings are so much prettier! We can't + change now, of course, with the guests all invited. That is, I suppose you + do have guests!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwell's voice was aggrievedly despairing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” smiled Billy, demurely. “We have guests invited—and I'm + afraid we can't change the time.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not; but it's too bad. I conclude there are announcements + only, as I got no cards. + </p> + <p> + “Announcements only,” bowed Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I wish Cyril had consulted <i>me</i>, a little, about this affair.” + </p> + <p> + Billy did not answer. She could not trust herself to speak just then. + Cyril's words of two days before were in her ears: “Yes, and it will give + Big Kate time to try to make your breakfast supper, and your roses pinks—or + sunflowers.” + </p> + <p> + In a moment Mrs. Hartwell spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Of course a noon wedding is quite pretty if you darken the rooms and have + lights—you're going to do that, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head slowly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not, Mrs. Hartwell. That isn't the plan, now.” + </p> + <p> + “Not darken the rooms!” exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell. “Why, it won't—” + She stopped suddenly, and fell back in her seat. The look of annoyed + disappointment gave way to one of confident relief. “But then, <i>that can</i> + be changed,” she finished serenely. + </p> + <p> + Billy opened her lips, but she shut them without speaking. After a minute + she opened them again. + </p> + <p> + “You might consult—Cyril—about that,” she said in a quiet + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will,” nodded Mrs. Hartwell, brightly. She was looking pleased and + happy again. “I love weddings. Don't you? You can <i>do</i> so much with + them!” + </p> + <p> + “Can you?” laughed Billy, irrepressibly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Cyril is happy, of course. Still, I can't imagine <i>him</i> in love + with any woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I think Marie can.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. I don't seem to remember her much; still, I think I saw her + once or twice when I was on last June. Music teacher, wasn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She is a very sweet girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Hm-m; I suppose so. Still, I think 'twould have been better if Cyril + could have selected some one that <i>wasn't</i> musical—say a more + domestic wife. He's so terribly unpractical himself about household + matters.” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a ringing laugh and stood up. The car had come to a stop before + her own door. + </p> + <p> + “Do you? Just you wait till you see Marie's trousseau of—egg-beaters + and cake tins,” she chuckled. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwell looked blank. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever in the world do you mean, Billy?” she demanded fretfully, as she + followed her hostess from the car. “I declare! aren't you ever going to + grow beyond making those absurd remarks of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe—sometime,” laughed Billy, as she took little Kate's hand and + led the way up the steps. + </p> + <p> + Luncheon in the cozy dining-room at Hillside that day was not entirely a + success. At least there were not present exactly the harmony and + tranquillity that are conceded to be the best sauce for one's food. The + wedding, of course, was the all-absorbing topic of conversation; and + Billy, between Aunt Hannah's attempts to be polite, Marie's to be + sweet-tempered, Mrs. Hartwell's to be dictatorial, and her own to be + pacifying as well as firm, had a hard time of it. If it had not been for + two or three diversions created by little Kate, the meal would have been, + indeed, a dismal failure. + </p> + <p> + But little Kate—most of the time the personification of proper + little-girlhood—had a disconcerting faculty of occasionally dropping + a word here, or a question there, with startling effect. As, for instance, + when she asked Billy “Who's going to boss your wedding?” and again when + she calmly informed her mother that when <i>she</i> was married she was + not going to have any wedding at all to bother with, anyhow. She was going + to elope, and she should choose somebody's chauffeur, because he'd know + how to go the farthest and fastest so her mother couldn't catch up with + her and tell her how she ought to have done it. + </p> + <p> + After luncheon Aunt Hannah went up-stairs for rest and recuperation. Marie + took little Kate and went for a brisk walk—for the same purpose. + This left Billy alone with her guest. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you would like a nap, too, Mrs. Hartwell,” suggested Billy, as + they passed into the living-room. There was a curious note of almost + hopefulness in her voice. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwell scorned naps, and she said so very emphatically. She said + something else, too. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, why do you always call me 'Mrs. Hartwell' in that stiff, formal + fashion? You used to call me 'Aunt Kate.'” + </p> + <p> + “But I was very young then.” Billy's voice was troubled. Billy had been + trying so hard for the last two hours to be the graciously cordial hostess + to this woman—Bertram's sister. + </p> + <p> + “Very true. Then why not 'Kate' now?” + </p> + <p> + Billy hesitated. She was wondering why it seemed so hard to call Mrs. + Hartwell “Kate.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” resumed the lady, “when you're Bertram's wife and my sister—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course,” cried Billy, in a sudden flood of understanding. + Curiously enough, she had never before thought of Mrs. Hartwell as <i>her</i> + sister. “I shall be glad to call you 'Kate'—if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I shall like it very much, Billy,” nodded the other cordially. + “Indeed, my dear, I'm very fond of you, and I was delighted to hear you + were to be my sister. If only—it could have stayed William instead + of Bertram.” + </p> + <p> + “But it couldn't,” smiled Billy. “It wasn't William—that I loved.” + </p> + <p> + “But <i>Bertram!</i>—it's so absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “Absurd!” The smile was gone now. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear of + Bertram's engagement as I was of Cyril's.” + </p> + <p> + Billy grew a little white. + </p> + <p> + “But Bertram was never an avowed—woman-hater, like Cyril, was he?” + </p> + <p> + “'Woman-hater'—dear me, no! He was a woman-lover, always. As if his + eternal 'Face of a Girl' didn't prove that! Bertram has always loved women—to + paint. But as for his ever taking them seriously—why, Billy, what's + the matter?” + </p> + <p> + Billy had risen suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “If you'll excuse me, please, just a few minutes,” Billy said very + quietly. “I want to speak to Rosa in the kitchen. I'll be back—soon.” + </p> + <p> + In the kitchen Billy spoke to Rosa—she wondered afterwards what she + said. Certainly she did not stay in the kitchen long enough to say much. + In her own room a minute later, with the door fast closed, she took from + her table the photograph of Bertram and held it in her two hands, talking + to it softly, but a little wildly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't listen! I didn't stay! Do you hear? I came to you. She shall not + say anything that will make trouble between you and me. I've suffered + enough through her already! And she doesn't <i>know</i>—she didn't + know before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will not not—<i>not</i> + believe that you love me—just to paint. No matter what they say—all + of them! I <i>will not!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Billy put the photograph back on the table then, and went down-stairs to + her guest. She smiled brightly, though her face was a little pale. + </p> + <p> + “I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music,” she said pleasantly, + going straight to the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I would!” agreed Mrs. Hartwell. + </p> + <p> + Billy sat down then and played—played as Mrs. Hartwell had never + heard her play before. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Billy, you amaze me,” she cried, when the pianist stopped and + whirled about. “I had no idea you could play like that!” + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled enigmatically. Billy was thinking that Mrs. Hartwell would, + indeed, have been surprised if she had known that in that playing were + herself, the ride home, the luncheon, Bertram, and the girl—whom + Bertram <i>did not love only to paint!</i> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING + </h2> + <p> + The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty air set the blood to + tingling and the eyes to sparkling, even if it were not your wedding day; + while if it were— + </p> + <p> + It <i>was</i> Marie Hawthorn's wedding day, and certainly her eyes + sparkled and her blood tingled as she threw open the window of her room + and breathed long and deep of the fresh morning air before going down to + breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “They say 'Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,'” she whispered + softly to an English sparrow that cocked his eye at her from a neighboring + tree branch. “As if a bride wouldn't be happy, sun or no sun,” she scoffed + tenderly, as she turned to go down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + As it happens, however, tingling blood and sparkling eyes are a matter of + more than weather, or even weddings, as was proved a little later when the + telephone bell rang. + </p> + <p> + Kate answered the ring. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, is that you, Kate?” called a despairing voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Good morning, Bertram. Isn't this a fine day for the wedding?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine! Oh, yes, I suppose so, though I must confess I haven't noticed it—and + you wouldn't, if you had a lunatic on your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “A lunatic!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Maybe you have, though. Is Marie rampaging around the house like a + wild creature, and asking ten questions and making twenty threats to the + minute?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not! Don't be absurd, Bertram. What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “See here, Kate, that show comes off at twelve sharp, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Show, indeed!” retorted Kate, indignantly. “The <i>wedding</i> is at noon + sharp—as the best man should know very well.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; then tell Billy, please, to see that it is sharp, or I won't + answer for the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Cyril. He's broken loose at last. I've been expecting it all along. I've + simply marvelled at the meekness with which he has submitted himself to be + tied up with white ribbons and topped with roses.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it amounts to that. Anyhow, he thinks it does, and he's wild. I + wish you could have heard the thunderous performance on his piano with + which he woke me up this morning. Billy says he plays everything—his + past, present, and future. All is, if he was playing his future this + morning, I pity the girl who's got to live it with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram chuckled remorselessly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I do. But I'll warrant he wasn't playing his future this morning. + He was playing his present—the wedding. You see, he's just waked up + to the fact that it'll be a perfect orgy of women and other confusion, and + he doesn't like it. All the samee,{sic} I've had to assure him just + fourteen times this morning that the ring, the license, the carriage, the + minister's fee, and my sanity are all O. K. When he isn't asking questions + he's making threats to snake the parson up there an hour ahead of time and + be off with Marie before a soul comes.” + </p> + <p> + “What an absurd idea!” + </p> + <p> + “Cyril doesn't think so. Indeed, Kate, I've had a hard struggle to + convince him that the guests wouldn't think it the most delightful + experience of their lives if they should come and find the ceremony over + with and the bride gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you remind Cyril, please, that there are other people besides + himself concerned in this wedding,” observed Kate, icily. + </p> + <p> + “I have,” purred Bertram, “and he says all right, let them have it, then. + He's gone now to look up proxy marriages, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Proxy marriages, indeed! Come, come, Bertram, I've got something to do + this morning besides to stand here listening to your nonsense. See that + you and Cyril get here on time—that's all!” And she hung up the + receiver with an impatient jerk. + </p> + <p> + She turned to confront the startled eyes of the bride elect. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Is anything wrong—with Cyril?” faltered Marie. + </p> + <p> + Kate laughed and raised her eyebrows slightly. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but a little stage fright, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Stage fright!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Bertram says he's trying to find some one to play his rôle, I + believe, in the ceremony.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mrs. Hartwell!</i>” + </p> + <p> + At the look of dismayed terror that came into Marie's face, Mrs. Hartwell + laughed reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, dear child, don't look so horror-stricken. There probably + never was a man yet who wouldn't have fled from the wedding part of his + marriage if he could; and you know how Cyril hates fuss and feathers. The + wonder to me is that he's stood it as long as he has. I thought I saw it + coming, last night at the rehearsal—and now I know I did.” + </p> + <p> + Marie still looked distressed. + </p> + <p> + “But he never said—I thought—” She stopped helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course he didn't, child. He never said anything but that he loved you, + and he never thought anything but that you were going to be his. Men never + do—till the wedding day. Then they never think of anything but a + place to run,” she finished laughingly, as she began to arrange on a stand + the quantity of little white boxes waiting for her. + </p> + <p> + “But if he'd told me—in time, I wouldn't have had a thing—but + the minister,” faltered Marie. + </p> + <p> + “And when you think so much of a pretty wedding, too? Nonsense! It isn't + good for a man, to give up to his whims like that!” + </p> + <p> + Marie's cheeks grew a deeper pink. Her nostrils dilated a little. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be a 'whim,' Mrs. Hartwell, and I should be <i>glad</i> to + give up,” she said with decision. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwell laughed again, her amused eyes on Marie's face. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, child! don't you know that if men had their way, they'd—well, + if men married men there'd never be such a thing in the world as a shower + bouquet or a piece of wedding cake!” + </p> + <p> + There was no reply. A little precipitately Marie turned and hurried away. + A moment later she was laying a restraining hand on Billy, who was filling + tall vases with superb long-stemmed roses in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, please,” she panted, “couldn't we do without those? Couldn't we + send them to some—some hospital?—and the wedding cake, too, + and—” + </p> + <p> + “The wedding cake—to some <i>hospital!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not—to the hospital. It would make them sick to eat + it, wouldn't it?” That there was no shadow of a smile on Marie's face + showed how desperate, indeed, was her state of mind. “I only meant that I + didn't want them myself, nor the shower bouquet, nor the rooms darkened, + nor little Kate as the flower girl—and would you mind very much if I + asked you not to be my maid of honor?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Marie!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Marie covered her face with her hands then and began to sob brokenly; so + there was nothing for Billy to do but to take her into her arms with + soothing little murmurs and pettings. By degrees, then, the whole story + came out. + </p> + <p> + Billy almost laughed—but she almost cried, too. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Dearie, I don't believe Cyril feels or acts half so bad as Bertram and + Kate make out, and, anyhow, if he did, it's too late now to—to send + the wedding cake to the hospital, or make any other of the little changes + you suggest.” Billy's lips puckered into a half-smile, but her eyes were + grave. “Besides, there are your music pupils trimming the living-room this + minute with evergreen, there's little Kate making her flower-girl wreath, + and Mrs. Hartwell stacking cake boxes in the hall, to say nothing of Rosa + gloating over the best china in the dining-room, and Aunt Hannah putting + purple bows into the new lace cap she's counting on wearing. Only think + how disappointed they'd all be if I should say: 'Never mind—stop + that. Marie's just going to have a minister. No fuss, no feathers!' Why, + dearie, even the roses are hanging their heads for grief,” she went on + mistily, lifting with gentle fingers one of the full-petalled pink + beauties near her. “Besides, there's your—guests.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, I knew I couldn't—really,” sighed Marie, as she + turned to go up-stairs, all the light and joy gone from her face. + </p> + <p> + Billy, once assured that Marie was out of hearing, ran to the telephone. + </p> + <p> + Bertram answered. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, tell Cyril I want to speak to him, please.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, dear, but go easy. Better strike up your tuning fork to find + his pitch to-day. You'll discover it's a high one, all right.” + </p> + <p> + A moment later Cyril's tersely nervous “Good morning, Billy,” came across + the line. + </p> + <p> + Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly apprehensive glance over her + shoulder to make sure Marie was not near. + </p> + <p> + “Cyril,” she called in a low voice, “if you care a shred for Marie, for + heaven's sake call her up and tell her that you dote on pink roses, and + pink ribbons, and pink breakfasts—and pink wedding cake!” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you do—to-day! You would—if you could see Marie + now.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, only she overheard part of Bertram's nonsensical talk with Kate + a little while ago, and she's ready to cast the last ravelling of white + satin and conventionality behind her, and go with you to the justice of + the peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Sensible girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but she can't, you know, with fifty guests coming to the wedding, + and twice as many more to the reception. Honestly, Cyril, she's + broken-hearted. You must do something. She's—coming!” And the + receiver clicked sharply into place. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later Marie was called to the telephone. Dejectedly, + wistful-eyed, she went. Just what were the words that hummed across the + wire into the pink little ear of the bride-to-be, Billy never knew; but a + Marie that was anything but wistful-eyed and dejected left the telephone a + little later, and was heard very soon in the room above trilling merry + snatches of a little song. Contentedly, then, Billy went back to her + roses. + </p> + <p> + It was a pretty wedding, a very pretty wedding. Every one said that. The + pink and green of the decorations, the soft lights (Kate had had her way + about darkening the rooms), the pretty frocks and smiling faces of the + guests all helped. Then there were the dainty flower girl, little Kate, + the charming maid of honor, Billy, the stalwart, handsome best man, + Bertram, to say nothing of the delicately beautiful bride, who looked like + some fairy visitor from another world in the floating shimmer of her + gossamer silk and tulle. There was, too, not quite unnoticed, the + bridegroom; tall, of distinguished bearing, and with features that were + clear cut and-to-day-rather pale. + </p> + <p> + Then came the reception—the “women and confusion” of Cyril's fears—followed + by the going away of the bride and groom with its merry warfare of + confetti and old shoes. + </p> + <p> + At four o'clock, however, with only William and Bertram remaining for + guests, something like quiet descended at last on the little house. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's over,” sighed Billy, dropping exhaustedly into a big chair in + the living-room. + </p> + <p> + “And <i>well</i> over,” supplemented Aunt Hannah, covering her white shawl + with a warmer blue one. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think it was,” nodded Kate. “It was really a very pretty wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “With your help, Kate—eh?” teased William. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I flatter myself I did do some good,” bridled Kate, as she turned + to help little Kate take the flower wreath from her head. + </p> + <p> + “Even if you did hurry into my room and scare me into conniption fits + telling me I'd be late,” laughed Billy. + </p> + <p> + Kate tossed her head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how was I to know that Aunt Hannah's clock only meant half-past + eleven when it struck twelve?” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, it was a pretty wedding,” declared William, with a long sigh. + </p> + <p> + “It'll do—for an understudy,” said Bertram softly, for Billy's ears + alone. + </p> + <p> + Only the added color and the swift glance showed that Billy heard, for + when she spoke she said: + </p> + <p> + “And didn't Cyril behave beautifully? 'Most every time I looked at him he + was talking to some woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, he wasn't—begging your pardon, my dear,” objected Bertram. + “I watched him, too, even more closely than you did, and it was always the + <i>woman</i> who was talking to <i>Cyril!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, anyhow,” she maintained, “he listened. He didn't run away.” + </p> + <p> + “As if a bridegroom could!” cried Kate. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to,” avowed Bertram, his nose in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” scoffed Kate. Then she added eagerly: “You must be married in + church, Billy, and in the evening.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram's nose came suddenly out of the air. His eyes met Kate's squarely. + </p> + <p> + “Billy hasn't decided yet how <i>she</i> does want to be married,” he said + with unnecessary emphasis. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed and interposed a quick change of subject. + </p> + <p> + “I think people had a pretty good time, too, for a wedding, don't you?” + she asked. “I was sorry Mary Jane couldn't be here—'twould have been + such a good chance for him to meet our friends.” + </p> + <p> + “As—<i>Mary Jane?</i>” asked Bertram, a little stiffly. + </p> + <p> + “Really, my dear,” murmured Aunt Hannah, “I think it <i>would</i> be more + respectful to call him by his name.” + </p> + <p> + “By the way, what is his name?” questioned William. + </p> + <p> + “That's what we don't know,” laughed Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know the 'Arkwright,' don't you?” put in Bertram. Bertram, too, + laughed, but it was a little forcedly. “I suppose if you knew his name was + 'Methuselah,' you wouldn't call him that—yet, would you?” + </p> + <p> + Billy clapped her hands, and threw a merry glance at Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “There! we never thought of 'Methuselah,'” she gurgled gleefully. “Maybe + it <i>is</i> 'Methuselah,' now—'Methuselah John'! You see, he's told + us to try to guess it,” she explained, turning to William; “but, honestly, + I don't believe, whatever it is, I'll ever think of him as anything but + 'Mary Jane.'” + </p> + <p> + “Well, as far as I can judge, he has nobody but himself to thank for that, + so he can't do any complaining,” smiled William, as he rose to go. “Well, + how about it, Bertram? I suppose you're going to stay a while to comfort + the lonely—eh, boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he is—and so are you, too, Uncle William,” spoke up + Billy, with affectionate cordiality. “As if I'd let you go back to a + forlorn dinner in that great house to-night! Indeed, no!” + </p> + <p> + William smiled, hesitated, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course,” finished Billy, quickly. “I'll telephone Pete that + you'll stay here—both of you.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this point that little Kate, who had been turning interested + eyes from one brother to the other, interposed a clear, high-pitched + question. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle William, didn't you <i>want</i> to marry my going-to-be-Aunt + Billy?” + </p> + <p> + “Kate!” gasped her mother, “didn't I tell you—” Her voice trailed + into an incoherent murmur of remonstrance. + </p> + <p> + Billy blushed. Bertram said a low word under his breath. Aunt Hannah's + “Oh, my grief and conscience!” was almost a groan. + </p> + <p> + William laughed lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my little lady,” he suggested, “let us put it the other way and say + that quite probably she didn't want to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she want to marry Uncle Bertram?” “Kate!” gasped Billy and Mrs. + Hartwell together this time, fearful of what might be coming next. + </p> + <p> + “We'll hope so,” nodded Uncle William, speaking in a cheerfully + matter-of-fact voice, intended to discourage curiosity. + </p> + <p> + The little girl frowned and pondered. Her elders cast about in their minds + for a speedy change of subject; but their somewhat scattered wits were not + quick enough. It was little Kate who spoke next. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle William, would she have got Uncle Cyril if Aunt Marie hadn't nabbed + him first?” + </p> + <p> + “Kate!” The word was a chorus of dismay this time. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwell struggled to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, Kate, we must go up-stairs—to bed,” she stammered. + </p> + <p> + The little girl drew back indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “To bed? Why, mama, I haven't had my supper yet!” + </p> + <p> + “What? Oh, sure enough—the lights! I forgot. Well, then, come up—to + change your dress,” finished Mrs. Hartwell, as with a despairing look and + gesture she led her young daughter from the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE + </h2> + <p> + Billy came down-stairs on the thirteenth of December to find everywhere + the peculiar flatness that always follows a day which for weeks has been + the focus of one's aims and thoughts and labor. + </p> + <p> + “It's just as if everything had stopped at Marie's wedding, and there + wasn't anything more to do,” she complained to Aunt Hannah at the + breakfast table. “Everything seems so—queer!” + </p> + <p> + “It won't—long, dear,” smiled Aunt Hannah, tranquilly, as she + buttered her roll, “specially after Bertram comes back. How long does he + stay in New York?” + </p> + <p> + “Only three days; but I'm just sure it's going to seem three weeks, now,” + sighed Billy. “But he simply had to go—else he wouldn't have gone.” + </p> + <p> + “I've no doubt of it,” observed Aunt Hannah. And at the meaning emphasis + of her words, Billy laughed a little. After a minute she said aggrievedly: + </p> + <p> + “I had supposed that I could at least have a sort of 'after the ball' + celebration this morning picking up and straightening things around. But + John and Rosa have done it all. There isn't so much as a rose leaf + anywhere on the floor. Of course most of the flowers went to the hospital + last night, anyway. As for Marie's room—it looks as spick-and-span + as if it had never seen a scrap of ribbon or an inch of tulle.” + </p> + <p> + “But—the wedding presents?” + </p> + <p> + “All carried down to the kitchen and half packed now, ready to go over to + the new home. John says he'll take them over in Peggy this afternoon, + after he takes Mrs. Hartwell's trunk to Uncle William's.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can at least go over to the apartment and work,” suggested Aunt + Hannah, hopefully. + </p> + <p> + “Humph! Can I?” scoffed Billy. “As if I could—when Marie left strict + orders that not one thing was to be touched till she got here. They + arranged everything but the presents before the wedding, anyway; and Marie + wants to fix those herself after she gets back. Mercy! Aunt Hannah, if I + should so much as move a plate one inch in the china closet, Marie would + know it—and change it when she got home,” laughed Billy, as she rose + from the table. “No, I can't go to work over there.” + </p> + <p> + “But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some + new songs after the wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “I was,” sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlessly at + the bare, brown world outside; “but I can't write songs—when there + aren't any songs in my head to write.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now,” + soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “It's the reaction, of course,” murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on the + way up-stairs. “She's had the whole thing on her hands—dear child!” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minor + melody. Billy was at the piano. + </p> + <p> + Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William. It had + been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization that Bertram's + trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was to be carried + there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at the end of a two + or three days' visit. + </p> + <p> + It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had been gray + and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon in myriads of + white snow feathers that filled the air to the blinding point, and turned + the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylike beauty. Billy, however, + with a rare frown upon her face, looked out upon it with disapproving + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>was</i> going in town—and I believe I'll go now,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, dear, please don't,” begged Aunt Hannah. “See, the flakes are + smaller now, and the wind is coming up. We're in for a blizzard—I'm + sure we are. And you know you have some cold, already.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” sighed Billy. “Then it's me for the knitting work and the + fire, I suppose,” she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the + wistful disappointment of her voice. + </p> + <p> + She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at + four o'clock Rosa brought in the card. + </p> + <p> + Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little cry. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mary Jane!” she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. “Now wasn't he a + dear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Billy!” she remonstrated. “Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little + later, and I'm glad <i>Mr. Arkwright</i> came,” she said with reproving + emphasis. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” she nodded. “I'll go and tell <i>Mr. Arkwright</i> you'll be + down directly.” + </p> + <p> + In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordial hand. + </p> + <p> + “How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless + and lonesome to-day?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know it,” he rejoined. “I only knew that I was specially + restless and lonesome myself.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness in + the girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart. + Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He could + not know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had given warmth + to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made her greeting so + cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away that had made his + presence so welcome. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm glad you came, anyway,” sighed Billy, contentedly; “though I + suppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome—but I'm afraid + I'm not, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm a + little wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped,” she added + laughingly, as she seated herself. + </p> + <p> + “Tension?” + </p> + <p> + “The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just December + twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about the thirteenth that came + after it; so when I got up this morning I felt just as you do when the + clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm + sorry you could not be here.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; so am I—though usually, I will confess, I'm not much + good at attending 'functions' and meeting strangers. As perhaps you've + guessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you aren't! People who are doing things—real things—seldom + are. But we aren't the society kind ourselves, you know—not the + capital S kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from liking + Society. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on 'pink teas and + purple pageants,' as Cyril calls them; and we even go ourselves sometimes. + But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd have met lots + like yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing, playing, + painting, illustrating, writing. Why, we even had a poet, sir—only + he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit,” she finished + laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Is long hair—necessary—for poets?” Arkwright's smile was + quizzical. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters, + too. But now they look just like—folks.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing + ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid it is,” dimpled Billy. “I <i>love</i> velvet coats and flowing + ties!” + </p> + <p> + “May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,” + declared the man, promptly. + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and + worsteds too well!” + </p> + <p> + “You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already had + tried to bring about a reform—and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, or + Mr. Bertram—” Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile. + </p> + <p> + Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merry tilt + with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promised that his + wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat for himself. It was on + the point of Billy's tongue now to say this to Arkwright; but another + glance at the provoking smile on his lips drove the words back in angry + confusion. For the second time, in the presence of this man, Billy found + herself unable to refer to her engagement to Bertram Henshaw—though + this time she did not in the least doubt that Arkwright already knew of + it. + </p> + <p> + With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Come, let us try some duets,” she suggested. “That's lots nicer than + quarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently to + hear us sing.” + </p> + <p> + Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with an + exclamation of eager acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently. + </p> + <p> + “Have you written any new songs lately?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You're going to?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—if I find one to write.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—you have no words?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; + but I haven't found in any one of them, yet—a melody.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coat pocket—then + fell back at his side. The next moment he picked up a sheet of music. + </p> + <p> + “Are you too tired to try this?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, children, I've come down to hear the music,” announced Aunt Hannah, + smilingly, from the doorway; “only—Billy, <i>will</i> you run up and + get my pink shawl, too? This room <i>is</i> colder than I thought, and + there's only the white one down here.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” cried Billy, rising at once. “You shall have a dozen shawls, + if you like,” she laughed, as she left the room. + </p> + <p> + What a cozy time it was—the hour that followed, after Billy returned + with the pink shawl! Outside, the wind howled at the windows and flung the + snow against the glass in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and the girl + sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, they feasted + royally on the buttered toast, tea, and frosted cakes that Rosa served on + a little table before the roaring fire. It was then that Arkwright talked + of himself, telling them something of his studies, and of the life he was + living. + </p> + <p> + “After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends and + yours,” he said, at last. “Your friends <i>are</i> doing things. They've + succeeded. Mine haven't, yet—they're only <i>trying</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “But they will succeed,” cried Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Some of them,” amended the man. + </p> + <p> + “Not—all of them?” Billy looked a little troubled. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright shook his head slowly. + </p> + <p> + “No. They couldn't—all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, + some haven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money.” + </p> + <p> + “But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried,” grieved Billy. + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity, aren't + they?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes,” sighed the girl. “But—if there were only something one + could do to—help!” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke, was + purposely light. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even your + generosity, Miss Neilson—to mend all the broken hopes in the world,” + he prophesied. + </p> + <p> + “I have known great good to come from great disappointments,” remarked + Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically. + </p> + <p> + “So have I,” laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubled + shadow from the face he was watching so intently. “For instance: a fellow + I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just too late to + get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Half an hour + afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy—a friend who had an + orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handed it over to + him.” + </p> + <p> + Billy turned interestedly. + </p> + <p> + “What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?” + </p> + <p> + “Then—you don't know?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. I've heard of them, in a vague fashion.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you've missed one of the sights of Boston if you haven't ever seen + that long line of patient waiters at the door of Symphony Hall of a Friday + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Morning! But the concert isn't till afternoon!” + </p> + <p> + “No, but the waiting is,” retorted Arkwright. “You see, those admissions + are limited—five hundred and five, I believe—and they're rush + seats, at that. First come, first served; and if you're too late you + aren't served at all. So the first arrival comes bright and early. I've + heard that he has been known to come at peep of day when there's a + Paderewski or a Melba for a drawing card. But I've got my doubts of that. + Anyhow, I never saw them there much before half-past eight. But many's the + cold, stormy day I've seen those steps in front of the Hall packed for + hours, and a long line reaching away up the avenue.” + </p> + <p> + Billy's eyes widened. + </p> + <p> + “And they'll stand all that time and wait?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure they will. You see, each pays twenty-five cents at the door, + until the limit is reached, then the rest are turned away. Naturally they + don't want to be turned away, so they try to get there early enough to be + among the fortunate five hundred and five. Besides, the earlier you are, + the better seat you are likely to get.” + </p> + <p> + “But only think of <i>standing</i> all that time!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they bring camp chairs, sometimes, I've heard, and then there are the + steps. You don't know what a really fine seat a stone step is—if you + have a <i>big</i> enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! They + bring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work for fine + days, I've been told—some of them. All the comforts of home, you + see,” smiled Arkwright. + </p> + <p> + “Why, how—how dreadful!” stammered Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but they don't think it's dreadful at all,” corrected Arkwright, + quickly. “For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down in + your orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium.” + </p> + <p> + “But who—who are they? Where do they come from? Who <i>would</i> go + and stand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat?” questioned + Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Who are they? Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; people who + have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it,” he rejoined. + “Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a little + dressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from the + uttermost parts of the earth; maybe a widow who used to sit down-stairs, + or a professor who has seen better days. Really to know that line, you + should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson,” smiled Arkwright, as he + reluctantly rose to go. “Some Friday, however, before you take your seat, + just glance up at that packed top balcony and judge by the faces you see + there whether their owners think they're getting their twenty-five-cents' + worth, or not.” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lips + only, not her eyes: Billy was wishing, at that moment, that she owned the + whole of Symphony Hall—to give away. But that was like Billy. When + she was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they take + all the thirty-five orphans from the Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to live + with them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might have ice + cream every day, if they wanted it. Since then Billy had always been + trying—in a way—to give ice cream to some one who wanted it. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright was almost at the door when he turned abruptly. His face was an + abashed red. From his pocket he had taken a small folded paper. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose—in this—you might find—that melody?” he + stammered in a low voice. The next moment he was gone, having left in + Billy's fingers a paper upon which was written in a clear-cut, masculine + hand six four-line stanzas. + </p> + <p> + Billy read them at once, hurriedly, then more carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Why, they're beautiful,” she breathed, “just beautiful! Where did he get + them, I wonder? It's a love song—and such a pretty one! I believe + there <i>is</i> a melody in it,” she exulted, pausing to hum a line or + two. “There is—I know there is; and I'll write it—for + Bertram,” she finished, crossing joyously to the piano. + </p> + <p> + Half-way down Corey Hill at that moment, Arkwright was buffeting the wind + and snow. He, too, was thinking joyously of those stanzas—joyously, + yet at the same time fearfully. Arkwright himself had written those lines—though + not for Bertram. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. “MR. BILLY” AND “MISS MARY JANE” + </h2> + <p> + On the fourteenth of December Billy came down-stairs alert, interested, + and happy. She had received a dear letter from Bertram (mailed on the way + to New York), the sun was shining, and her fingers were fairly tingling to + put on paper the little melody that was now surging riotously through her + brain. Emphatically, the restlessness of the day before was gone now. Once + more Billy's “clock” had “begun to tick.” + </p> + <p> + After breakfast Billy went straight to the telephone and called up + Arkwright. Even one side of the conversation Aunt Hannah did not hear very + clearly; but in five minutes a radiant-faced Billy danced into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think—Mary Jane wrote the words + himself, so of course I can use them!” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, dear, <i>can't</i> you say 'Mr. Arkwright'?” pleaded Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little old lady an impulsive hug. + </p> + <p> + “Of course! I'll say 'His Majesty' if you like, dear,” she chuckled. “But + did you hear—did you realize? They're his own words, so there's no + question of rights or permission, or anything. And he's coming up this + afternoon to hear my melody, and to make a few little changes in the + words, maybe. Oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it seems to get + into my music again!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, dear, of course; but—” Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a + vaguely troubled pause. + </p> + <p> + Billy turned in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Aunt Hannah, aren't you glad? You <i>said</i> you'd be glad!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear; and I am—very glad. It's only—if it doesn't take + too much time—and if Bertram doesn't mind.” + </p> + <p> + Billy flushed. She laughed a little bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “No, it won't take too much time, I fancy, and—so far as Bertram is + concerned—if what Sister Kate says is true, Aunt Hannah, he'll be + glad to have me occupy a little of my time with something besides + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddlededee!” bristled Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “What did she mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled ruefully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, probably I did need it. She said it night before last just before + she went home with Uncle William. She declared that I seemed to forget + entirely that Bertram belonged to his Art first, before he belonged to me; + and that it was exactly as she had supposed it would be—a perfect + absurdity for Bertram to think of marrying anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddlededee!” ejaculated the irate Aunt Hannah, even more sharply. “I + hope you have too much good sense to mind what Kate says, Billy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” sighed the girl; “but of course I can see some things for + myself, and I suppose I did make—a little fuss about his going to + New York the other night. And I will own that I've had a real struggle + with myself sometimes, lately, not to mind—his giving so much time + to his portrait painting. And of course both of those are very + reprehensible—in an artist's wife,” she finished, a little + tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “Humph! Well, I don't think I should worry about that,” observed Aunt + Hannah with grim positiveness. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't mean to,” smiled Billy, wistfully. “I only told you so you'd + understand that it was just as well if I did have something to take up my + mind—besides Bertram. And of course music would be the most natural + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course,” agreed Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “And it seems actually almost providential that Mary—I mean Mr. + Arkwright is here to help me, now that Cyril is gone,” went on Billy, + still a little wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course. He isn't like—a stranger,” murmured Aunt Hannah. + Aunt Hannah's voice sounded as if she were trying to convince herself—of + something. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if he + were really—your niece, Mary Jane,” laughed Billy. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah moved restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Billy,” she hazarded, “he knows, of course, of your engagement?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah everybody does!” Billy's eyes were + plainly surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, of course—he must,” subsided Aunt Hannah, confusedly, + hoping that Billy would not divine the hidden reason behind her question. + She was relieved when Billy's next words showed that she had not divined + it. + </p> + <p> + “I told you, didn't I? He's coming up this afternoon. He can't get here + till five, though; but he's so interested! He's about as crazy over the + thing as I am. And it's going to be fine, Aunt Hannah, when it's done. You + just wait and see!” she finished gayly, as she tripped from the room. + </p> + <p> + Left to herself, Aunt Hannah drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad she didn't suspect,” she was thinking. “I believe she'd consider + even the <i>question</i> disloyal to Bertram—dear child! And of + course Mary”—Aunt Hannah corrected herself with cheeks aflame—“I + mean Mr. Arkwright does—know.” + </p> + <p> + It was just here, however, that Aunt Hannah was mistaken. Mr. Arkwright + did not—know. He had not reached Boston when the engagement was + announced. He knew none of Billy's friends in town save the Henshaw + brothers. He had not heard from Calderwell since he came to Boston. The + very evident intimacy of Billy with the Henshaw brothers he accepted as a + matter of course, knowing the history of their acquaintance, and the fact + that Billy was Mr. William Henshaw's namesake. As to Bertram being Billy's + lover—that idea had long ago been killed at birth by Calderwell's + emphatic assertion that the artist would never care for any girl—except + to paint. Since coming to Boston, Arkwright had seen little of the two + together. His work, his friends, and his general mode of life precluded + that. Because of all this, therefore, Arkwright did not—know; which + was a pity—for Arkwright, and for some others. + </p> + <p> + Promptly at five o'clock that afternoon, Arkwright rang Billy's doorbell, + and was admitted by Rosa to the living-room, where Billy was at the piano. + </p> + <p> + Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of greeting. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so glad you've come,” she sighed happily. “I want you to hear the + melody your pretty words have sung to me. Though, maybe, after all, you + won't like it, you know,” she finished with arch wistfulness. + </p> + <p> + “As if I could help liking it,” smiled the man, trying to keep from his + voice the ecstatic delight that the touch of her hand had brought him. + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano. + </p> + <p> + “The words are lovely,” she declared, sorting out two or three sheets of + manuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her. “But there's + one place—the rhythm, you know—if you could change it. There!—but + listen. First I'm going to play it straight through to you.” And she + dropped her fingers to the keyboard. The next moment a tenderly sweet + melody—with only a chord now and then for accompaniment—filled + Arkwright's soul with rapture. Then Billy began to sing, very softly, the + words! + </p> + <p> + No wonder Arkwright's soul was filled with rapture. They were his words, + wrung straight from his heart; and they were being sung by the girl for + whom they were written. They were being sung with feeling, too—so + evident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed a + sudden fire. Arkwright could not know, of course, that Billy, in her own + mind, was singing that song—to Bertram Henshaw. + </p> + <p> + The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; but Billy + very plainly did not see it. With a frowning sigh and a murmured “There!” + she began to talk of “rhythm” and “accent” and “cadence”; and to point out + with anxious care why three syllables instead of two were needed at the + end of a certain line. From this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment, + and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a maze of “minor thirds” and + “diminished sevenths,” until he was forced to turn from the singer to the + song. Still, watching her a little later, he noticed her absorbed face and + eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance of an elusive harmony, and he + wondered: did she, or did she not sing that song with feeling a little + while before? + </p> + <p> + Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction when Aunt + Hannah came in at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vague + disappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned an + untroubled face to the newcomer. + </p> + <p> + “We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah,” she cried. Then, suddenly, she flung a + laughing question to the man. “How about it, sir? Are we going to put on + the title-page: 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'—or will you unveil + the mystery for us now?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you guessed it?” he bantered. + </p> + <p> + “No—unless it's 'Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other + day.” + </p> + <p> + “Wrong again!” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Then it'll have to be 'Mary Jane,'” retorted Billy, with calm + naughtiness, refusing to meet Aunt Hannah's beseechingly reproving eyes. + Then suddenly she chuckled. “It would be a combination, wouldn't it? + 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright. Music by Billy Neilson'! We'd have sighing + swains writing to 'Dear Miss Arkwright,' telling how touching were <i>her</i> + words; and lovelorn damsels thanking <i>Mr</i>. Neilson for <i>his</i> + soul-inspiring music!” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, my dear!” remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know; that was bad—and I won't again, truly,” promised + Billy. But her eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled about on + the piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then, + seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT + </h2> + <p> + Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the + telephone. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good morning, Uncle William,” she called, in answer to the masculine + voice that replied to her “Hullo.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, are you very busy this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed—not if you want me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I do, my dear.” Uncle William's voice was troubled. “I want you to + go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I want. + It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I will! What time?” + </p> + <p> + “Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's at the West End. I don't dare to + put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow says others will have to know of + it, of course. You see, she's just made up her mind to sell it, and asked + him to find a customer. I wouldn't trouble you, but he says they're + peculiar—the daughter, especially—and may need some careful + handling. That's why I wanted you—though I wanted you to see the + tea-pot, too,—it'll be yours some day, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day to + be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but + “common” to her. + </p> + <p> + “I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't be much + help, Uncle William,” she worried. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the time + she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but she + wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kate leaves + this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't thought best + to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would come, too, for + luncheon. Would she?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not,” returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. “She's got <i>three</i> + shawls on this morning, and you know that always means that she's felt a + draft somewhere—poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you + at eleven,” finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver. + </p> + <p> + Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street, and + together they set out for the West End street named on the paper in his + pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was reached, + the man looked about him with a troubled frown. + </p> + <p> + “I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back,” he fretted. “I + didn't mean to take you to such a place as this.” + </p> + <p> + Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed + face she lifted a determined chin. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mind—for + myself; but only think of the people whose <i>homes</i> are here,” she + finished, just above her breath. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of four + flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasing + weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: “Billy, + really, I think we should turn back!” + </p> + <p> + But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in the + presence of a white-haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she was Mrs. + Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however, she looked + fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from the hall behind + them a voice denying her assertion. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two + once-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the skill + with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that + the crippled condition was not a new one. + </p> + <p> + Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had + taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had tried + not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of the bare + little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless tablecloth, + that was not stamped on her brain. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his + throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were the more + distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer: + </p> + <p> + “We—er—I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to + understand you had an—er—teapot that—er—” With his + eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw + came to a helpless pause. + </p> + <p> + A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. + Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the + other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet + there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the door before + she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!—that is, of course I must be glad. + I'll get it.” Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair. There + was only despairing sorrow on her face now. + </p> + <p> + The man rose at once. + </p> + <p> + “But, madam, perhaps—don't let me—” I he began stammeringly. + “Of course—Billy!” he broke off in an entirely different voice. + “Jove! What a beauty!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near the + collector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shaped + teapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Near + it set a tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration. + </p> + <p> + “If you'll lift it down, please, yourself,” motioned Mrs. Greggory. “I + don't like to—with these,” she explained, tapping the crutches at + her side. + </p> + <p> + With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the + collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real thing—the + genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray—did you notice?” he + exulted, turning back to the shelf. “You <i>don't</i> see that every day! + They get separated, most generally, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “These pieces have been in our family for generations,” said Mrs. Greggory + with an accent of pride. “You'll find them quite perfect, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfect! I should say they were,” cried the man. + </p> + <p> + “They are, then—valuable?” Mrs. Greggory's voice shook. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed they are! But you must know that.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies in + their association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir.” + Again her voice broke. + </p> + <p> + William Henshaw cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “But, madam, if you do not wish to sell—” He stopped abruptly. His + longing eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry. + </p> + <p> + “But I do—that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, and + that it will bring in money; and we need—money.” She threw a quick + glance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. “I + can't do much at work that pays. I sew”—she nodded toward the + machine by the window—“but with only one foot to make it go—You + see, the other is—is inclined to shirk a little,” she finished with + a wistful whimsicality. + </p> + <p> + Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart in + her eyes. She was conscious suddenly of a fierce anger against—she + did not know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot, or + against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for <i>not</i> wanting it—if + he did not buy it. + </p> + <p> + “And so you see, I do very much wish to sell.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory said then. “Perhaps you will tell me what it would be worth + to you,” she concluded tremulously. + </p> + <p> + The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with careful rapture + and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I have only one other in my collection as rare,” he said. “I paid a + hundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to give you the same for this, + madam.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory started visibly. + </p> + <p> + “A hundred dollars? So much as that?” she cried almost joyously. “Why, + nothing else that we've had has brought—Of course, if it's worth + that to you—” She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the + hall outside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, who + looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, only think, I've—” She stopped, and drew back a little. Her + startled eyes went from one face to another, then dropped to the Lowestoft + teapot in the man's hands. Her expression changed at once. She shut the + door quickly and hurried forward. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, what is it? Who are these people?” she asked sharply. + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a feeling which + she could not name: Billy was not used to being called “these people” in + precisely that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raised his chin. He, + also, was not in the habit of being referred to as “these people.” + </p> + <p> + “My name is Henshaw, Miss—Greggory, I presume,” he said quietly. “I + was sent here by Mr. Harlow.” + </p> + <p> + “About the teapot, my dear, you know,” stammered Mrs. Greggory, wetting + her lips with an air of hurried apology and conciliation. “This gentleman + says he will be glad to buy it. Er—my daughter, Alice, Mr. Henshaw,” + she hastened on, in embarrassed introduction; “and Miss—” + </p> + <p> + “Neilson,” supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgment + of the introductions she turned to her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell you when + I came in, I have two new pupils; and so”—turning to the man again + “I thank you for your offer, but we have decided not to sell the teapot at + present.” As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if to make + room for the strangers to reach the door. + </p> + <p> + William Henshaw frowned angrily—that was the man; but his eyes—the + collector's eyes—sought the teapot longingly. Before either the man + or the collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick + words of remonstrance. + </p> + <p> + “But, Alice, my dear,” she almost sobbed. “You didn't wait to let me tell + you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He will give + us—a hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “A hundred dollars!” echoed the girl, faintly. + </p> + <p> + It was plain to be seen that she was wavering. Billy, watching the little + scene, with mingled emotions, saw the glance with which the girl swept the + bare little room; and she knew that there was not a patch or darn or + poverty spot in sight, or out of sight, which that glance did not + encompass. + </p> + <p> + Billy was wondering which she herself desired more—that Uncle + William should buy the Lowestoft, or that he should not. She knew she + wished Mrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt on + that point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteous + indignation of the man who thinks he has been unjustly treated, and the + final plea of the collector who sees a coveted treasure slipping from his + grasp. + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you,” he said + stiffly. “I certainly should not have made it had I not had Mrs. + Greggory's assurance that she wished to sell the teapot.” + </p> + <p> + Alice Greggory turned as if stung. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Wished to sell!</i>” She repeated the words with superb disdain. She + was plainly very angry. Her blue-gray eyes gleamed with scorn, and her + whole face was suffused with a red that had swept to the roots of her soft + hair. “Do you think a woman <i>wishes</i> to sell a thing that she's + treasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps the last visible reminder + of the days when she was living—not merely existing?” + </p> + <p> + “Alice, Alice, my love!” protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly. + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it,” stormed the girl, hotly. “I know how much you think of + that teapot that was grandmother's. I know what it cost you to make up + your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk about your + <i>wishing</i> to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we <i>wish</i> to live + in a place like this; that we <i>wish</i> to have rugs that are darned, + and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead of + clothes!” + </p> + <p> + “Alice!” gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror. + </p> + <p> + With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory stepped back. + Her face had grown white again. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, of course,” she said in a voice that was bitterly + quiet. “I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, but I + do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzled sigh + William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearly that he + did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, as clearly, + that he longed to do something, or say something. During the brief minute + that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let <i>me</i> buy the teapot? And then—won't + you keep it for me—here? I haven't the hundred dollars with me, but + I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the + standpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one that + might be expected, perhaps, from Billy. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, + for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking “Dear child!” she reached out + and caught Billy's hand in both her own—even while she shook her + head in denial. + </p> + <p> + Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself + proudly erect. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said with crisp coldness; “but, distasteful as darns and + patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to—charity!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but, please, I didn't mean—you didn't understand,” faltered + Billy. + </p> + <p> + For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it + open. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Alice, my dear,” pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,” said William Henshaw + then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs. Greggory's + clasped hands, went. + </p> + <p> + Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William + Henshaw drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't be + to this place,” he fumed. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't it awful!” choked Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little puss + I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! + But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!” scolded + the collector, his face growing red with anger. “Still, I was sorry for + the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have that hundred + dollars!” It was the man who said this, not the collector. + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” rejoined Billy, dolefully. “But that girl was so—so + queer!” she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, + perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered “ice + cream” disdainfully refused. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT— + </h2> + <p> + Kate and little Kate left for the West on the afternoon of the fifteenth, + and Bertram arrived from New York that evening. Notwithstanding the + confusion of all this, Billy still had time to give some thought to her + experience of the morning with Uncle William. The forlorn little room with + its poverty-stricken furnishings and its crippled mistress was very vivid + in Billy's memory. Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice Greggory + as she had opened the door at the last. + </p> + <p> + “For,” as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him + the story of the morning's adventure, “you see, dear, I had never been + really <i>turned out</i> of a house before!” + </p> + <p> + “I should think not,” scowled her lover, indignantly; “and it's safe to + say you never will again. The impertinence of it! But then, you won't see + them any more, sweetheart, so we'll just forget it.” + </p> + <p> + “Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there. + Besides, of course I shall see them again!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram's jaw dropped. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for + that trumpery teapot!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” flashed Billy, heatedly. “It isn't the teapot—it's + that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poor they + are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break + your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either—except + patches. It's awful, Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “I know, darling; but <i>you</i> don't expect to buy them new rugs and new + tablecloths, do you?” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” she chuckled. “Only picture Miss Alice's face if I <i>should</i> + try to buy them rugs and tablecloths! No, dear,” she went on more + seriously, “I sha'n't do that, of course—though I'd like to; but I + shall try to see Mrs. Greggory again, if it's nothing more than a rose or + a book or a new magazine that I can take to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Or a smile—which I fancy will be the best gift of the lot,” amended + Bertram, fondly. + </p> + <p> + Billy dimpled and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Smiles—my smiles—are not so valuable, I'm afraid—except + to you, perhaps,” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Self-evident facts need no proving,” retorted Bertram. “Well, and what + else has happened in all these ages I've been away?” + </p> + <p> + Billy brought her hands together with a sudden cry. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, and I haven't told you!” she exclaimed. “I'm writing a new song—a + love song. Mary Jane wrote the words. They're beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram stiffened. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! And is—Mary Jane a poet, with all the rest?” he asked, with + affected lightness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, of course not,” smiled Billy; “but these words <i>are</i> pretty. + And they just sang themselves into the dearest little melody right away. + So I'm writing the music for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky Mary Jane!” murmured Bertram, still with a lightness that he hoped + would pass for indifference. (Bertram was ashamed of himself, but deep + within him was a growing consciousness that he knew the meaning of the + vague irritation that he always felt at the mere mention of Arkwright's + name.) “And will the title-page say, 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'?” he + finished. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I asked him,” laughed Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I even suggested 'Methuselah John' for a change. Oh, but, dearie,” she + broke off with shy eagerness, “I just want you to hear a little of what + I've done with it. You see, really, all the time, I suspect, I've been + singing it—to you,” she confessed with an endearing blush, as she + sprang lightly to her feet and hurried to the piano. + </p> + <p> + It was a bad ten minutes that Bertram Henshaw spent then. How he could + love a song and hate it at the same time he did not understand; but he + knew that he was doing exactly that. To hear Billy carol “Sweetheart, my + sweetheart!” with that joyous tenderness was bliss unspeakable—until + he remembered that Arkwright wrote the “Sweetheart, my sweetheart!” then + it was—(Even in his thoughts Bertram bit the word off short. He was + not a swearing man.) When he looked at Billy now at the piano, and thought + of her singing—as she said she had sung—that song to him all + through the last three days, his heart glowed. But when he looked at her + and thought of Arkwright, who had made possible that singing, his heart + froze with terror. + </p> + <p> + From the very first it had been music that Bertram had feared. He could + not forget that Billy herself had once told him that never would she love + any man better than she loved her music; that she was not going to marry. + All this had been at the first—the very first. He had boldly scorned + the idea then, and had said: + </p> + <p> + “So it's music—a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean + white paper—that is my only rival!” + </p> + <p> + He had said, too, that he was going to win. And he had won—but not + until after long weeks of fearing, hoping, striving, and despairing—this + last when Kate's blundering had nearly made her William's wife. Then, on + that memorable day in September, Billy had walked straight into his arms; + and he knew that he had, indeed, won. That is, he had supposed that he + knew—until Arkwright came. + </p> + <p> + Very sharply now, as he listened to Billy's singing, Bertram told himself + to be reasonable, to be sensible; that Billy did, indeed, love him. Was + she not, according to her own dear assertion, singing that song to him? + But it was Arkwright's song. He remembered that, too—and grew faint + at the thought. True, he had won when his rival, music, had been a “cold, + senseless thing of spidery marks” on paper; but would that winning stand + when “music” had become a thing of flesh and blood—a man of + undeniable charm, good looks, and winsomeness; a man whose thoughts, aims, + and words were the personification of the thing Billy, in the long ago, + had declared she loved best of all—music? + </p> + <p> + Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song. + “Did you—like it?” + </p> + <p> + Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance of her + face was only an added torture, and his tongue stumbled over the words of + praise and appreciation that he tried to say. He saw, then, the happy + light in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieved + disappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous brute. More earnestly + than ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice; + but he knew that he had miserably failed when he heard her falter: + </p> + <p> + “Of course, dear, I—I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be + much better, later.” + </p> + <p> + “But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart—indeed it is,” protested + Bertram, hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course I'm glad—if you like it,” murmured Billy; but the + glow did not come back to her face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. SUGARPLUMS + </h2> + <p> + Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busy + ones for everybody. Miss Winthrop was not in town to give sittings for her + portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram time and + opportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayed and + neglected. He was often at Hillside, however, and the lovers managed to + snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and confusion of the + Christmas preparations. + </p> + <p> + Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwright were + groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the days passed, she + spoke only once of his being at the house. The song, too, she said little + of; and Bertram—though he was ashamed to own it to himself—breathed + more freely. + </p> + <p> + The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that she + should have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas; + and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himself + synonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint and kept + away. + </p> + <p> + “I'll make her care for me sometime—for something besides a song,” + he told himself with fierce consolation—but Billy did not know this. + </p> + <p> + Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. + There were such a lot of things she wished to do. + </p> + <p> + “But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, + dear,” she declared to Bertram one day, when he had remonstrated with with + her for so taxing her time and strength. “I can't really do much.” + </p> + <p> + “Much!” scoffed Bertram. + </p> + <p> + “But it isn't much, honestly—compared to what there is to do,” + argued Billy. “You see, dear, it's just this,” she went on, her bright + face sobering a little. “There are such a lot of people in the world who + aren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat, + and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you've + said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know + nothing about—except to long for them.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named + Societies—I thought that was what they were for,” declared Bertram, + still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor give + sugarplums,” smiled Billy. “And it's right that they shouldn't, too,” she + added quickly. “They have more than they can do now with the roast beef + and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it—these books and + magazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, the + spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who were + here last summer?” + </p> + <p> + Billy turned in confused surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all—that?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't. I just guessed it—and it seems 'the boy guessed right the + very first time,'” laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender light in + his eyes. “Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the + Lowestoft lady, too, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Billy's chin rose to a defiant stubbornness. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to try to—if I can find out what kind of frosting she + likes.” + </p> + <p> + “How about the Alice lady—or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?” + smiled the man. + </p> + <p> + Billy relaxed visibly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” she sighed. “There is—the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, + she can't call a Christmas present 'charity'—not if it's only a + little bit of frosting!” Billy's chin came up again. + </p> + <p> + “And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” avowed Billy. “I'm going down there one of these days, in the + morning—” + </p> + <p> + “You're going down there! Billy—not alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says.” + </p> + <p> + “So it was horrid—to live in. It was everything that was cheap and + mean and forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn't + know the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled woman + and daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram, + well-born and well-bred, I'm sure—and that's the pity of it, to have + to live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Those + pitiful little worn crutches of hers were mahogany, I'm sure, Bertram, and + they were silver mounted.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram made a restless movement. + </p> + <p> + “I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do for Will, + of course, nor me—under the circumstances. But there's Aunt Hannah—” + He paused hopefully. + </p> + <p> + Billy chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Bless your dear heart! Aunt Hannah would call for a dozen shawls in that + place—if she had breath enough to call for any after she got to the + top of those four flights!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I suppose so,” rejoined Bertram, with an unwilling smile. “Still—well, + you <i>can</i> take Rosa,” he concluded decisively. + </p> + <p> + “How Miss Alice would like that—to catch me going 'slumming' with my + maid!” cried Billy, righteous indignation in her voice. “Honestly, + Bertram, I think even gentle Mrs. Greggory wouldn't stand for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then leave Rosa outside in the hall,” planned Bertram, promptly; and + after a few more arguments, Billy finally agreed to this. + </p> + <p> + It was with Rosa, therefore, that she set out the next morning for the + little room up four flights on the narrow West End street. + </p> + <p> + Leaving the maid on the top stair of the fourth flight, Billy tapped at + Mrs. Greggory's door. To her joy Mrs. Greggory herself answered the knock. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Why—why, good morning,” murmured the lady, in evident + embarrassment. “Won't you—come m?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. May I?—just a minute?” smiled Billy, brightly. + </p> + <p> + As she entered the room, Billy threw a hasty look about her. There was no + one but themselves present. With a sigh of satisfaction, therefore, the + girl took the chair Mrs. Greggory offered, and began to speak. + </p> + <p> + “I was down this way—that is, I came this way this morning,” she + began a little hastily; “and I wanted just to come up and tell you how + sorry I was about—about that teapot the other day. We didn't want + it, of course—if you didn't want us to have it.” + </p> + <p> + A swift change crossed Mrs. Greggory's perturbed face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then you didn't come for it again—to-day,” she said. “I'm so + glad! I didn't want to refuse—<i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I didn't come for it—and we sha'n't again. Don't worry about + that, please.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you thought me very rude and—and impossible the other + day,” she stammered. “And please let me take this opportunity right now to + apologize for my daughter. She was overwrought and excited. She didn't + know what she was saying or doing, I'm sure. She was ashamed, I think + after you left.” + </p> + <p> + Billy raised a quick hand of protest. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, please don't, Mrs. Greggory,” she begged. + </p> + <p> + “But it was our fault that you came. We <i>asked</i> you to come—through + Mr. Harlow,” rejoined the other, hurriedly. “And Mr. Henshaw—was + that his name?—was so kind in every way. I'm glad of this chance to + tell you how much we really did appreciate it—and <i>your</i> offer, + too, which we could not, of course, accept,” she finished, the bright + color flooding her delicate face. + </p> + <p> + Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in the opposite + chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that she wished to say. + </p> + <p> + “I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointed—about the + Lowestoft. We didn't want to let it go if we could help it; and we hope + now to keep it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” murmured Billy, sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, and she + was determined that I should not give it up. She said I should have that + much left, anyway. You see—my daughter is very unreconciled, still, + to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are so different—from + what they were!” Her voice broke a little. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged with + impatient indignation. “If only there were something one could do to + help!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, my dear, but there isn't—indeed there isn't,” rejoined + the other, quickly; and Billy, looking into the proudly lifted face, + realized suddenly that daughter Alice had perhaps inherited some traits + from mother. “We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughter has + still another pupil. She will be home soon to tell you herself, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for I + must go. And may I leave these, please?” she added, hurriedly unpinning + the bunch of white carnations from her coat. “It seems a pity to let them + wilt, when you can put them in water right here.” Her studiously casual + voice gave no hint that those particular pinks had been bought less than + half an hour before of a Park Street florist so that Mrs. Greggory <i>might</i> + put them in water—right there. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh, how lovely!” breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in the + feathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say “Thank you,” however? + she found herself alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. ALICE GREGGORY + </h2> + <p> + Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet January + arrived. The holidays over, matters and things seemed to settle down to + the winter routine. + </p> + <p> + Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until after Christmas, + but she had returned to Boston now—and with her she had brought a + brand-new idea for her portrait; an idea that caused her to sweep aside + with superb disdain all poses and costumes and sketches to date, and + announce herself with disarming winsomeness as “all ready now to really + begin!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paint Miss + Marguerite Winthrop's portrait; but to attempt to paint it when all + matters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless, unless he + wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along with + Anderson's and Fullam's—and that was not the goal he had set for it. + As to the sordid money part of the affair—the great J. G. Winthrop + himself had come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled the + original price and expressed himself as hopeful that Henshaw would put up + with “the child's notions.” It was the old financier's next sentence, + however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, for because + of it, the artist saw what this portrait was going to mean to the stern + old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart that was commonly + reported “on the street” to be made of stone. + </p> + <p> + Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to do but + to begin the new portrait. And he began it—though still, it must be + confessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however, + every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbed + artist who sees the vision of his desire taking palpable shape at the end + of his brush. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” he said to Billy then, one evening. “I'm glad she + changed. It's going to be the best, the very best thing I've ever done—I + think! by the sketches.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm so glad!” exclaimed Billy. “I'm so glad!” The repetition was so + vehement that it sounded almost as if she were trying to convince herself + as well as Bertram of something that was not true. + </p> + <p> + But it was true—Billy told herself very indignantly that it was; + indeed it was! Yet the very fact that she had to tell herself this, caused + her to know how perilously near she was to being actually jealous of that + portrait of Marguerite Winthrop. And it shamed her. + </p> + <p> + Very sternly these days Billy reminded herself of what Kate had said about + Bertram's belonging first to his Art. She thought with mortification, too, + that it <i>did</i> look as if she were not the proper wife for an artist + if she were going to feel like this—always. Very resolutely, then, + Billy turned to her music. This was all the more easily done, for, not + only did she have her usual concerts and the opera to enjoy, but she had + become interested in an operetta her club was about to give; also she had + taken up the new song again. Christmas being over, Mr. Arkwright had been + to the house several times. He had changed some of the words and she had + improved the melody. The work on the accompaniment was progressing finely + now, and Billy was so glad!—when she was absorbed in her music she + forgot sometimes that she was ever so unfit an artist's sweetheart as to + be—jealous of a portrait. + </p> + <p> + It was quite early in the month that the usually expected “January thaw” + came, and it was on a comparatively mild Friday at this time that a matter + of business took Billy into the neighborhood of Symphony Hall at about + eleven o'clock in the morning. Dismissing John and the car upon her + arrival, she said that she would later walk to the home of a friend near + by, where she would remain until it was time for the Symphony Concert. + </p> + <p> + This friend was a girl whom Billy had known at school. She was studying + now at the Conservatory of Music; and she had often urged Billy to come + and have luncheon with her in her tiny apartment, which she shared with + three other girls and a widowed aunt for housekeeper. On this particular + Friday it had occurred to Billy that, owing to her business appointment at + eleven and the Symphony Concert at half-past two, the intervening time + would give her just the opportunity she had been seeking to enable her to + accept her friend's invitation. A question asked, and enthusiastically + answered in the affirmative, over the telephone that morning, therefore, + had speedily completed arrangements, and she had agreed to be at her + friend's door by twelve o'clock, or before. + </p> + <p> + As it happened, business did not take quite so long as she had expected, + and half-past eleven found her well on her way to Miss Henderson's home. + </p> + <p> + In spite of the warm sunshine and the slushy snow in the streets, there + was a cold, raw wind, and Billy was beginning to feel thankful that she + had not far to go when she rounded a corner and came upon a long line of + humanity that curved itself back and forth on the wide expanse of steps + before Symphony Hall and then stretched itself far up the Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what—” she began under her breath; then suddenly she + understood. It was Friday. A world-famous pianist was to play with the + Symphony Orchestra that afternoon. This must be the line of patient + waiters for the twenty-five-cent balcony seats that Mr. Arkwright had told + about. With sympathetic, interested eyes, then, Billy stepped one side to + watch the line, for a moment. + </p> + <p> + Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying: + </p> + <p> + “What a shame!—and after all our struggles to get here! If only we + hadn't lost that other train!” + </p> + <p> + “We're too late—you no need to hurry!” the other wailed shrilly to a + third girl who was hastening toward them. “The line is 'way beyond the + Children's Hospital and around the corner now—and the ones there <i>never</i> + get in!” + </p> + <p> + At the look of tragic disappointment that crossed the third girl's face, + Billy's heart ached. Her first impulse, of course, was to pull her own + symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a “Here, take mine!” + But that <i>would</i> hardly do, she knew—though she would like to + see Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and white + tam-o'-shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satins and + furs and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestra chair. But + it was out of the question, of course. There was only one seat, and there + were three girls, besides all those others. With a sigh, then, Billy + turned her eyes back to those others—those many others that made up + the long line stretching its weary length up the Avenue. + </p> + <p> + There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young men + who were plainly students; older men whose refined faces and threadbare + overcoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men who + showed no hollows in their cheeks nor near-holes in their garments. It + seemed to Billy that women of almost all sorts were there, young, old, and + middle-aged; students in tailored suits, widows in crape and veil; girls + that were members of a merry party, women that were plainly forlorn and + alone. + </p> + <p> + Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One had + brought a camp stool; many were seated on the steps. Beyond, where the + line passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop. One + read a book, another a paper. Three were studying what was probably the + score of the symphony or of the concerto they expected to hear that + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, by + turned-up coat-collars or bent heads, testified to the contrary. Not far + from Billy a woman nibbled a sandwich furtively, while beyond her a group + of girls were hilariously merry over four triangles of pie which they held + up where all might see. + </p> + <p> + Many of the faces were youthful, happy, and alert with anticipation; but + others carried a wistfulness and a weariness that made Billy's heart ache. + Her eyes, indeed, filled with quick tears. Later she turned to go, and it + was then that she saw in the line a face that she knew—a face that + drooped with such a white misery of spent strength that she hurried + straight toward it with a low cry. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Greggory!” she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. “You look + actually ill. Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl's blue-gray + eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw the painful color + stain the white face red. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, no. I am not ill, Miss Neilson,” said the girl, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “But you look so tired out!” + </p> + <p> + “I have been standing here some time; that is all.” + </p> + <p> + Billy threw a hurried glance down the far-reaching line that she knew had + formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their first position. + </p> + <p> + “But you must have come—so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet,” she + faltered. + </p> + <p> + A slight smile curved Alice Greggory's lips. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was early,” she rejoined a little bitterly; “but it had to be, + you know. I wanted to hear the music; and with this soloist, and this + weather, I knew that many others—would want to hear the music, too.” + </p> + <p> + “But you look so white! How much longer—when will they let you in?” + demanded Billy, raising indignant eyes to the huge, gray-pillared building + before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if she could, and + make way for this tired girl at her side. + </p> + <p> + Miss Greggory's thin shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. + </p> + <p> + “Half-past one.” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a dismayed cry. + </p> + <p> + “Half-past one—almost two hours more! But, Miss Greggory, you can't—how + can you stand it till then? You've shivered three times since I came, and + you look as if you were going to faint away.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Greggory shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing, really,” she insisted. “I am quite well. It is only—I + didn't happen to feel like eating much breakfast this morning; and that, + with no luncheon—” She let a gesture finish her sentence. + </p> + <p> + “No luncheon! Why—oh, you couldn't leave your place, of course,” + frowned Billy. + </p> + <p> + “No, and”—Alice Greggory lifted her head a little proudly—“I + do not care to eat—here.” Her scornful eyes were on one of the + pieces of pie down the line—no longer a triangle. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, and bit her + lip. Suddenly her face cleared. “There! the very thing,” she exulted. “You + shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, then you won't have to + stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is an excellent restaurant—” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—no. I couldn't do that,” cut in the other, sharply, but + in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “But you'll take my ticket,” begged Billy. + </p> + <p> + Miss Greggory shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't,” grieved + Billy. + </p> + <p> + The other made a peremptory gesture. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> should be very unhappy if I did,” she said with cold emphasis. + “Really, Miss Neilson,” she went on in a low voice, throwing an + apprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in his + newspaper, “I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my own + way. You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do; nothing. You were + very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers to mother at + Christmas; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that, please,” interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's head was + lifted now. Her eyes were no longer pleading. Her round little chin looked + square and determined. “If you simply will not take my ticket this + afternoon, you <i>must</i> do this. Go to some restaurant near here and + get a good luncheon—something that will sustain you. I will take + your place here.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Miss Neilson!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seen Alice + Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break into anything like naturalness—the + astonished incredulity of that “Miss Neilson!” was plainly straight from + the heart; so, too, were the amazed words that followed. + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i>—will stand <i>here?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; I will keep your place. Don't worry. You sha'n't lose it.” + Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey the + impression that standing in line for a twenty-five-cent seat was a daily + habit of hers. “There's a restaurant only a little way—right down + there,” she finished. And before the dazed Alice Greggory knew quite what + was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other in her + place. + </p> + <p> + “But, Miss Neilson, I can't—you mustn't—” she stammered; then, + because of something in the unyieldingness of the square young chin above + the sealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use actual force + to drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head in + acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a + sandwich. And—thank you,” she choked, as she turned and hurried + away. + </p> + <p> + Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after long struggles—but + the breath broke off short in a gasp of dismay: coming straight up the + Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billy wished least to + see at that moment—Bertram Henshaw. Billy remembered then that she + had twice lately heard her lover speak of calling at the Boston Opera + House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head to represent “Music” + for some decorative purpose. The Opera House was only a short distance up + the Avenue. Doubtless he was on his way there now. + </p> + <p> + He was very near by this time, and Billy held her breath suspended. There + was a chance, of course, that he might not notice her; and Billy was + counting on that chance—until a gust of wind whirled a loose + half-sheet of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, and + naturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its vicinity—and to hers. The + next moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softly-breathed “<i>Billy!</i>” + was in her ears. + </p> + <p> + Billy bubbled into low laughter—there were such a lot of funny + situations in the world, and of them all this one was about the drollest, + she thought. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” she gurgled. “You don't have to say it-your face is saying + even more than your tongue <i>could!</i> This is just for a girl I know. + I'm keeping her place.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up and + walking off with her. + </p> + <p> + “But, Billy,” he protested just above his breath, “this isn't sugarplums + nor frosting; it's plain suicide—standing out in this wind like + this! Besides—” He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at her + surroundings. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look and + answering that first; “it isn't pleasant nor comfortable, in lots of ways—but + <i>she's</i> had it all the morning. As for the cold—I'm as warm as + toast. It won't be long, anyway; she's just gone to get something to eat. + Then I'm going to May Henderson's for luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips—only to close them + with the words unsaid. There was nothing he could do, and he had already + said too much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead who still + had enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. As + Bertram could see, however, the man was not reading a word—he was + too acutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long sealskin + coat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, and + Bertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened the + interest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that no one + in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what had + happened. He did not wish to see himself and his fiancée the subject of + inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as: + </p> + <p> + “Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's + place in a twenty-five-cent ticket line.” + </p> + <p> + He shivered at the thought. + </p> + <p> + “Are you cold?” worried Billy. “If you are, don't stand here, please!” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the + only one whose coming could bring him relief. + </p> + <p> + It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, for + soon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her, + and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A moment later + the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side. + </p> + <p> + “That was Alice Greggory, Bertram,” she told him, as they walked on + swiftly; “and Bertram, she was actually almost <i>crying</i> when she took + my place.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be,” growled Bertram, + perversely. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie,” laughed Billy with a conciliatory + pat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friend lived. + “And now can you come in and see May a minute?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not,” regretted Bertram. “I wish I could, but I'm busier than + busy to-day—and I was <i>supposed</i> to be already late when I saw + you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!” + </p> + <p> + “You looked it,” twinkled Billy. “It was worth a farm just to see your + face!” + </p> + <p> + “I'd want the farm—if I was going through that again,” retorted the + man, grimly—Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading. + </p> + <p> + But Billy only laughed again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY + </h2> + <p> + Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and + Billy put the finishing touches to the new song. + </p> + <p> + It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the fire a + little later, that Billy told of her adventure the preceding Friday + afternoon in front of Symphony Hall. + </p> + <p> + “You knew the girl, of course—I think you said you knew the girl,” + ventured Arkwright. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, over + a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know <i>how</i> I met her,” smiled + Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Alice Greggory?” Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. “I used to + know an Alice Greggory, but it isn't the same one, probably. Her mother + was a cripple.” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a little cry. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it is—it must be! <i>My</i> Alice Greggory's mother is a + cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it does look like it,” rejoined Arkwright, showing even deeper + interest. “I haven't seen them for four or five years. They used to live + in our town. The mother was a little sweet-faced woman with young eyes and + prematurely white hair.” + </p> + <p> + “That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly,” cried Billy's eager voice. “And + the daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “Alice? Why—as I said, it's been four years since I've seen her.” A + touch of constraint had come into Arkwright's voice which Billy's keen ear + was quick to detect. “She was nineteen then and very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “About my height, and with light-brown hair and big blue-gray eyes that + look steely cold when she's angry?” questioned Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon that's about it,” acknowledged the man, with a faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “Then they <i>are</i> the ones,” declared the girl, plainly excited. + “Isn't that splendid? Now we can know them, and perhaps do something for + them. I love that dear little mother already, and I think I should the + daughter—if she didn't put out so many prickers that I couldn't get + near her! But tell us about them. How did they come here? Why didn't you + know they were here?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?” asked Aunt Hannah, + turning smiling eyes from Billy to the man at her side. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can try,” he offered. “To begin with, they are Judge Greggory's + widow and daughter. They belong to fine families on both sides, and they + used to be well off—really wealthy, for a small town. But the judge + was better at money-making than he was at money-keeping, and when he came + to die his income stopped, of course, and his estate was found to be in + bad shape through reckless loans and worthless investments. That was eight + years ago. Things went from bad to worse then, until there was almost + nothing left.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew there was some such story as that back of them,” declared Billy. + “But how do you suppose they came here?” + </p> + <p> + “To get away from—everybody, I suspect,” replied Arkwright. “That + would be like them. They were very proud; and it isn't easy, you know, to + be nobody where you've been somebody. It doesn't hurt quite so hard—to + be nobody where you've never been anything but nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” sighed Billy. “Still—they must have had friends.” + </p> + <p> + “They did, of course; but when the love of one's friends becomes <i>too</i> + highly seasoned with pity, it doesn't make a pleasant morsel to swallow, + specially if you don't like the taste of the pity—and there are + people who don't, you know. The Greggorys were that kind. They were + morbidly so. From their cheap little cottage, where they did their own + work, they stepped out in their shabby garments and old-fashioned hats + with heads even more proudly erect than in the old days when their home + and their gowns and their doings were the admiration and envy of the town. + You see, they didn't want—that pity.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>do</i> see,” cried Billy, her face aglow with sudden understanding; + “and I don't believe pity would be—nice!” Her own chin was held high + as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “It must have been hard, indeed,” murmured Aunt Hannah with a sigh, as she + set down her teacup. + </p> + <p> + “It was,” nodded Arkwright. “Of course Mrs. Greggory, with her crippled + foot, could do nothing to bring in any money except to sew a little. It + all depended on Alice; and when matters got to their worst she began to + teach. She was fond of music, and could play the piano well; and of course + she had had the best instruction she could get from city teachers only + twenty miles away from our home town. Young as she was—about + seventeen when she began to teach, I think—she got a few beginners + right away, and in two years she had worked up quite a class, meanwhile + keeping on with her own studies, herself. + </p> + <p> + “They might have carried the thing through, maybe,” continued Arkwright, + “and never <i>apparently</i> known that the 'pity' existed, if it hadn't + been for some ugly rumors that suddenly arose attacking the Judge's + honesty in an old matter that somebody raked up. That was too much. Under + this last straw their courage broke utterly. Alice dismissed every pupil, + sold almost all their remaining goods—they had lots of quite + valuable heirlooms; I suspect that's where your Lowestoft teapot came in—and + with the money thus gained they left town. Until they could go, they + scarcely showed themselves once on the street, they were never at home to + callers, and they left without telling one soul where they were going, so + far as we could ever learn.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the poor dears!” cried Billy. “How they must have suffered! But + things will be different now. You'll go to see them, of course, and—” + At the look that came into Arkwright's face, she stopped in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “You forget; they wouldn't wish to see me,” demurred the man. And again + Billy noticed the odd constraint in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “But they wouldn't mind <i>you—here</i>,” argued Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid they would. In fact, I'm sure they'd refuse entirely to see + me.” + </p> + <p> + Billy's eyes grew determined. + </p> + <p> + “But they can't refuse—if I bring about a meeting just casually, you + know,” she challenged. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I won't pretend to say as to the consequences of that,” he + rejoined, rising to his feet; “but they might be disastrous. Wasn't it you + yourself who were telling me a few minutes ago how steely cold Miss + Alice's eyes got when she was angry?” + </p> + <p> + Billy knew by the way the man spoke that, for some reason, he did not wish + to prolong the subject of his meeting the Greggorys. She made a quick + shift, therefore, to another phase of the matter. + </p> + <p> + “But tell me, please, before you go, how did those rumors come out—about + Judge Greggory's honesty, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I never knew, exactly,” frowned Arkwright, musingly. “Yet it seems, + too, that mother did say in one letter, while I was in Paris, that some of + the accusations had been found to be false, and that there was a prospect + that the Judge's good name might be saved, after all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wish it might,” sighed Billy. “Think what it would mean to those + women!” + </p> + <p> + “'Twould mean everything,” cried Arkwright, warmly; “and I'll write to + mother to-night, I will, and find out just what there is to it-if + anything. Then you can tell them,” he finished a little stiffly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—or you,” nodded Billy, lightly. And because she began at once + to speak of something else, the first part of her sentence passed without + comment. + </p> + <p> + The door had scarcely closed behind Arkwright when Billy turned to Aunt + Hannah a beaming face. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah, did you notice?” she cried, “how Mary Jane looked and acted + whenever Alice Greggory was spoken of? There was something between them—I'm + sure there was; and they quarrelled, probably.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no, dear; I didn't see anything unusual,” murmured the elder lady. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did. And I'm going to be the fairy godmother that straightens + everything all out, too. See if I'm not! They'd make a splendid couple, + Aunt Hannah. I'm going right down there to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy, my dear!” exclaimed the more conservative old lady, “aren't you + taking things a little too much for granted? Maybe they don't wish for—for + a fairy godmother!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>they</i> won't know I'm a fairy godmother—not one of them; + and of course I wouldn't mention even a hint to anybody,” laughed Billy. + “I'm just going down to get acquainted with the Greggorys; that's all. + Only think, Aunt Hannah, what they must have suffered! And look at the + place they're living in now—gentlewomen like them!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, poor things, poor things!” sighed Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I'll find out that she's really good—at teaching, I mean—the + daughter,” resumed Billy, after a moment's pause. “If she is, there's one + thing I can do to help, anyhow. I can get some of Marie's old pupils for + her. I <i>know</i> some of them haven't begun with a new teacher, yet; and + Mrs. Carleton told me last Friday that neither she nor her sister was at + all satisfied with the one their girls <i>have</i> taken. They'd change, I + know, in a minute, at my recommendation—that is, of course, if I can + <i>give</i> the recommendation,” continued Billy, with a troubled frown. + “Anyhow, I'm going down to begin operations to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS + </h2> + <p> + True to her assertion, Billy went down to the Greggorys' the next day. + This time she did not take Rosa with her. Even Aunt Hannah conceded that + it would not be necessary. She had not been gone ten minutes, however, + when the telephone bell rang, and Rosa came to say that Mr. Bertram + Henshaw wanted to speak with Mrs. Stetson. + </p> + <p> + “Rosa says that Billy's not there,” called Bertram's aggrieved voice, when + Aunt Hannah had said, “Good morning, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, no, Bertram. She's in a fever of excitement this morning. She'll + probably tell you all about it when you come out here to-night. You <i>are</i> + coming out to-night, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; oh, yes! But what is it? Where's she gone?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she's gone down to the Greggorys'.” + </p> + <p> + “The Greggorys'! What—again?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram,” bantered Aunt Hannah, + “for there'll be a good many 'agains,' I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?” Bertram's voice was not quite + pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be + old friends of Mr. Arkwright's.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Friends</i> of Arkwright's!” Bertram's voice was decidedly displeased + now. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and there's quite a story to it all, as well. Billy is wildly + excited, as you'd know she would be. You'll hear all about it to-night, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course,” echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm in + his voice, neither then, nor when he said good-by a moment later. + </p> + <p> + Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannah had + said, “wildly excited.” It seemed so strange and wonderful and delightful—the + whole affair: that she should have found them because of a Lowestoft + teapot, that Arkwright should know them, and that there should be the + chance now that she might help them—in some way; though this last, + she knew, could be accomplished only through the exercise of the greatest + tact and delicacy. She had not forgotten that Arkwright had told her of + their hatred of pity. + </p> + <p> + In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of a + possible romance in connection with Arkwright and the daughter, Alice; but + she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keep her eyes + open—and if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about—! + Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, even to Bertram. + </p> + <p> + Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy had + not determined. The pretty potted azalea in her hand would be excuse for + her entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide for + themselves. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy was glad. + She would rather begin with one than two, she thought. The little woman + greeted her cordially, gave misty-eyed thanks for the beautiful plant, and + also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. From that she was + very skilfully led to talk more of the daughter; and soon Billy was + getting just the information she wanted—information concerning the + character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory. + </p> + <p> + “You see, we have some money—a very little,” explained Mrs. + Greggory, after a time; “though to get it we have had to sell all our + treasures—but the Lowestoft,” with a quick glance into Billy's eyes. + “We need not, perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but we prefer—just + now—to spend the little money we have for something other than + imitation comfort—lessons, for instance, and an occasional concert. + My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopes to train + herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does not aspire to + concert solo work. She understands her limitations.” + </p> + <p> + “But she is probably—very good—at teaching.” Billy hesitated a + little. + </p> + <p> + “She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations.” A little proudly + Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists—names that would + carry weight anywhere. + </p> + <p> + Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she + had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this Alice + Greggory. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” resumed the mother, “Alice's pupils are few, and they pay low + prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. She herself + practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. She gives + lessons to a little girl in return.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” nodded Billy, brightly; “and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggory—maybe + I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend who has just given + hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going to talk to your + daughter, if I may, and—” + </p> + <p> + “And here she is right now,” interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door opened + under a hurried hand. + </p> + <p> + Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. She did + not particularly wish to see Alice Greggory just then. She wished even + less to see her when she noted the swift change that came to the girl's + face at sight of herself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson,” murmured Miss Greggory with a smile + so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in search of a + possible peacemaker. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, see,” she stammered, “what Miss Neilson has brought me. And it's + so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long, long + time—if we'll only keep it wet.” + </p> + <p> + Alice Greggory murmured a low something—a something that she tried, + evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and appreciative. Yet + her manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so plainly + said: “You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourself + and your plants at home!” that Mrs. Greggory began a hurried apology, much + as if the words had indeed been spoken. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter is really ill this morning. You mustn't mind—that is, + I'm afraid you'll think—you see, she took cold last week; a bad cold—and + she isn't over it, yet,” finished the little woman in painful + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Of course she took cold—standing all those hours in that horrid + wind, Friday!” cried Billy, indignantly. + </p> + <p> + A quick red flew to Alice Greggory's face. Billy saw it at once and + fervently wished she had spoken of anything but that Friday afternoon. It + looked almost as if she were <i>reminding</i> them of what she had done + that day. In her confusion, and in her anxiety to say something—anything + that would get their minds off that idea—she uttered now the first + words that came into her head. As it happened, they were the last words + that sober second thought would have told her to say. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Mrs. Greggory. We'll have her all well and strong soon; never + fear! Just wait till I send Peggy and Mary Jane to take her out for a + drive one of these mild, sunny days. You have no idea how much good it + will do her!” + </p> + <p> + Alice Greggory got suddenly to her feet. Her face was very white now. Her + eyes had the steely coldness that Billy knew so well. Her voice, when she + spoke, was low and sternly controlled. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Neilson, you will think me rude, of course, especially after your + great kindness to me the other day; but I can't help it. It seems to me + best to speak now before it goes any further.” + </p> + <p> + “Alice, dear,” remonstrated Mrs. Greggory, extending a frightened hand. + </p> + <p> + The girl did not turn her head nor hesitate; but she caught the extended + hand and held it warmly in both her own, with gentle little pats, while + she went on speaking. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure mother agrees with me that it is best, for the present, that we + keep quite to ourselves. I cannot question your kindness, of course, after + your somewhat unusual favor the other day; but I am very sure that your + friends, Miss Peggy, and Miss Mary Jane, have no real desire to make my + acquaintance, nor—if you'll pardon me—have I, under the + circumstances, any wish to make theirs.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Alice, Alice,” began the little mother, in dismay; but a rippling + laugh from their visitor brought an angry flush even to her gentle face. + </p> + <p> + Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control. + </p> + <p> + “Please—please, forgive me!” she choked. “But you see—you + couldn't, of course, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't <i>girls</i>. + They're just a man and an automobile!” + </p> + <p> + An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still stood + her ground. + </p> + <p> + “After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilson—it makes + little difference. They're—charity. And it's not so long that we've + been objects of charity that we quite really enjoy it—yet.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's hush. Billy's eyes had filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “I never even <i>thought</i>—charity,” said Billy, so gently that a + faint red stole into the white cheeks opposite. + </p> + <p> + For a tense minute Alice Greggory held herself erect; then, with a + complete change of manner and voice, she released her mother's hand, + dropped into her own chair again, and said wearily: + </p> + <p> + “I know you didn't, Miss Neilson. It's all my foolish pride, of course. + It's only that I was thinking how dearly I would love to meet girls again—just + as <i>girls!</i> But—I no longer have any business with pride, of + course. I shall be pleased, I'm sure,” she went on dully, “to accept + anything you may do for us, from automobile rides to—to red flannel + petticoats.” + </p> + <p> + Billy almost—but not quite—laughed. Still, the laugh would + have been near to a sob, had it been given. Surprising as was the quick + transition in the girl's manner, and absurd as was the juxtaposition of + automobiles and red flannel petticoats, the white misery of Alice + Greggory's face and the weary despair of her attitude were tragic—specially + to one who knew her story as did Billy Neilson. And it was because Billy + did know her story that she did not make the mistake now of offering pity. + Instead, she said with a bright smile, and a casual manner that gave no + hint of studied labor: + </p> + <p> + “Well, as it happens, Miss Greggory, what I want to-day has nothing + whatever to do with automobiles or red flannel petticoats. It's a matter + of straight business.” (How Billy blessed the thought that had so suddenly + come to her!) “Your mother tells me you play accompaniments. Now a girls' + club, of which I am a member, is getting up an operetta for charity, and + we need an accompanist. There is no one in the club who is able, and at + the same time willing, to spend the amount of time necessary for practice + and rehearsals. So we had decided to hire one outside, and I have been + given the task of finding one. It has occurred to me that perhaps you + would be willing to undertake it for us. Would you?” + </p> + <p> + Billy knew, at once, from the quick change in the other's face and manner, + that she had taken exactly the right course to relieve the strain of the + situation. Despair and lassitude fell away from Alice Greggory almost like + a garment. Her countenance became alert and interested. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I would! I should be glad to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! Then can you come out to my home sometime to-morrow, and go over + the music with me? Rehearsals will not begin until next week; but I can + give you the music, and tell you something of what we are planning to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I could come at ten in the morning for an hour, or at three in the + afternoon for two hours or more,” replied Miss Greggory, after a moment's + hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we call it in the afternoon, then,” smiled Billy, as she rose to + her feet. “And now I must go—and here's my address,” she finished, + taking out her card and laying it on the table near her. + </p> + <p> + For reasons of her own Billy went away that morning without saying + anything more about the proposed new pupils. New pupils were not + automobile rides nor petticoats, to be sure—but she did not care to + risk disturbing the present interested happiness of Alice Greggory's face + by mentioning anything that might be construed as too officious an + assistance. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To Aunt + Hannah, upon her return, she expressed herself thus: + </p> + <p> + “It's splendid—even better than I hoped. I shall have a chance + to-morrow, of course, to see for myself just how well she plays, and all + that. I'm pretty sure, though, from what I hear, that that part will be + all right. Then the operetta will give us a chance to see a good deal of + her, and to bring about a natural meeting between her and Mary Jane. Oh, + Aunt Hannah, I couldn't have <i>planned</i> it better—and there the + whole thing just tumbled into my hands! I knew it had the minute I + remembered about the operetta. You know I'm chairman, and they left me to + get the accompanist; and like a flash it came to me, when I was wondering + <i>what</i> to say or do to get her out of that awful state she was in—'Ask + her to be your accompanist.' And I did. And I'm so glad I did! Oh, Aunt + Hannah, it's coming out lovely!—I know it is.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS + </h2> + <p> + To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way a + delight and a satisfaction. To Alice, it was even more than that. For the + first time in years she found herself welcomed into a home of wealth, + culture, and refinement as an equal; and the frank cordiality and + naturalness of her hostess's evident expectation of meeting a congenial + companion was like balm to a sensitive soul rendered morbid by long years + of superciliousness and snubbing. + </p> + <p> + No wonder that under the cheery friendliness of it all, Alice Greggory's + cold reserve vanished, and that in its place came something very like her + old ease and charm of manner. By the time Aunt Hannah—according to + previous agreement—came into the room, the two girls were laughing + and chatting over the operetta as if they had known each other for years. + </p> + <p> + Much to Billy's delight, Alice Greggory, as a musician, proved to be + eminently satisfactory. She was quick at sight reading, and accurate. She + played easily, and with good expression. Particularly was she a good + accompanist, possessing to a marked degree that happy faculty of <i>accompanying</i> + a singer: which means that she neither led the way nor lagged behind, + being always exactly in sympathetic step—than which nothing is more + soul-satisfying to the singer. + </p> + <p> + It was after the music for the operetta had been well-practised and + discussed that Alice Greggory chanced to see one of Billy's own songs + lying near her. With a pleased smile she picked it up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know this, too!” she cried. “I played it for a lady only the + other day. It's so pretty, I think—all of hers are, that I have + seen. Billy Neilson is a girl, you know, they say, in spite of—” She + stopped abruptly. Her eyes grew wide and questioning. “Miss Neilson—it + can't be—you don't mean—is your name—it <i>is—you!</i>” + she finished joyously, as the telltale color dyed Billy's face. The next + moment her own cheeks burned scarlet. “And to think of my letting <i>you</i> + stand in line for a twenty-five-cent admission!” she scorned. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” laughed Billy. “It didn't hurt me any more than it did you. + Come!”—in looking about for a quick something to take her guest's + attention, Billy's eyes fell on the manuscript copy of her new song, + bearing Arkwright's name. Yielding to a daring impulse, she drew it + hastily forward. “Here's a new one—a brand-new one, not even printed + yet. Don't you think the words are pretty?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + As she had hoped, Alice Greggory's eyes, after they had glanced half-way + through the first page, sought the name at the left side below the title. + </p> + <p> + “'Words by M. J.—'”—there was a visible start, and a pause + before the “'Arkwright'” was uttered in a slightly different tone. + </p> + <p> + Billy noted both the start and the pause—and gloried in them. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the words are by M. J. Arkwright,” she said with smooth unconcern, + but with a covert glance at the other's face. “Ever hear of him?” + </p> + <p> + Alice Greggory gave a short little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Probably not—this one. I used to know an M. J. Arkwright, long ago; + but he wasn't—a poet, so far as I know,” she finished, with a little + catch in her breath that made Billy long to take her into a warm embrace. + </p> + <p> + Alice Greggory turned then to the music. She had much to say of this—very + much; but she had nothing more whatever to say of Mr. M. J. Arkwright in + spite of the tempting conversation bait that Billy dropped so freely. + After that, Rosa brought in tea and toast, and the little frosted cakes + that were always such a favorite with Billy's guests. Then Alice Greggory + said good-by—her eyes full of tears that Billy pretended not to see. + </p> + <p> + “There!” breathed Billy, as soon as she had Aunt Hannah to herself again. + “What did I tell you? Did you see Miss Greggory's start and blush and hear + her sigh just over the <i>name</i> of M. J. Arkwright? Just as if—! + Now I want them to meet; only it must be casual, Aunt Hannah—casual! + And I'd rather wait till Mary Jane hears from his mother, if possible, so + if there <i>is</i> anything good to tell the poor girl, he can tell it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course. Dear child!—I hope he can,” murmured Aunt Hannah. + (Aunt Hannah had ceased now trying to make Billy refrain from the + reprehensible “Mary Jane.” In fact, if the truth were known, Aunt Hannah + herself in her thoughts—and sometimes in her words—called him + “Mary Jane.”) “But, indeed, my dear, I didn't see anything stiff, or—or + repelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was.” + </p> + <p> + “There wasn't—to-day,” smiled Billy. “Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I + should never have known her for the same girl—who showed me the door + that first morning,” she finished merrily, as she turned to go up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + It was the next day that Cyril and Marie came home from their honeymoon. + They went directly to their pretty little apartment on Beacon Street, + Brookline, within easy walking distance of Billy's own cozy home. + </p> + <p> + Cyril intended to build in a year or two. Meanwhile they had a very + pretty, convenient home which was, according to Bertram, “electrified to + within an inch of its life, and equipped with everything that was + fireless, smokeless, dustless, and laborless.” In it Marie had a + spotlessly white kitchen where she might make puddings to her heart's + content. + </p> + <p> + Marie had—again according to Bertram—“a visiting acquaintance + with a maid.” In other words, a stout woman was engaged to come two days + in the week to wash, iron, and scrub; also to come in each night to wash + the dinner dishes, thus leaving Marie's evenings free—“for the + shaded lamp,” Billy said. + </p> + <p> + Marie had not arrived at this—to her, delightful—arrangement + of a “visiting acquaintance” without some opposition from her friends. + Even Billy had stood somewhat aghast. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, won't it be hard for you, to do so much?” she argued one + day. “You know you aren't very strong.” + </p> + <p> + “I know; but it won't be hard, as I've planned it,” replied Marie, + “specially when I've been longing for years to do this very thing. Why, + Billy, if I had to stand by and watch a maid do all these things I want to + do myself, I should feel just like—like a hungry man who sees + another man eating up his dinner! Oh, of course,” she added plaintively, + after Billy's laughter had subsided, “I sha'n't do it always. I don't + expect to. Of course, when we have a house—I'm not sure, then, + though, that I sha'n't dress up the maid and order her to receive the + calls and go to the pink teas, while I make her puddings,” she finished + saucily, as Billy began to laugh again. + </p> + <p> + The bride and groom, as was proper, were, soon after their arrival, + invited to dine at both William's and Billy's. Then, until Marie's “At + Homes” should begin, the devoted couple settled down to quiet days by + themselves, with only occasional visits from the family to interrupt—“interrupt” + was Bertram's word, not Marie's. Though it is safe to say it was not far + different from the one Cyril used—in his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Bertram himself, these days, was more than busy. Besides working on Miss + Winthrop's portrait, and on two or three other commissions, he was putting + the finishing touches to four pictures which he was to show in the + exhibition soon to be held by a prominent Art Club of which he was the + acknowledged “star” member. Naturally, therefore, his time was well + occupied. Naturally, too, Billy, knowing this, lashed herself more sternly + than ever into a daily reminder of Kate's assertion that he belonged first + to his Art. + </p> + <p> + In pursuance of this idea, Billy was careful to see that no engagement + with herself should in any way interfere with the artist's work, and that + no word of hers should attempt to keep him at her side when ART called. + (Billy always spelled that word now in her mind with tall, black letters—the + way it had sounded when it fell from Kate's lips.) That these tactics on + her part were beginning to fill her lover with vague alarm and a very + definite unrest, she did not once suspect. Eagerly, therefore,—even + with conscientious delight—she welcomed the new song-words that + Arkwright brought—they would give her something else to take up her + time and attention. She welcomed them, also, for another reason: they + would bring Arkwright more often to the house, and this would, of course, + lead to that “casual meeting” between him and Alice Greggory when the + rehearsals for the operetta should commence—which would be very soon + now. And Billy did so long to bring about that meeting! + </p> + <p> + To Billy, all this was but “occupying her mind,” and playing Cupid's + assistant to a worthy young couple torn cruelly apart by an unfeeling + fate. To Bertram—to Bertram it was terror, and woe, and all manner + of torture; for in it Bertram saw only a growing fondness on the part of + Billy for Arkwright, Arkwright's music, Arkwright's words, and Arkwright's + friends. + </p> + <p> + The first rehearsal for the operetta came on Wednesday evening. There + would be another on Thursday afternoon. Billy had told Alice Greggory to + arrange her pupils so that she could stay Wednesday night at Hillside, if + the crippled mother could get along alone—and she could, Alice had + said. Thursday forenoon, therefore, Alice Greggory would, in all + probability, be at Hillside, specially as there would doubtless be an + appointment or two for private rehearsal with some nervous soloist whose + part was not progressing well. Such being the case, Billy had a plan she + meant to carry out. She was highly pleased, therefore, when Thursday + morning came, and everything, apparently, was working exactly to her mind. + </p> + <p> + Alice was there. She had an appointment at quarter of eleven with the + leading tenor, and another later with the alto. After breakfast, + therefore, Billy said decisively: + </p> + <p> + “Now, if you please, Miss Greggory, I'm going to put you up-stairs on the + couch in the sewing-room for a nap.” + </p> + <p> + “But I've just got up,” remonstrated Miss Greggory. + </p> + <p> + “I know you have,” smiled Billy; “but you were very late to bed last + night, and you've got a hard day before you. I insist upon your resting. + You will be absolutely undisturbed there, and you must shut the door and + not come down-stairs till I send for you. Mr. Johnson isn't due till + quarter of eleven, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “N-no.” + </p> + <p> + “Then come with me,” directed Billy, leading the way up-stairs. “There, + now, don't come down till I call you,” she went on, when they had reached + the little room at the end of the hall. “I'm going to leave Aunt Hannah's + door open, so you'll have good air—she isn't in there. She's writing + letters in my room, Now here's a book, and you <i>may</i> read, but I + should prefer you to sleep,” she nodded brightly as she went out and shut + the door quietly. Then, like the guilty conspirator she was, she went + down-stairs to wait for Arkwright. + </p> + <p> + It was a fine plan. Arkwright was due at ten o'clock—Billy had + specially asked him to come at that hour. He would not know, of course, + that Alice Greggory was in the house; but soon after his arrival Billy + meant to excuse herself for a moment, slip up-stairs and send Alice + Greggory down for a book, a pair of scissors, a shawl for Aunt Hannah—anything + would do for a pretext, anything so that the girl might walk into the + living-room and find Arkwright waiting for her alone. And then—What + happened next was, in Billy's mind, very vague, but very attractive as a + nucleus for one's thoughts, nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + All this was, indeed, a fine plan; but—(If only fine plans would not + so often have a “but”!) In Billy's case the “but” had to do with things so + apparently unrelated as were Aunt Hannah's clock and a negro's coal wagon. + The clock struck eleven at half-past ten, and the wagon dumped itself to + destruction directly in front of a trolley car in which sat Mr. M. J. + Arkwright, hurrying to keep his appointment with Miss Billy Neilson. It + was almost half-past ten when Arkwright finally rang the bell at Hillside. + Billy greeted him so eagerly, and at the same time with such evident + disappointment at his late arrival, that Arkwright's heart sang with joy. + </p> + <p> + “But there's a rehearsal at quarter of eleven,” exclaimed Billy, in answer + to his hurried explanation of the delay; “and this gives so little time + for—for—so little time, you know,” she finished in confusion, + casting frantically about in her mind for an excuse to hurry up-stairs and + send Alice Greggory down before it should be quite too late. + </p> + <p> + No wonder that Arkwright, noting the sparkle in her eye, the agitation in + her manner, and the embarrassed red in her cheek, took new courage. For so + long had this girl held him at the end of a major third or a diminished + seventh; for so long had she blithely accepted his every word and act as + devotion to music, not herself—for so long had she done all this + that he had come to fear that never would she do anything else. No wonder + then, that now, in the soft radiance of the strange, new light on her + face, his own face glowed ardently, and that he leaned forward with an + impetuous rush of eager words. + </p> + <p> + “But there is time, Miss Billy—if you'd give me leave—to say—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I kept you waiting,” interrupted the hurried voice of Alice + Greggory from the hall doorway. “I was asleep, I think, when a clock + somewhere, striking eleven—Why, Mr.—Arkwright!” + </p> + <p> + Not until Alice Greggory had nearly crossed the room did she see that the + man standing by her hostess was—not the tenor she had expected to + find—but an old acquaintance. Then it was that the tremulous + “Mr.-Arkwright!” fell from her lips. + </p> + <p> + Billy and Arkwright had turned at her first words. At her last, Arkwright, + with a half-despairing, half-reproachful glance at Billy, stepped forward. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Greggory!—you <i>are</i> Miss Alice Greggory, I am sure,” he + said pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left the room. + To Aunt Hannah she flew with a woebegone face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah,” she wailed, half laughing, half crying; + “that wretched little fib-teller of a clock of yours spoiled it all!” + </p> + <p> + “Spoiled it! Spoiled what, child?” + </p> + <p> + “My first meeting between Mary Jane and Miss Greggory. I had it all + arranged that they were to have it <i>alone</i>; but that miserable little + fibber up-stairs struck eleven at half-past ten, and Miss Greggory heard + it and thought she was fifteen minutes late. So down she hurried, half + awake, and spoiled all my plans. Now she's sitting in there with him, in + chairs the length of the room apart, discussing the snowstorm last night + or the moonrise this morning—or some other such silly thing. And I + had it so beautifully planned!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, dear, I'm sorry, I'm sure,” smiled Aunt Hannah; “but I can't + think any real harm is done. Did Mary Jane have anything to tell her—about + her father, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + Only the faintest flicker of Billy's eyelid testified that the everyday + accustomedness of that “Mary Jane” on Aunt Hannah's lips had not escaped + her. + </p> + <p> + “No, nothing definite. Yet there was a little. Friends are still trying to + clear his name, and I believe are meeting with increasing success. I don't + know, of course, whether he'll say anything about it to-day—<i>now</i>. + To think I had to be right round under foot like that when they met!” went + on Billy, indignantly. “I shouldn't have been, in a minute more, though. I + was just trying to think up an excuse to come up and send down Miss + Greggory, when Mary Jane began to tell me something—I haven't the + faintest idea what—then <i>she</i> appeared, and it was all over. + And there's the doorbell, and the tenor, I suppose; so of course it's all + over now,” she sighed, rising to go down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + As it chanced, however, it was not the tenor, but a message from him—a + message that brought dire consternation to the Chairman of the Committee + of Arrangements. The tenor had thrown up his part. He could not take it; + it was too difficult. He felt that this should be told—at once + rather than to worry along for another week or two, and then give up. So + he had told it. + </p> + <p> + “But what shall we do, Miss Greggory?” appealed Billy. “It <i>is</i> a + hard part, you know; but if Mr. Tobey can't take it, I don't know who can. + We don't want to hire a singer for it, if we can help it. The profits are + to go to the Home for Crippled Children, you know,” she explained, turning + to Arkwright, “and we decided to hire only the accompanist.” + </p> + <p> + An odd expression flitted across Miss Greggory's face. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Arkwright used to sing—tenor,” she observed quietly. + </p> + <p> + “As if he didn't now—a perfectly glorious tenor,” retorted Billy. + “But as if <i>he</i> would take <i>this!</i>” + </p> + <p> + For only a brief moment did Arkwright hesitate; then blandly he suggested: + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you try him, and see.” + </p> + <p> + Billy sat suddenly erect. + </p> + <p> + “Would you, really? <i>Could</i> you—take the time, and all?” she + cried. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think I would—under the circumstances,” he smiled. “I think + I could, too, though I might not be able to attend all the rehearsals. + Still, if I find I have to ask permission, I'll endeavor to convince the + powers-that-be that singing in this operetta will be just the + stepping-stone I need to success in Grand Opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you only would take it,” breathed Billy, “we'd be so glad!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Arkwright, his eyes on Billy's frankly delighted face, “as I + said before—under the circumstances I think I would.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! Then it's all beautifully settled,” rejoiced Billy, with a + happy sigh; and unconsciously she gave Alice Greggory's hand near her a + little pat. + </p> + <p> + In Billy's mind the “circumstances” of Arkwright's acceptance of the part + were Alice Greggory and her position as accompanist, of course. Billy + would have been surprised indeed—and dismayed—had she known + that in Arkwright's mind the “circumstances” were herself, and the fact + that she, too, had a part in the operetta, necessitating her presence at + rehearsals, and hinting at a delightful comradeship impossible, perhaps, + otherwise. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM + </h2> + <p> + February came The operetta, for which Billy was working so hard, was to be + given the twentieth. The Art Exhibition, for which Bertram was preparing + his four pictures, was to open the sixteenth, with a private view for + specially invited friends the evening before. + </p> + <p> + On the eleventh day of February Mrs. Greggory and her daughter arrived at + Hillside for a ten-days' visit. Not until after a great deal of pleading + and argument, however, had Billy been able to bring this about. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dears, both of you,” Billy had at last said to them; “just + listen. We shall have numberless rehearsals during those last ten days + before the thing comes off. They will be at all hours, and of all lengths. + You, Miss Greggory, will have to be on hand for them all, of course, and + will have to stay all night several times, probably. You, Mrs. Greggory, + ought not to be alone down here. There is no sensible, valid reason why + you should not both come out to the house for those ten days; and I shall + feel seriously hurt and offended if you do not consent to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “But—my pupils,” Alice Greggory had demurred. + </p> + <p> + “You can go in town from my home at any time to give your lessons, and a + little shifting about and arranging for those ten days will enable you to + set the hours conveniently one after another, I am sure, so you can attend + to several on one trip. Meanwhile your mother will be having a lovely time + teaching Aunt Hannah how to knit a new shawl; so you won't have to be + worrying about her.” + </p> + <p> + After all, it had been the great good and pleasure which the visit would + bring to Mrs. Greggory that had been the final straw to tip the scales. On + the eleventh of February, therefore, in the company of the once scorned + “Peggy and Mary Jane,” Alice Greggory and her mother had arrived at + Hillside. + </p> + <p> + Ever since the first meeting of Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy had + been sorely troubled by the conduct of the two young people. She had, as + she mournfully told herself, been able to make nothing of it. The two were + civility itself to each other, but very plainly they were not at ease in + each other's company; and Billy, much to her surprise, had to admit that + Arkwright did not appear to appreciate the “circumstances” now that he had + them. The pair called each other, ceremoniously, “Mr. Arkwright,” and + “Miss Greggory”—but then, that, of course, did not “signify,” Billy + declared to herself. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you don't ever call him 'Mary Jane,'” she said to the girl, a + little mischievously, one day. + </p> + <p> + “'Mary Jane'? Mr. Arkwright? No, I don't,” rejoined Miss Greggory, with an + odd smile. Then, after a moment, she added: “I believe his brothers and + sisters used to, however.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” laughed Billy. “We thought he was a real Mary Jane, once.” + And she told the story of his arrival. “So you see,” she finished, when + Alice Greggory had done laughing over the tale, “he always will be 'Mary + Jane' to us. By the way, what is his name?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Greggory looked up in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it's—” She stopped short, her eyes questioning. “Why, hasn't + he ever told you?” she queried. + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her chin. + </p> + <p> + “No. He told us to guess it, and we have guessed everything we can think + of, even up to 'Methuselah John'; but he says we haven't hit it yet.” + </p> + <p> + “'Methuselah John,' indeed!” laughed the other, merrily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm sure that's a nice, solid name,” defended Billy, her chin still + at a challenging tilt. “If it isn't 'Methuselah John,' what is it, then?” + </p> + <p> + But Alice Greggory shook her head. She, too, it seemed, could be firm, on + occasion. And though she smiled brightly, all she would say, was: + </p> + <p> + “If he hasn't told you, I sha'n't. You'll have to go to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I can still call him 'Mary Jane,'” retorted Billy, with airy + disdain. + </p> + <p> + All this, however, so far as Billy could see, was not in the least helping + along the cause that had become so dear to her—the reuniting of a + pair of lovers. It occurred to her then, one day, that perhaps, after all, + they were not lovers, and did not wish to be reunited. At this disquieting + thought Billy decided, suddenly, to go almost to headquarters. She would + speak to Mrs. Greggory if ever the opportunity offered. Great was her joy, + therefore, when, a day or two after the Greggorys arrived at the house, + Mrs. Greggory's chance reference to Arkwright and her daughter gave Billy + the opportunity she sought. + </p> + <p> + “They used to know each other long ago, Mr. Arkwright tells me,” Billy + began warily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The quietly polite monosyllable was not very encouraging, to be sure; but + Billy, secure in her conviction that her cause was a righteous one, + refused to be daunted. + </p> + <p> + “I think it was so romantic—their running across each other like + this, Mrs. Greggory,” she murmured. “And there <i>was</i> a romance, + wasn't there? I have just felt in my bones that there was—a + romance!” + </p> + <p> + Billy held her breath. It was what she had meant to say, but now that she + had said it, the words seemed very fearsome indeed—to say to Mrs. + Greggory. Then Billy remembered her Cause, and took heart—Billy was + spelling it now with a capital C. + </p> + <p> + For a long minute Mrs. Greggory did not answer—for so long a minute + that Billy's breath dropped into a fluttering sigh, and her Cause became + suddenly “IMPERTINENCE” spelled in black capitals. Then Mrs. Greggory + spoke slowly, a little sadly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind saying to you that I did hope, once, that there would be a + romance there. They were the best of friends, and they were well-suited to + each other in tastes and temperament. I think, indeed, that the romance + was well under way (though there was never an engagement) when—” + Mrs. Greggory paused and wet her lips. Her voice, when she resumed, + carried the stern note so familiar to Billy in her first acquaintance with + this woman and her daughter. “As I presume Mr. Arkwright has told you, we + have met with many changes in our life—changes which necessitated a + new home and a new mode of living. Naturally, under those circumstances, + old friends—and old romances—must change, too.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mrs. Greggory,” stammered Billy, “I'm sure Mr. Arkwright would want—” + An up-lifted hand silenced her peremptorily. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Arkwright was very kind, and a gentleman, always,” interposed the + lady, coldly; “but Judge Greggory's daughter would not allow herself to be + placed where apologies for her father would be necessary—<i>ever!</i> + There, please, dear Miss Neilson, let us not talk of it any more,” begged + Mrs. Greggory, brokenly. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed, of course not!” cried Billy; but her heart rejoiced. + </p> + <p> + She understood it all now. Arkwright and Alice Greggory had been almost + lovers when the charges against the Judge's honor had plunged the family + into despairing humiliation. Then had come the time when, according to + Arkwright's own story, the two women had shut themselves indoors, refused + to see their friends, and left town as soon as possible. Thus had come the + breaking of whatever tie there was between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. + Not to have broken it would have meant, for Alice, the placing of herself + in a position where, sometime, apologies must be made for her father. This + was what Mrs. Greggory had meant—and again, as Billy thought of it, + Billy's heart rejoiced. + </p> + <p> + Was not her way clear now before her? Did she not have it in her power, + possibly—even probably—to bring happiness where only sadness + was before? As if it would not be a simple thing to rekindle the old flame—to + make these two estranged hearts beat as one again! + </p> + <p> + Not now was the Cause an IMPERTINENCE in tall black letters. It was, + instead, a shining beacon in letters of flame guiding straight to victory. + </p> + <p> + Billy went to sleep that night making plans for Alice Greggory and + Arkwright to be thrown together naturally—“just as a matter of + course, you know,” she said drowsily to herself, all in the dark. + </p> + <p> + Some three or four miles away down Beacon Street at that moment Bertram + Henshaw, in the Strata, was, as it happened, not falling asleep. He was + lying broadly and unhappily awake Bertram very frequently lay broadly and + unhappily awake these days—or rather nights. He told himself, on + these occasions, that it was perfectly natural—indeed it was!—that + Billy should be with Arkwright and his friends, the Greggorys, so much. + There were the new songs, and the operetta with its rehearsals as a cause + for it all. At the same time, deep within his fearful soul was the + consciousness that Arkwright, the Greggorys, and the operetta were but + Music—Music, the spectre that from the first had dogged his + footsteps. + </p> + <p> + With Billy's behavior toward himself, Bertram could find no fault. She was + always her sweet, loyal, lovable self, eager to hear of his work, + earnestly solicitous that it should be a success. She even—as he + sometimes half-irritably remembered—had once told him that she + realized he belonged to Art before he did to himself; and when he had + indignantly denied this, she had only laughed and thrown a kiss at him, + with the remark that he ought to hear his sister Kate's opinion of that + matter. As if he wanted Kate's opinion on that or anything else that + concerned him and Billy! + </p> + <p> + Once, torn by jealousy, and exasperated at the frequent interruptions of + their quiet hours together, he had complained openly. + </p> + <p> + “Actually, Billy, it's worse than Marie's wedding,” he declared, “<i>Then</i> + it was tablecloths and napkins that could be dumped in a chair. <i>Now</i> + it's a girl who wants to rehearse, or a woman that wants a different wig, + or a telephone message that the sopranos have quarrelled again. I loathe + that operetta!” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed, but she frowned, too. + </p> + <p> + “I know, dear; I don't like that part. I wish they <i>would</i> let me + alone when I'm with you! But as for the operetta, it is really a good + thing, dear, and you'll say so when you see it. It's going to be a great + success—I can say that because my part is only a small one, you + know. We shall make lots of money for the Home, too, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “But you're wearing yourself all out with it, dear,” scowled Bertram. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! I like it; besides, when I'm doing this I'm not telephoning you + to come and amuse me. Just think what a lot of extra time you have for + your work!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't want it,” avowed Bertram. + </p> + <p> + “But the <i>work</i> may,” retorted Billy, showing all her dimples. “Never + mind, though; it'll all be over after the twentieth. <i>This</i> isn't an + understudy like Marie's wedding, you know,” she finished demurely. + </p> + <p> + “Thank heaven for that!” Bertram had breathed fervently. But even as he + said the words he grew sick with fear. What if, after all, this <i>were</i> + an understudy to what was to come later when Music, his rival, had really + conquered? + </p> + <p> + Bertram knew that however secure might seem Billy's affection for himself, + there was still in his own mind a horrid fear lest underneath that + security were an unconscious, growing fondness for something he could not + give, for some one that he was not—a fondness that would one day + cause Billy to awake. As Bertram, in his morbid fancy pictured it, he + realized only too well what that awakening would mean to himself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART + </h2> + <p> + The private view of the paintings and drawings of the Brush and Pencil + Club on the evening of the fifteenth was a great success. Society sent its + fairest women in frocks that were pictures in themselves. Art sent its + severest critics and its most ardent devotees. The Press sent reporters + that the World might know what Art and Society were doing, and how they + did it. + </p> + <p> + Before the canvases signed with Bertram Henshaw's name there was always to + be found an admiring group representing both Art and Society with the + Press on the outskirts to report. William Henshaw, coming unobserved upon + one such group, paused a moment to smile at the various more or less + disconnected comments. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely blue!” + </p> + <p> + “Marvellous color sense!” + </p> + <p> + “Now those shadows are—” + </p> + <p> + “He gets his high lights so—” + </p> + <p> + “I declare, she looks just like Blanche Payton!” + </p> + <p> + “Every line there is full of meaning.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it's very fine, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, I say, Henshaw is—” + </p> + <p> + “Is this by the man that's painting Margy Winthrop's portrait?” + </p> + <p> + “It's idealism, man, idealism!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to have a dress just that shade of blue.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that just too sweet!” + </p> + <p> + “Now for realism, I consider Henshaw—” + </p> + <p> + “There aren't many with his sensitive, brilliant touch.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a pretty picture!” + </p> + <p> + William moved on then. + </p> + <p> + Billy was rapturously proud of Bertram that evening. He was, of course, + the centre of congratulations and hearty praise. At his side, Billy, with + sparkling eyes, welcomed each smiling congratulation and gloried in every + commendatory word she heard. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bertram, isn't it splendid! I'm so proud of you,” she whispered + softly, when a moment's lull gave her opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “They're all words, words, idle words,” he laughed; but his eyes shone. + </p> + <p> + “Just as if they weren't all true!” she bridled, turning to greet William, + who came up at that moment. “Isn't it fine, Uncle William?” she beamed. + “And aren't we proud of him?” + </p> + <p> + “We are, indeed,” smiled the man. “But if you and Bertram want to get the + real opinion of this crowd, you should go and stand near one of his + pictures five minutes. As a sort of crazy—quilt criticism it can't + be beat.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” laughed Bertram. “I've done it, in days long gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, not really?” cried Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! As if every young artist at the first didn't don goggles or a false + mustache and study the pictures on either side of his own till he could + paint them with his eyes shut!” + </p> + <p> + “And what did you hear?” demanded the girl. + </p> + <p> + “What didn't I hear?” laughed her lover. “But I didn't do it but once or + twice. I lost my head one day and began to argue the question of + perspective with a couple of old codgers who were criticizing a bit of + foreshortening that was my special pet. I forgot my goggles and sailed in. + The game was up then, of course; and I never put them on again. But it was + worth a farm to see their faces when I stood 'discovered' as the + stage-folk say.” + </p> + <p> + “Serves you right, sir—listening like that,” scolded Billy. + </p> + <p> + Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it cured me, anyhow. I haven't done it since,” he declared. + </p> + <p> + It was some time later, on the way home, that Bertram said: + </p> + <p> + “It was gratifying, of course, Billy, and I liked it. It would be absurd + to say I didn't like the many pleasant words of apparently sincere + appreciation I heard to-night. But I couldn't help thinking of the next + time—always the next time.” + </p> + <p> + “The next time?” Billy's eyes were slightly puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “That I exhibit, I mean. The Bohemian Ten hold their exhibition next + month, you know. I shall show just one picture—the portrait of Miss + Winthrop.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “It'll be 'Oh, Bertram!' then, dear, if it isn't a success,” he sighed. “I + don't believe you realize yet what that thing is going to mean for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should think I might,” retorted Billy, a little tremulously, + “after all I've heard about it. I should think <i>everybody</i> knew you + were doing it, Bertram. Actually, I'm not sure Marie's scrub-lady won't + ask me some day how Mr. Bertram's picture is coming on!” + </p> + <p> + “That's the dickens of it, in a way,” sighed Bertram, with a faint smile. + “I am amazed—and a little frightened, I'll admit—at the + universality of the interest. You see, the Winthrops have been pleased to + spread it, for one reason or another, and of course many already know of + the failures of Anderson and Fullam. That's why, if I should fail—” + </p> + <p> + “But you aren't going to fail,” interposed the girl, resolutely. + </p> + <p> + “No, I know I'm not. I only said 'if,'” fenced the man, his voice not + quite steady. + </p> + <p> + “There isn't going to be any 'if,'” settled Billy. “Now tell me, when is + the exhibition?” + </p> + <p> + “March twentieth—the private view. Mr. Winthrop is not only willing, + but anxious, that I show it. I wasn't sure that he'd want me to—in + an exhibition. But it seems he does. His daughter says he has every + confidence in the portrait and wants everybody to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's where he shows his good sense,” declared Billy. Then, with just a + touch of constraint, she asked: “And how is the new, latest pose coming + on?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, I think,” answered Bertram, a little hesitatingly. “We've had + so many, many interruptions, though, that it is surprising how slow it is + moving. In the first place, Miss Winthrop is gone more than half the time + (she goes again to-morrow for a week!), and in this portrait I'm not + painting a stroke without my model before me. I mean to take no chances, + you see; and Miss Winthrop is perfectly willing to give me all the + sittings I wish for. Of course, if she hadn't changed the pose and costume + so many times, it would have been done long ago—and she knows it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—she knows it,” murmured Billy, a little faintly, but with + a peculiar intonation in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “And so you see,” sighed Bertram, “what the twentieth of March is going to + mean for me.” + </p> + <p> + “It's going to mean a splendid triumph!” asserted Billy; and this time her + voice was not faint, and it carried only a ring of loyal confidence. + </p> + <p> + “You blessed comforter!” murmured Bertram, giving with his eyes the caress + that his lips would so much have preferred to give—under more + propitious circumstances. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. THE OPERETTA + </h2> + <p> + The sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth of February were, for Billy, + and for all concerned in the success of the operetta, days of hurry, + worry, and feverish excitement, as was to be expected, of course. Each + afternoon and every evening saw rehearsals in whole, or in parts. A friend + of the Club-president's sister-in-law-a woman whose husband was stage + manager of a Boston theatre—had consented to come and “coach” the + performers. At her appearance the performers—promptly thrown into + nervous spasms by this fearsome nearness to the “real thing”—forgot + half their cues, and conducted themselves generally like frightened school + children on “piece day,” much to their own and every one else's despair. + Then, on the evening of the nineteenth, came the final dress rehearsal on + the stage of the pretty little hall that had been engaged for the + performance of the operetta. + </p> + <p> + The dress rehearsal, like most of its kind, was, for every one, nothing + but a nightmare of discord, discouragement, and disaster. Everybody's + nerves were on edge, everybody was sure the thing would be a “flat + failure.” The soprano sang off the key, the alto forgot to shriek “Beware, + beware!” until it was so late there was nothing to beware of; the basso + stepped on Billy's trailing frock and tore it; even the tenor, Arkwright + himself, seemed to have lost every bit of vim from his acting. The chorus + sang “Oh, be joyful!” with dirge-like solemnity, and danced as if legs and + feet were made of wood. The lovers, after the fashion of amateur actors + from time immemorial, “made love like sticks.” + </p> + <p> + Billy, when the dismal thing had dragged its way through the final note, + sat “down front,” crying softly in the semi-darkness while she was waiting + for Alice Greggory to “run it through just once more” with a pair of + tired-faced, fluffy-skirted fairies who could <i>not</i> learn that a duet + meant a <i>duet</i>—not two solos, independently hurried or retarded + as one's fancy for the moment dictated. + </p> + <p> + To Billy, just then, life did not look to be even half worth the living. + Her head ached, her throat was going-to-be-sore, her shoe hurt, and her + dress—the trailing frock that had been under the basso's foot—could + not possibly be decently repaired before to-morrow night, she was sure. + </p> + <p> + Bad as these things were, however, they were only the intimate, immediate + woes. Beyond and around them lay others many others. To be sure, Bertram + and happiness were supposed to be somewhere in the dim and uncertain + future; but between her and them lay all these other woes, chief of which + was the unutterable tragedy of to-morrow night. + </p> + <p> + It was to be a failure, of course. Billy had calmly made up her mind to + that, now. But then, she was used to failures, she told herself. Was she + not plainly failing every day of her life to bring about even friendship + between Alice Greggory and Arkwright? Did they not emphatically and + systematically refuse to be “thrown together,” either naturally, or + unnaturally? And yet—whenever again could she expect such + opportunities to further her Cause as had been hers the past few weeks, + through the operetta and its rehearsals? Certainly, never again! It had + been a failure like all the rest; like the operetta, in particular. + </p> + <p> + Billy did not mean that any one should know she was crying. She supposed + that all the performers except herself and the two earth-bound fairies by + the piano with Alice Greggory were gone. She knew that John with Peggy was + probably waiting at the door outside, and she hoped that soon the fairies + would decide to go home and go to bed, and let other people do the same. + For her part, she did not see why they were struggling so hard, anyway. + Why needn't they go ahead and sing their duet like two solos if they + wanted to? As if a little thing like that could make a feather's weight of + difference in the grand total of to-morrow night's wretchedness when the + final curtain should have been rung down on their shame! + </p> + <p> + “Miss Neilson, you aren't—crying!” exclaimed a low voice; and Billy + turned to find Arkwright standing by her side in the dim light. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—yes—well, maybe I was, a little,” stammered Billy, + trying to speak very unconcernedly. “How warm it is in here! Do you think + it's going to rain?—that is, outdoors, of course, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright dropped into the seat behind Billy and leaned forward, his eyes + striving to read the girl's half-averted face. If Billy had turned, she + would have seen that Arkwright's own face showed white and a little + drawn-looking in the feeble rays from the light by the piano. But Billy + did not turn. She kept her eyes steadily averted; and she went on speaking—airy, + inconsequential words. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, if those girls <i>would</i> only pull together! But then, what's + the difference? I supposed you had gone home long ago, Mr. Arkwright.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Neilson, you <i>are</i> crying!” Arkwright's voice was low and + vibrant. “As if anything or anybody in the world <i>could</i> make <i>you</i> + cry! Please—you have only to command me, and I will sally forth at + once to slay the offender.” His words were light, but his voice still + shook with emotion. + </p> + <p> + Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed the persistent + tears from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “All right, then; I'll dub you my Sir Knight,” she faltered. “But I'll + warn you—you'll have your hands full. You'll have to slay my + headache, and my throat-ache, and my shoe that hurts, and the man who + stepped on my dress, and—and everybody in the operetta, including + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Everybody—in the operetta!” Arkwright did look a little startled, + at this wholesale slaughter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was to-night?” + moaned the girl. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright's face relaxed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so <i>that's</i> what it is!” he laughed lightly. “Then it's only a + bogy of fear that I've got to slay, after all; and I'll despatch that + right now with a single blow. Dress rehearsals always go like that + to-night. I've been in a dozen, and I never yet saw one go half decent. + Don't you worry. The worse the rehearsal, the better the performance, + every time!” + </p> + <p> + Billy blinked off the tears and essayed a smile as she retorted: + </p> + <p> + “Well, if that's so, then ours to-morrow night ought to be a—a—” + </p> + <p> + “A corker,” helped out Arkwright, promptly; “and it will be, too. You poor + child, you're worn out; and no wonder! But don't worry another bit about + the operetta. Now is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else I + can slay?” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “N-no, thank you; not that you can—slay, I fancy,” she sighed. “That + is—not that you <i>will</i>,” she amended wistfully, with a sudden + remembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so much—if he only + would. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curling hair + behind Billy's ear. His eyes had flashed into sudden fire. + </p> + <p> + “But you don't know what I'd do if I could,” he murmured unsteadily. “If + you'd let me tell you—if you only knew the wish that has lain + closest to my heart for—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Neilson, please,” called the despairing voice of one of the + earth-bound fairies; “Miss Neilson, you <i>are</i> there, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm right here,” answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too, + but not aloud—which was wise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! you're tired, I know,” wailed the fairy, “but if you would + please come and help us just a minute! Could you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, of course.” Billy rose to her feet, still wearily. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was very white—so + white that her eyes widened in surprised questioning. + </p> + <p> + As if answering the unspoken words, the man shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I can't, now, of course,” he said. “But there <i>is</i> something I want + to say—a story I want to tell you—after to-morrow, perhaps. + May I?” + </p> + <p> + To Billy, the tremor of his voice, the suffering in his eyes, and the + “story” he was begging to tell could have but one interpretation: Alice + Greggory. Her face, therefore, was a glory of tender sympathy as she + reached out her hand in farewell. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you may,” she cried. “Come any time after to-morrow night, + please,” she smiled encouragingly, as she turned toward the stage. + </p> + <p> + Behind her, Arkwright stumbled twice as he walked up the incline toward + the outer door—stumbled, not because of the semi-darkness of the + little theatre, but because of the blinding radiance of a girl's illumined + face which he had, a moment before, read all unknowingly exactly wrong. + </p> + <p> + A little more than twenty-four hours later, Billy Neilson, in her own + room, drew a long breath of relief. It was twelve o'clock on the night of + the twentieth, and the operetta was over. + </p> + <p> + To Billy, life was eminently worth living to-night. Her head did not ache, + her throat was not sore, her shoe did not hurt, her dress had been mended + so successfully by Aunt Hannah, and with such comforting celerity, that + long before night one would never have suspected the filmy thing had known + the devastating tread of any man's foot. Better yet, the soprano had sung + exactly to key, the alto had shrieked “Beware!” to thrilling purpose, + Arkwright had shown all his old charm and vim, and the chorus had been + prodigies of joyousness and marvels of lightness. Even the lovers had lost + their stiffness, while the two earth-bound fairies of the night before had + found so amiable a meeting point that their solos sounded, to the + uninitiated, very like, indeed, a duet. The operetta was, in short, a + glorious and gratifying success, both artistically and financially. Nor + was this all that, to Billy, made life worth the living: Arkwright had + begged permission that evening to come up the following afternoon to tell + her his “story”; and Billy, who was so joyously confident that this story + meant the final crowning of her Cause with victory, had given happy + consent. + </p> + <p> + Bertram was to come up in the evening, and Billy was anticipating that, + too, particularly: it had been so long since they had known a really free, + comfortable evening together, with nothing to interrupt. Doubtless, too, + after Arkwright's visit of the afternoon, she would be in a position to + tell Bertram the story of the suspended romance between Arkwright and Miss + Greggory, and perhaps something, also, of her own efforts to bring the + couple together again. On the whole, life did, indeed, look decidedly + worth the living as Billy, with a contented sigh, turned over to go to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY + </h2> + <p> + Promptly at the suggested hour on the day after the operetta, Arkwright + rang Billy Neilson's doorbell. Promptly, too, Billy herself came into the + living-room to greet him. + </p> + <p> + Billy was in white to-day—a soft, creamy white wool with a touch of + black velvet at her throat and in her hair. The man thought she had never + looked so lovely: Arkwright was still under the spell wrought by the soft + radiance of Billy's face the two times he had mentioned his “story.” + </p> + <p> + Until the night before the operetta Arkwright had been more than doubtful + of the way that story would be received, should he ever summon the courage + to tell it. Since then his fears had been changed to rapturous hopes. It + was very eagerly, therefore, that he turned now to greet Billy as she came + into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we don't have any music to-day. Suppose we give the whole time up + to the story,” she smiled brightly, as she held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright's heart leaped; but almost at once it throbbed with a vague + uneasiness. He would have preferred to see her blush and be a little shy + over that story. Still—there was a chance, of course, that she did + not know what the story was. But if that were the case, what of the + radiance in her face? What of—Finding himself in a tangled labyrinth + that led apparently only to disappointment and disaster, Arkwright pulled + himself up with a firm hand. + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind,” he murmured, as he relinquished her fingers and + seated himself near her. “You are sure, then, that you wish to hear the + story?” + </p> + <p> + “Very sure,” smiled Billy. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright hesitated. Again he longed to see a little embarrassment in the + bright face opposite. Suddenly it came to him, however, that if Billy knew + what he was about to say, it would manifestly not be her part to act as if + she knew! With a lighter heart, then, he began his story. + </p> + <p> + “You want it from the beginning?” + </p> + <p> + “By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek at the ending. I don't + think it's fair to the author.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will, indeed, begin at the beginning,” smiled Arkwright, “for I'm + specially anxious that you shall be—even more than 'fair' to me.” + His voice shook a little, but he hurried on. “There's a—girl—in + it; a very dear, lovely girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—if it's a nice story,” twinkled Billy. + </p> + <p> + “And—there's a man, too. It's a love story, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Again of course—if it's interesting.” Billy laughed mischievously, + but she flushed a little. + </p> + <p> + “Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might as + well own up at the beginning—I'm the man.” + </p> + <p> + “That will do for you to say, as long as you're telling the story,” smiled + Billy. “We'll let it pass for proper modesty on your part. But I shall say—the + personal touch only adds to the interest.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright drew in his breath. + </p> + <p> + “We'll hope—it'll really be so,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what to + say. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” prompted Billy, with a smile. “We have the hero and the heroine; + now what happens next? Do you know,” she added, “I have always thought + that part must bother the story-writers—to get the couple to doing + interesting things, after they'd got them introduced.” + </p> + <p> + Arkwright sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—on paper; but, you see, my story has been <i>lived</i>, so + far. So it's quite different.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then—what did happen?” smiled Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I was trying to think—of the first thing. You see it began with a + picture, a photograph of the girl. Mother had it. I saw it, and wanted it, + and—” Arkwright had started to say “and took it.” But he stopped + with the last two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tell + this girl how much that picture had been to him for so many months past. + He hurried on a little precipitately. “You see, I had heard about this + girl a lot; and I liked—what I heard.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—you didn't know her—at the first?” Billy's eyes were + surprised. Billy had supposed that Arkwright had always known Alice + Greggory. + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn't know the girl—till afterwards. Before that I was + always dreaming and wondering what she would be like.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Billy subsided into her chair, still with the puzzled questioning in + her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Then I met her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “And she was everything and more than I had pictured her.” + </p> + <p> + “And you fell in love at once?” Billy's voice had grown confident again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I was already in love,” sighed Arkwright. “I simply sank deeper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h!” breathed Billy, sympathetically. “And the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn't care—or know—for a long time. I'm not really sure + she cares—or knows—even now.” Arkwright's eyes were wistfully + fixed on Billy's face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you can't tell, always, about girls,” murmured Billy, hurriedly. + A faint pink had stolen to her forehead. She was thinking of Alice + Greggory, and wondering if, indeed, Alice did care; and if she, Billy, + might dare to assure this man—what she believed to be true—that + his sweetheart was only waiting for him to come to her and tell her that + he loved her. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright saw the color sweep to Billy's forehead, and took sudden + courage. He leaned forward eagerly. A tender light came to his eyes. The + expression on his face was unmistakable. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, do you mean, really, that there is—hope for me?” he begged + brokenly. + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror came to + her eyes. She drew back and would have risen to her feet had the thought + not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man was making love + to her, when subsequent events proved that she had been mortifyingly + mistaken: once when Cyril had told her of his love for Marie; and again + when William had asked her to come back as a daughter to the house she had + left desolate. + </p> + <p> + Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a “foolish little + simpleton,” she summoned all her wits, forced a cheery smile to her lips, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, so + I'm not the one to give hope; and—” + </p> + <p> + “But you are the one,” interrupted the man, passionately. “You're the only + one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, not that—not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding what + you mean,” pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now, + holding up two protesting hands, palms outward. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Neilson, you don't mean—that you haven't known—all this + time—that it was you?” The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt + and unbelieving, looking into hers. + </p> + <p> + Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed on his, + carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid vision. + </p> + <p> + “But you know—you <i>must</i> know that I am not yours to win!” she + reproached him sharply. “I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's—<i>wife</i>.” + From Billy's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force that + was at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mere + utterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a sacred circle about her and + placed herself in sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back. + </p> + <p> + “Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!” he exclaimed. There was no + mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face. + </p> + <p> + Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a + terrified appeal took its place. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean that you <i>didn't—know?</i>” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's + eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there from + unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery. + </p> + <p> + “No, I did not know,” said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his + arm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand. + </p> + <p> + Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her + throat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and bent head + of the man before her. + </p> + <p> + “But I—I don't see how you could have helped—knowing,” she + stammered at last. “I don't see how such a thing could have happened that + you shouldn't know!” + </p> + <p> + “I've been trying to think, myself,” returned the man, still in a dull, + emotionless voice. + </p> + <p> + “It's been so—so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew + it,” maintained Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that's just it—that it was—so much a matter of + course,” rejoined the man. “You see, I know very few of your friends, + anyway—who would be apt to mention it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But the announcements—oh, you weren't here then,” moaned Billy. + “But you must have known that—that he came here a good deal—that + we were together so much!” + </p> + <p> + “To a certain extent, yes,” sighed Arkwright. “But I took your friendship + with him and his brothers as—as a matter of course. <i>That</i> was + <i>my</i> 'matter of course,' you see,” he went on bitterly. “I knew you + were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told me the story + of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world. Calderwell + had said, too, that—” Arkwright paused, then hurried on a little + constrainedly—“well, he said something that led me to think Mr. + Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew + very well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. + Must <i>always</i> she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to + love any girl—except to paint? + </p> + <p> + “But—but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement—now,” + she stammered. + </p> + <p> + “Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival in + Boston. We do not correspond.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand now—many things. I wonder I did not see them + before; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being—If Calderwell + hadn't said—” Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half + complete, and again Billy winced. “I've been a blind fool. I was so intent + on my own—I've been a blind fool; that's all,” repeated Arkwright, + with a break in his voice. + </p> + <p> + Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a choking sob. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright turned sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Neilson, don't—please,” he begged. “There is no need that you + should suffer—too.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am so ashamed that such a thing <i>could</i> happen,” she faltered. + “I'm sure, some way, I must be to blame. But I never thought. I was blind, + too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. I never even + <i>thought</i> to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It was just the + music that brought us together, I supposed; and you were just like one of + the family, anyway. I always thought of you as Aunt Hannah's—” She + stopped with a vivid blush. + </p> + <p> + “As Aunt Hannah's niece, Mary Jane, of course,” supplied Arkwright, + bitterly, turning back to his old position. “And that was my own fault, + too. My name, Miss Neilson, is Michael Jeremiah,” he went on wearily, + after a moment's hesitation, his voice showing his utter abandonment to + despair. “When a boy at school I got heartily sick of the 'Mike' and the + 'Jerry' and the even worse 'Tom and Jerry' that my young friends delighted + in; so as soon as possible I sought obscurity and peace in 'M. J.' Much to + my surprise and annoyance the initials proved to be little better, for + they became at once the biggest sort of whet to people's curiosity. + Naturally, the more determined persistent inquirers were to know the name, + the more determined I became that they shouldn't. All very silly and very + foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now,” he finished. + </p> + <p> + Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, <i>anything</i>, to + say, when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless + voice that Billy thought would break her heart. + </p> + <p> + “As for the 'Mary Jane'—that was another foolishness, of course. My + small brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion, + even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, by + his laughing question, 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head the + crazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was a real + Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for the chance of + meeting and knowing you.” + </p> + <p> + Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning of + Arkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had been + talking then about herself, not Alice Greggory. + </p> + <p> + “But you don't mean that you—cared—that I was the—” She + could not finish. + </p> + <p> + Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I was + determined to meet you. So I came—and met you. After that I was more + determined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was so blind + to—to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good—to + talk like this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself,” he + begged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone. + </p> + <p> + Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH + </h2> + <p> + Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tell—nothing + of the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billy + carefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name. + </p> + <p> + Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been frantically + trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that she would not be + supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as he said it was—his + foolish blindness. But even when she had partially comforted herself by + these assertions, she could not by any means escape the haunting vision of + the man's stern-set, suffering face as she had seen it that afternoon; nor + could she keep from weeping at the memory of the words he had said, and at + the thought that never again could their pleasant friendship be quite the + same—if, indeed, there could be any friendship at all between them. + </p> + <p> + But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generally + troubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed by her + lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken. + </p> + <p> + “Sweetheart, what <i>is</i> the matter?” demanded Bertram resolutely, at + last, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside. + “You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because I know + there is!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, there is, dear,” smiled Billy, tearfully; “but please just + don't let us talk of it. I—I want to forget it. Truly I do.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want to know so <i>I</i> can forget it,” persisted Bertram. “What + is it? Maybe I could help.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head with a little frightened cry. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—you can't help—really.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you <i>tell</i> + me about it?” + </p> + <p> + Billy looked distressed. + </p> + <p> + “I can't, dear—truly. You see, it isn't quite mine—to tell.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Not—entirely.” + </p> + <p> + “But it makes you feel bad?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—very.” + </p> + <p> + “Then can't I know that part?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—no, indeed, no! You see—it wouldn't be fair—to + the other.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know.” + </p> + <p> + Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love + of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's + love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she must set + Bertram's mind at rest. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest,” she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, “just what it + is, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feel + that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this + afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “But it has made you cry!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It made me feel very unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—it was something you couldn't help?” + </p> + <p> + To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushed + scarlet. + </p> + <p> + “No, I couldn't help it—now; though I might have—once.” Billy + spoke this last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly: + “Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It—it's just + spoiling our happy evening together!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh. + </p> + <p> + “All right, dear; you know best, of course—since I don't know <i>anything</i> + about it,” he finished a little stiffly. + </p> + <p> + Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and + of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning. + </p> + <p> + “And, do you know? Aunt Hannah's clock <i>has</i> done a good turn, at + last, and justified its existence. Listen,” she cried gayly. “Marie had a + letter from her mother's Cousin Jane. Cousin Jane couldn't sleep nights, + because she was always lying awake to find out just what time it was; so + Marie had written her about Aunt Hannah's clock. And now this Cousin Jane + has fixed <i>her</i> clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because she + knows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what time + it is!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite “Well, I'm sure that's fine!”; but + the words were plainly abstracted, and the frown had not left his brow. + Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to a + question of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder: + </p> + <p> + “Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to <i>hear</i> the word 'operetta' + again for a year!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied not to + hear the word “operetta” for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meant + interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the + Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change + wigs—all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he + smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he saw, + ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself. + </p> + <p> + As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found + them to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with its + rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming + seriously troubled about Billy. + </p> + <p> + Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; and he + breathed more freely, telling himself that his fears were groundless. Then + would come the haunting shadow to her eyes, the droop to her mouth, and + the nervousness to her manner that he so dreaded. Worse yet, all this + seemed to be connected in some strange way with Arkwright. He found this + out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing brightly about + something, when he chanced to introduce Arkwright's name. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, where is Mary Jane these days?” he asked then. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, I'm sure. He hasn't been here lately,” murmured Billy, + reaching for a book on the table. + </p> + <p> + At a peculiar something in her voice, he had looked up quickly, only to + find, to his great surprise, that her face showed a painful flush as she + bent over the book in her hand. + </p> + <p> + He had said nothing more at the time, but he had not forgotten. Several + times, after that, he had introduced the man's name, and never had it + failed to bring a rush of color, a biting of the lip, or a quick change of + position followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner that he + had learned to dread. He noticed then that never, of her own free will, + did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him with the old + frank lightness as “Mary Jane.” + </p> + <p> + By casual questions asked from time to time, Bertram had learned that + Arkwright never came there now, and that the song-writing together had + been given up. Curiously enough, this discovery, which would once have + filled Bertram with joy, served now only to deepen his distress. That + there was anything inconsistent in the fact that he was more frightened + now at the man's absence than he had been before at his presence, did not + occur to him. He knew only that he was frightened, and badly frightened. + </p> + <p> + Bertram had not forgotten the evening after the operetta, and Billy's + tear-stained face on that occasion. He dated the whole thing, in fact, + from that evening. He fell to wondering one day if that, too, had anything + to do with Arkwright. He determined then to find out. Shamelessly—for + the good of the cause—he set a trap for Billy's unwary feet. + </p> + <p> + Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then he asked + abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn't shown up once since the + operetta, has he?” + </p> + <p> + Billy, always truthful,—and just now always embarrassed when + Arkwright's name was mentioned,—walked straight into the trap. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; well, he was here once—the day after the operetta. I + haven't seen him since.” + </p> + <p> + Bertram answered a light something, but his face grew a little white. Now + that the trap had been sprung and the victim caught, he almost wished that + he had not set any trap at all. + </p> + <p> + He knew now it was true. Arkwright had been with Billy the day after the + operetta, and her tears and her distress that evening had been caused by + something Arkwright had said. It was Arkwright's secret that she could not + tell. It was Arkwright to whom she must be fair. It was Arkwright's sorrow + that she “could not help—now.” + </p> + <p> + Naturally, with these tools in his hands, and aided by days of brooding + and nights of sleeplessness, it did not take Bertram long to fashion The + Thing that finally loomed before him as The Truth. + </p> + <p> + He understood it all now. Music had conquered. Billy and Arkwright had + found that they loved each other. On the day after the operetta, they had + met, and had had some sort of scene together—doubtless Arkwright had + declared his love. That was the “secret” that Billy could not tell and be + “fair.” Billy, of course,—loyal little soul that she was,—had + sent him away at once. Was her hand not already pledged? That was why she + could not “help it-now.” (Bertram writhed in agony at the thought.) Since + that meeting Arkwright had not been near the house. Billy had found, + however, that her heart had gone with Arkwright; hence the shadow in her + eyes, the nervousness in her manner, and the embarrassment that she always + showed at the mention of his name. + </p> + <p> + That Billy was still outwardly loyal to himself, and that she still kept + to her engagement, did not surprise Bertram in the least. That was like + Billy. Bertram had not forgotten how, less than a year before, this same + Billy had held herself loyal and true to an engagement with William, + because a wretched mistake all around had caused her to give her promise + to be William's wife under the impression that she was carrying out + William's dearest wish. Bertram remembered her face as it had looked all + those long summer days while her heart was being slowly broken; and he + thought he could see that same look in her eyes now. All of which only + goes to prove with what woeful skill Bertram had fashioned this Thing that + was looming before him as The Truth. + </p> + <p> + The exhibition of “The Bohemian Ten” was to open with a private view on + the evening of the twentieth of March. Bertram Henshaw's one contribution + was to be his portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop—the piece of work + that had come to mean so much to him; the piece of work upon which already + he felt the focus of multitudes of eyes. + </p> + <p> + Miss Winthrop was in Boston now, and it was during these early March days + that Bertram was supposed to be putting in his best work on the portrait; + but, unfortunately, it was during these same early March days that he was + engaged, also, in fashioning The Thing—and the two did not + harmonize. + </p> + <p> + The Thing, indeed, was a jealous creature, and would brook no rival. She + filled his eyes with horrid visions, and his brain with sickening + thoughts. Between him and his model she flung a veil of fear; and she set + his hand to trembling, and his brush to making blunders with the paints on + his palette. + </p> + <p> + Bertram saw The Thing, and saw, too, the grievous result of her presence. + Despairingly he fought against her and her work; but The Thing had become + full grown now, and was The Truth. Hence she was not to be banished. She + even, in a taunting way, seemed sometimes to be justifying her presence, + for she reminded him: + </p> + <p> + “After all, what's the difference? What do you care for this, or anything + again if Billy is lost to you?” + </p> + <p> + But the artist told himself fiercely that he did care—that he must + care—for his work; and he struggled—how he struggled!—to + ignore the horrid visions and the sickening thoughts, and to pierce the + veil of fear so that his hand might be steady and his brush regain its + skill. + </p> + <p> + And so he worked. Sometimes he let his work remain. Sometimes one hour saw + only the erasing of what the hour before had wrought. Sometimes the + elusive something in Marguerite Winthrop's face seemed right at the tip of + his brush—on the canvas, even. He saw success then so plainly that + for a moment it almost—but not quite—blotted out The Thing. At + other times that elusive something on the high-bred face of his model was + a veritable will-o'-the-wisp, refusing to be caught and held, even in his + eye. The artist knew then that his picture would be hung with Anderson's + and Fullam's. + </p> + <p> + But the portrait was, irrefutably, nearing completion, and it was to be + exhibited the twentieth of the month. Bertram knew these for facts. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN + </h2> + <p> + If for Billy those first twenty days of March did not carry quite the + tragedy they contained for Bertram, they were, nevertheless, not really + happy ones. She was vaguely troubled by a curious something in Bertram's + behavior that she could not name; she was grieved over Arkwright's sorrow, + and she was constantly probing her own past conduct to see if anywhere she + could find that she was to blame for that sorrow. She missed, too, + undeniably, Arkwright's cheery presence, and the charm and inspiration of + his music. Nor was she finding it easy to give satisfactory answers to the + questions Aunt Hannah, William, and Bertram so often asked her as to where + Mary Jane was. + </p> + <p> + Even her music was little comfort to her these days. She was not writing + anything. There was no song in her heart to tempt her to write. + Arkwright's new words that he had brought her were out of the question, of + course. They had been put away with the manuscript of the completed song, + which had not, fortunately, gone to the publishers. Billy had waited, + intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that she had + waited. Just once, since Arkwright's last call, she had tried to sing that + song. But she had stopped at the end of the first two lines. The full + meaning of those words, as coming from Arkwright, had swept over her then, + and she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden it under the bottom pile + of music in her cabinet ... And she had presumed to sing that love song to + Bertram! + </p> + <p> + Arkwright had written Billy once—a kind, courteous, manly note that + had made her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he had + said that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to call + occasionally—if she were willing—and renew their pleasant + hours with their music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing + for him to do but to stay away. He had signed himself “Michael Jeremiah + Arkwright”; and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter—it + sounded so hopeless and dreary to one who knew the jaunty “M. J.” + </p> + <p> + Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were great + friends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys' + ten-days' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentle + tap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the very first + day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunny + friendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness. + </p> + <p> + Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was no + longer trying to play Cupid's assistant. The Cause, for which she had so + valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright's own hand—but that + there were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced by + Billy's secret delight when one day Alice Greggory chanced to mention that + Arkwright had called the night before upon her and her mother. + </p> + <p> + “He brought us news of our old home,” she explained a little hurriedly, to + Billy. “He had heard from his mother, and he thought some things she said + would be interesting to us.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hint + of the delight she felt, but hoping, all the while, that Alice would + continue the subject. + </p> + <p> + Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left in entire + ignorance of what the news was that Arkwright had brought. She suspected, + though, that it had something to do with Alice's father—certainly + she hoped that it had; for if Arkwright had called to tell it, it must be + good. + </p> + <p> + Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they had + drawn sensitively back, and had said that they preferred to remain where + they were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple from + South Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summer + before, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They had + two extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let for light + house-keeping, if only they knew just the right people to take into such + close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of the Greggorys, + and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and the Greggorys + were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced that only a very + little more money than they were already paying would give themselves a + much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a real boon to two + young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the change was made, and + general happiness all round had resulted—so much so, that Bertram + had said to Billy, when he heard of it: + </p> + <p> + “It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on both sides.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! This isn't frosting—it's business,” Billy had laughed. + </p> + <p> + “And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice—they're business, + too, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low laugh + and said: “Mercy! If Alice Greggory thought it was anything <i>but</i> + business, I verily believe she would refuse every one of the new pupils, + and begin to-night to carry back the tables and chairs herself to those + wretched rooms she left last month!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram had smiled, but the smile had been a fleeting one, and the + brooding look of gloom that Billy had noticed so frequently, of late, had + come back to his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Billy was not a little disturbed over Bertram these days. He did not seem + to be his natural, cheery self at all. He talked little, and what he did + say seldom showed a trace of his usually whimsical way of putting things. + He was kindness itself to her, and seemed particularly anxious to please + her in every way; but she frequently found his eyes fixed on her with a + sombre questioning that almost frightened her. The more she thought of it, + the more she wondered what the question was, that he did not dare to ask; + and whether it was of herself or himself that he would ask it—if he + did dare. Then, with benumbing force, one day, a possible solution of the + mystery came to her, he had found out that it was true (what all his + friends had declared of him)—he did not really love any girl, except + to paint! + </p> + <p> + The minute this thought came to her, Billy thrust it indignantly away. It + was disloyal to Bertram and unworthy of herself, even to think such a + thing. She told herself then that it was only the portrait of Miss + Winthrop that was troubling him. She knew that he was worried over that. + He had confessed to her that actually sometimes he was beginning to fear + his hand had lost its cunning. As if that were not enough to bring the + gloom to any man's face—to any artist's! + </p> + <p> + No sooner, however, had Billy arrived at this point in her mental + argument, than a new element entered—her old lurking jealousy, of + which she was heartily ashamed, but which she had never yet been able + quite to subdue; her jealousy of the beautiful girl with the beautiful + name (not Billy), whose portrait had needed so much time and so many + sittings to finish. What if Bertram had found that he loved <i>her?</i> + What if that were why his hand had lost its cunning—because, though + loving her, he realized that he was bound to another, Billy herself? + </p> + <p> + This thought, too, Billy cast from her at once as again disloyal and + unworthy. But both thoughts, having once entered her brain, had made for + themselves roads over which the second passing was much easier than the + first—as Billy found to her sorrow. Certainly, as the days went by, + and as Bertram's face and manner became more and more a tragedy of + suffering, Billy found it increasingly difficult to keep those thoughts + from wearing their roads of suspicion into horrid deep ruts of certainty. + </p> + <p> + Only with William and Marie, now, could Billy escape from it all. With + William she sought new curios and catalogued the old. With Marie she beat + eggs and whipped cream in the shining kitchen, and tried to think that + nothing in the world mattered except that the cake in the oven should not + fall. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. KATE WRITES A LETTER + </h2> + <p> + Bertram feared that he knew, before the portrait was hung, that it was a + failure. He was sure that he knew it on the evening of the twentieth when + he encountered the swiftly averted eyes of some of his artist friends, and + saw the perplexed frown on the faces of others. But he knew, afterwards, + that he did not really know it—till he read the newspapers during + the next few days. + </p> + <p> + There was praise—oh, yes; the faint praise that kills. There was + some adverse criticism, too; but it was of the light, insincere variety + that is given to mediocre work by unimportant artists. Then, here and + there, appeared the signed critiques of the men whose opinion counted—and + Bertram knew that he had failed. Neither as a work of art, nor as a + likeness, was the portrait the success that Henshaw's former work would + seem to indicate that it should have been. Indeed, as one caustic pen put + it, if this were to be taken as a sample of what was to follow—then + the famous originator of “The Face of a Girl” had “a most distinguished + future behind him.” + </p> + <p> + Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so much + attention. As Bertram had said, uncounted eyes were watching for it before + it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty, Marguerite + Winthrop, and because two other well-known artists had failed where he, + Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to succeed. After it was hung, and the + uncounted eyes had seen it—either literally, or through the eyes of + the critics—interest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for other + uncounted eyes wanted to see what all the fuss was about, anyway. And when + these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by any means, all + talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise as were others + in its condemnation; all of which, of course, but helped to attract more + eyes to the cause of it all. + </p> + <p> + For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones. + William finally dreaded to open his newspaper. (It had become the fashion, + when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to “feature” + somebody's opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the first page—something + that had almost never been known to happen before.) Cyril, according to + Marie, played “perfectly awful things on his piano every day, now.” Aunt + Hannah had said “Oh, my grief and conscience!” so many times that it + melted now into a wordless groan whenever a new unfriendly criticism of + the portrait met her indignant eyes. + </p> + <p> + Of all Bertram's friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was the + angriest. Not only did she, after a time, refuse to read the papers, but + she refused even to allow certain ones to be brought into the house, + foolish and unreasonable as she knew this to be. + </p> + <p> + As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyes + sombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifference + that to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening. + </p> + <p> + “But, Bertram, why don't you do something? Why don't you say something? + Why don't you act something?” she burst out one day. + </p> + <p> + The artist shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, of course,” sighed Billy. “But I know what I'd like to do. + I should like to go out and—fight somebody!” + </p> + <p> + So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair of + gentle eyes ablaze and two soft little hands doubled into menacing fists, + that Bertram laughed. + </p> + <p> + “What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure,” he said tenderly. “But + as if fighting could do any good—in this case!” + </p> + <p> + Billy's tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't suppose it would,” she choked, beginning to cry, so that + Bertram had to turn comforter. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, dear,” he begged; “don't take it so to heart. It's not so + bad, after all. I've still my good right hand left, and we'll hope there's + something in it yet—that'll be worth while.” + </p> + <p> + “But <i>this</i> one isn't bad,” stormed Billy. “It's splendid! I'm sure, + I think it's a b-beautiful portrait, and I don't see <i>what</i> people + mean by talking so about it!” + </p> + <p> + Bertram shook his head. His eyes grew sombre again. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, dear. But I know—and you know, really—that it + isn't a splendid portrait. I've done lots better work than that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why don't they look at those, and let this alone?” wailed Billy, + with indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Because I deliberately put up this for them to see,” smiled the artist, + wearily. + </p> + <p> + Billy sighed, and twisted in her chair. + </p> + <p> + “What does—Mr. Winthrop say?” she asked at last, in a faint voice. + </p> + <p> + Bertram lifted his head. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Winthrop's been a trump all through, dear. He's already insisted on + paying for this—and he's ordered another.” + </p> + <p> + “Another!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He came to + me one day, put his hand on my shoulder, and said tersely: 'Will you give + me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show 'em! I lost the first + ten thousand I made. I didn't the next!' That's all he said. Before I + could even choke out an answer he was gone. Gorry! talk about his having a + 'heart of stone'! I don't believe another man in the country would have + done that—and done it in the way he did—in the face of all + this talk,” finished Bertram, his eyes luminous with feeling. + </p> + <p> + Billy hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—his daughter—influenced him—some.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” nodded Bertram. “She, too, has been very kind, all the way + through.” + </p> + <p> + Billy hesitated again. + </p> + <p> + “But I thought—it was going so splendidly,” she faltered, in a + half-stifled voice. + </p> + <p> + “So it was—at the first.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what—ailed it, at the last, do you suppose?” Billy was holding + her breath till he should answer. + </p> + <p> + The man got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, don't—don't ask me,” he begged. “Please don't let's talk of + it any more. It can't do any good! I just flunked—that's all. My + hand failed me. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I was tired. Maybe something—troubled + me. Never mind, dear, what it was. It can do no good even to think of that—now. + So just let's—drop it, please, dear,” he finished, his face working + with emotion. + </p> + <p> + And Billy dropped it—so far as words were concerned; but she could + not drop it from her thoughts—specially after Kate's letter came. + </p> + <p> + Kate's letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking of + various other matters: + </p> + <p> + “And now about poor Bertram's failure.” (Billy frowned. In Billy's + presence no one was allowed to say “Bertram's failure”; but a letter has a + most annoying privilege of saying what it pleases without let or + hindrance, unless one tears it up—and a letter destroyed unread + remains always such a tantalizing mystery of possibilities! So Billy let + the letter talk.) “Of course we have heard of it away out here. I do wish + if Bertram <i>must</i> paint such famous people, he would manage to + flatter them up—in the painting, I mean, of course—enough so + that it might pass for a success! + </p> + <p> + “The technical part of all this criticism I don't pretend to understand in + the least; but from what I hear and read, he must, indeed, have made a + terrible mess of it, and of course I'm very sorry—and some + surprised, too, for usually he paints such pretty pictures! + </p> + <p> + “Still, on the other hand, Billy, I'm not surprised. William says that + Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an + owl, for weeks past; and of course, under those circumstances, the poor + boy could not be expected to do good work. Now William, being a man, is + not supposed to understand what the trouble is. But I, being a woman, can + see through a pane of glass when it's held right up before me; and I can + guess, of course, that a woman is at the bottom of it—she always is!—and + that you, being his special fancy at the moment” (Billy almost did tear + the letter now—but not quite), “are that woman. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Billy, you don't like such frank talk, of course; but, on the other + hand, I know you do not want to ruin the dear boy's career. So, for + heaven's sake, if you two have been having one of those quarrels that + lovers so delight in—do, please, for the good of the cause, make up + quick, or else quarrel harder and break it off entirely—which, + honestly, would be the better way, I think, all around. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, my dear child, don't bristle up! I am very fond of you, and + would dearly love to have you for a sister—if you'd only take + William, as you should! But, as you very well know, I never did approve of + this last match at all, for either of your sakes. + </p> + <p> + “He can't make you happy, my dear, and you can't make him happy. Bertram + never was—and never will be—a marrying man. He's too + temperamental—too thoroughly wrapped up in his Art. Girls have never + meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never + will. They can't. He's made that way. Listen! I can prove it to you. Up to + this winter he's always been a care-free, happy, jolly fellow, and you <i>know</i> + what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied himself to any + one girl till last fall. Then you two entered into this absurd engagement. + </p> + <p> + “Now what has it been since? William wrote me himself not a fortnight ago + that he'd been worried to death over Bertram for weeks past, he's been so + moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself. And his + picture has <i>failed</i> dismally. Of course William doesn't understand; + but I do. I know you've probably quarrelled, or something. You know how + flighty and unreliable you can be sometimes, Billy, and I don't say that + to mean anything against you, either—that's <i>your</i> way. You're + just as temperamental in your art, music, as Bertram is in his. You're + utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry <i>anybody</i>, it should + be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be a <i>help</i> to him. But + when I think of you two flyaway flutterbudgets marrying—! + </p> + <p> + “Now, for heaven's sake, Billy, <i>do</i> make up or something—and + do it now. Don't, for pity's sake, let Bertram ever put out another such a + piece of work to shame us all like this. Do you want to ruin his career? + </p> + <p> + “Faithfully yours, + </p> + <p> + “KATE HARTWELL. + </p> + <p> + “P. S. <i>I</i> think William's the one for you. He's devoted to you, and + his quiet, sensible affection is just what your temperament needs. I <i>always</i> + thought William was the one for you. Think it over. + </p> + <p> + “P. S. No. 2. You can see by the above that it isn't you I'm objecting to, + my dear. It's just <i>you-and-Bertram</i>. + </p> + <p> + “K.” <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. “I'VE HINDERED HIM” + </h2> + <p> + Billy was shaking with anger and terror by the time she had finished + reading Kate's letter. Anger was uppermost at the moment, and with one + sweeping wrench of her trembling fingers she tore the closely written + sheets straight through the middle, and flung them into the little wicker + basket by her desk. Then she went down-stairs and played her noisiest, + merriest Tarantella, and tried to see how fast she could make her fingers + fly. + </p> + <p> + But Billy could not, of course, play tarantellas all day; and even while + she did play them she could not forget that waste-basket up-stairs, and + the horror it contained. The anger was still uppermost, but the terror was + prodding her at every turn, and demanding to know just what it was that + Kate had written in that letter, anyway. It is not strange then, perhaps, + that before two hours passed, Billy went up-stairs, took the letter from + the basket, matched together the torn half-sheets and forced her shrinking + eyes to read every word again-just to satisfy that terror which would not + be silenced. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the second reading, Billy reminded herself with stern + calmness that it was only Kate, after all; that nobody ought to mind what + Kate said; that certainly <i>she</i>, Billy, ought not—after the + experience she had already had with her unpleasant interference! Kate did + not know what she was talking about, anyway. This was only another case of + her trying “to manage.” She did so love to manage—everything! + </p> + <p> + At this point Billy got out her pen and paper and wrote to Kate. + </p> + <p> + It was a formal, cold little letter, not at all the sort that Billy's + friends usually received. It thanked Kate for her advice, and for her + “kind willingness” to have Billy for a sister; but it hinted that perhaps + Kate did not realize that as long as Billy was the one who would have to + <i>live</i> with the chosen man, it would be pleasanter to take the one + Billy loved, which happened in this case to be Bertram—not William. + As for any “quarrel” being the cause of whatever fancied trouble there was + with the new picture—the letter scouted that idea in no uncertain + terms. There had been no suggestion of a quarrel even once since the + engagement. + </p> + <p> + Then Billy signed her name and took the letter out to post immediately. + </p> + <p> + For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into the green + box at the corner, Billy held her head high, and told herself that the + matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified, + conclusive, effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction of + the things she had said. + </p> + <p> + Very soon, however, she began to think—not so much of what <i>she</i> + had said—but of what Kate had said. Many of Kate's sentences were + unpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out in + letters of flame, and they began to burn, and burn, and burn. These were + some of them: + </p> + <p> + “William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, + and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman is at the bottom of it—... you are that woman.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't make him happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Bertram never was—and never will be—a marrying man.” + </p> + <p> + “Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. + And they never will.” + </p> + <p> + “Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, and + you <i>know</i> what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied + himself to any one girl until last fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Now what has it been since?” + </p> + <p> + “He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike + himself; and his picture has failed, dismally.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to ruin his career?” + </p> + <p> + Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate's letter at + all. The matter was not closed. Her reply had been, perhaps, courteous and + dignified—but it had not been conclusive nor effectual. + </p> + <p> + Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram <i>had</i> acted + strangely, of late. Bertram <i>had</i> seemed troubled over something. His + picture <i>had</i>—With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these + thoughts, and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she + told herself that the matter <i>was</i> settled. Very scornfully she + declared that it was “only Kate,” after all, and that she <i>would not</i> + let Kate make her unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current + magazine and began to read. + </p> + <p> + As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the first + article she opened to was headed in huge black type: + </p> + <p> + “MARRIAGE AND THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT.” + </p> + <p> + With a little cry Billy flung the magazine far from her, and picked up + another. But even “The Elusiveness of Chopin,” which she found here, could + not keep her thoughts nor her eyes from wandering to the discarded thing + in the corner, lying ignominiously face down with crumpled, out-flung + leaves. + </p> + <p> + Billy knew that in the end she should go over and pick that magazine up, + and read that article from beginning to end. She was not surprised, + therefore, when she did it—but she was not any the happier for + having done it. + </p> + <p> + The writer of the article did not approve of marriage and the artistic + temperament. He said the artist belonged to his Art, and to posterity + through his Art. The essay fairly bristled with many-lettered words and + high-sounding phrases, few of which Billy really understood. She did + understand enough, however, to feel, guiltily, when the thing was + finished, that already she had married Bertram, and by so doing had + committed a Crime. She had slain Art, stifled Ambition, destroyed + Inspiration, and been a nuisance generally. In consequence of which + Bertram would henceforth and forevermore be doomed to Littleness. + </p> + <p> + Naturally, in this state of mind, and with this vision before her, Billy + was anything but her bright, easy self when she met Bertram an hour or two + later. Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of the bugaboo + his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood to place the worst + possible construction on his sweetheart's very evident unhappiness. With + sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently averted eyes, therefore, the + wretched evening passed, a pitiful misery to them both. + </p> + <p> + During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itself must be + in league with Kate, so often did she encounter Kate's letter masquerading + under some thin disguise. She did not stop to realize that because she was + so afraid she <i>would</i> find it, she <i>did</i> find it. In the books + she read, in the plays she saw, in the chance words she heard spoken by + friend or stranger—always there was something to feed her fears in + one way or another. Even in a yellowed newspaper that had covered the top + shelf in her closet she found one day a symposium on whether or not an + artist's wife should be an artist; and she shuddered—but she read + every opinion given. + </p> + <p> + Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended—on + the artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some for + amusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the whole it + opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon + finishing it she almost sobbed: + </p> + <p> + “One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I was + going to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and no buttons + on his clothes!” + </p> + <p> + It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there she did + not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite to the + woeful whole. + </p> + <p> + Billy found Marie in tears. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Marie!” she cried in dismay. + </p> + <p> + “Sh-h!” warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of + Cyril's den. + </p> + <p> + “But, dear, what is it?” begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with + greater caution. + </p> + <p> + “Sh-h!” admonished Marie again. + </p> + <p> + On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tiny + apartment. Once there; she explained in a more natural tone of voice: + </p> + <p> + “Cyril's at work on a new piece for the piano.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what if he is?” demanded Billy. “That needn't make you cry, need + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—no, indeed,” demurred Marie, in a shocked voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for + sympathy, she sobbed: + </p> + <p> + “It—it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough + for Cyril.” + </p> + <p> + Billy stared frankly. + </p> + <p> + “Not <i>good</i> enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not good <i>for</i> him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots of + ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'd + darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to darn, and + I'd been so proud and—and happy while I <i>was</i> darning them. But—but + he took 'em off right after breakfast and threw 'em in a corner. Then he + put on a new pair, and said that I—I needn't darn any more; that it + made—bunches. Billy, <i>my darns—bunches!</i>” Marie's face + and voice were tragic. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you,” comforted Billy, promptly, + trying not to laugh too hard. “It wasn't <i>your</i> darns; it was just + darns—anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah + told me so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when <i>you</i> + found it out. So don't worry over that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but that isn't all,” moaned Marie. “Listen! You know how quiet he + must have everything when he's composing—and he ought to have it, + too! But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't + have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in + the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and + asked me <i>please</i> to change my shoes and let the—the confounded + dirt go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of + that abominable tin s-stuff,” she finished in a wail of misery. + </p> + <p> + Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised + hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle. + </p> + <p> + “You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing,” soothed + Billy. “I supposed you knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and make + him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgotten + there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet + sweepers that clatter.” + </p> + <p> + Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax. + </p> + <p> + “You don't understand,” she moaned. “It's myself. I've <i>hindered</i> + him!” She brought out the word with an agony of slow horror. “And only + to-day I read-here, look!” she faltered, going to the table and picking up + with shaking hands a magazine. + </p> + <p> + Billy recognized it by the cover at once—another like it had been + flung not so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not + surprised, therefore, to see very soon at the end of Marie's trembling + finger: + </p> + <p> + “Marriage and the Artistic Temperament.” + </p> + <p> + Billy did not give a ringing laugh this time. She gave an involuntary + little shudder, though she tried valiantly to turn it all off with a light + word of scorn, and a cheery pat on Marie's heaving shoulders. But she went + home very soon; and it was plain to be seen that her visit to Marie had + not brought her peace. + </p> + <p> + Billy knew Kate's letter, by heart, now, both in the original, and in its + different versions, and she knew that, despite her struggles, she was + being forced straight toward Kate's own verdict: that she, Billy, <i>was</i> + the cause, in some way, of the deplorable change in Bertram's appearance, + manner, and work. Before she would quite surrender to this heart-sickening + belief, however, she determined to ask Bertram himself. Falteringly, but + resolutely, therefore, one day, she questioned him. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, once you hinted that the picture did not go right because you + were troubled over something; and I've been wondering—was it about—me, + in any way, that you were troubled?” + </p> + <p> + Billy had her answer before the man spoke. She had it in the quick terror + that sprang to his eyes, and the dull red that swept from his neck to his + forehead. His reply, so far as words went did not count, for it evaded + everything and told nothing. But Billy knew without words. She knew, too, + what she must do. For the time being she took Bertram's evasive answer as + he so evidently wished it to be taken; but that evening, after he had + gone, she wrote him a little note and broke the engagement. So heartbroken + was she—and so fearful was she that he should suspect this—that + her note, when completed, was a cold little thing of few words, which + carried no hint that its very coldness was but the heart-break in the + disguise of pride. + </p> + <p> + This was like Billy in all ways. Billy, had she lived in the days of the + Christian martyrs, would have been the first to walk with head erect into + the Arena of Sacrifice. The arena now was just everyday living, the lions + were her own devouring misery, and the cause was Bertram's best good. + </p> + <p> + From Bertram's own self she had it now—that she had been the cause + of his being troubled; so she could doubt no longer. The only part that + was uncertain was the reason why he had been troubled. Whether his bond to + her had become irksome because of his love for another, or because of his + love for no girl—except to paint, Billy did not know. But that it + was irksome she did not doubt now. Besides, as if she were going to slay + his Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance + generally just so that <i>she</i> might be happy! Indeed, no! Hence she + broke the engagement. + </p> + <p> + This was the letter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “DEAR BERTRAM:—You won't make the + move, so I must. I knew, from the way you spoke + to-day, that it <i>was</i> about me that you were + troubled, even though you generously tried to + make me think it was not. And so the picture did + not go well. + + “Now, dear, we have not been happy together + lately. You have seen it; so have I. I fear our + engagement was a mistake, so I'm going to send + back your ring to-morrow, and I'm writing this + letter to-night. Please don't try to see me just + yet. You <i>know</i> what I am doing is best—all + round. + “Always your friend, + “BILLY.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. FLIGHT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>hindered</i> him!” + added their mite; and Billy knew that she should not go to the telephone, + nor summon Bertram. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>no one</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morning paper—now + no longer barred from the door—she gave a sudden cry. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, maybe he didn't happen to see us so he could tell us,” returned + Billy with elaborate carelessness. + </p> + <p> + “I know it; but it's so funny he <i>hasn't</i> seen us,” contended Aunt + Hannah, frowning. “You know how much he used to be here.” + </p> + <p> + Billy colored, and hurried into the fray. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Billy had, indeed, “got it all planned.” She had been longing for + something that would take her away from the house—and if possible + away from herself. This would do the one easily, and might help on the + other. She rose at once. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go right away,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear,” frowned Aunt Hannah, anxiously, “I don't believe I can go + to-night—though I'd love to, dearly.” + </p> + <p> + “But why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm tired and half sick with a headache this morning. I didn't sleep, and + I've taken cold somewhere,” sighed the lady, pulling the top shawl a + little higher about her throat. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you poor dear, what a shame!” + </p> + <p> + “Won't Bertram go?” asked Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head—but she did not meet Aunt Hannah's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I sha'n't even ask him. He said last night he had a banquet on + for to-night—one of his art clubs, I believe.” Billy's voice was + casualness itself. + </p> + <p> + “But you'll have the Greggorys—that is, Mrs. Greggory <i>can</i> go, + can't she?” inquired Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I'm sure she can,” nodded Billy. “You know she went to the + operetta, and this is just the same—only bigger.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know,” murmured Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! How can she get about so on those two wretched little sticks? + She's a perfect marvel to me.” + </p> + <p> + “She is to me, too,” sighed Billy, as she hurried from the room. + </p> + <p> + Billy was, indeed, in a hurry. To herself she said she wanted to get away—away! + And she got away as soon as she could. + </p> + <p> + She had her plans all made. She would go first to the Greggorys' and + invite them to attend the opera with her that evening. Then she would get + the tickets. Just what she would do with the rest of the day she did not + know. She knew only that she would not go home until time to dress for + dinner and the opera. She did not tell Aunt Hannah this, however, when she + left the house. She planned to telephone it from somewhere down town, + later. She told herself that she <i>could not</i> stay all day under the + sharp eyes of Aunt Hannah—but she managed, nevertheless, to bid that + lady a particularly blithe and bright-faced good-by. + </p> + <p> + Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannah + answered it. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Bertram, is that you?” she called, in answer to the words that came + to her across the wire. “Why, I hardly knew your voice!” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you? Well, is—is Billy there?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she isn't. She's gone down to see Alice Greggory.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” So evident was the disappointment in the voice that Aunt Hannah + added hastily: + </p> + <p> + “I'm so sorry! She hasn't been gone ten minutes. But—is there any + message?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you. There's no—message.” The voice hesitated, then went + on a little constrainedly. “How—how is Billy this morning? She—she's + all right, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah laughed in obvious amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a <i>long</i> time + since last evening—when you saw her yourself? Yes, she's all right. + In fact, I was thinking at the breakfast table how pretty she looked with + her pink cheeks and her bright eyes. She seemed to be in such high + spirits.” + </p> + <p> + An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catch came + across the line; then a somewhat hurried “All right. Thank you. Good-by.” + </p> + <p> + The next time Aunt Hannah was called to the telephone, Billy spoke to her. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah, don't wait luncheon for me, please. I shall get it in town. + And don't expect me till five o'clock. I have some shopping to do.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, dear,” replied Aunt Hannah. “Did you get the tickets?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the Greggorys will go. Oh, and Aunt Hannah!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Please tell John to bring Peggy around early enough to-night so we can go + down and get the Greggorys. I told them we'd call for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, dear. I'll tell him.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. How's the poor head?” + </p> + <p> + “Better, a little, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “That's good. Won't you repent and go, too?” + </p> + <p> + “No—oh, no, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “All right, then; good-by. I'm sorry!” + </p> + <p> + “So'm I. Good-by,” sighed Aunt Hannah, as she hung up the receiver and + turned away. + </p> + <p> + It was after five o'clock when Billy got home, and so hurried were the + dressing and the dinner that Aunt Hannah forgot to mention Bertram's + telephone call till just as Billy was ready to start for the Greggorys'. + </p> + <p> + “There! and I forgot,” she confessed. “Bertram called you up just after + you left this morning, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he?” Billy's face was turned away, but Aunt Hannah did not notice + that. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Oh, he didn't want anything special,” smiled the lady, “only—well, + he did ask if you were all right this morning,” she finished with quiet + mischief. + </p> + <p> + “Did he?” murmured Billy again. This time there was a little sound after + the words, which Aunt Hannah would have taken for a sob if she had not + known that it must have been a laugh. + </p> + <p> + Then Billy was gone. + </p> + <p> + At eight o'clock the doorbell rang, and a minute later Rosa came up to say + that Mr. Bertram Henshaw was down-stairs and wished to see Mrs. Stetson. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Stetson went down at once. + </p> + <p> + “Why, my dear boy,” she exclaimed, as she entered the room; “Billy said + you had a banquet on for to-night!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; but—I didn't go.” Bertram's face was pale and drawn. + His voice did not sound natural. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Bertram, you look ill! <i>Are</i> you ill?” The man made an + impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, I'm not ill—I'm not ill at all. Rosa says—Billy's not + here.” + </p> + <p> + “No; she's gone to the opera with the Greggorys.” + </p> + <p> + “The <i>opera!</i>” There was a grieved hurt in Bertram's voice that Aunt + Hannah quite misunderstood. She hastened to give an apologetic + explanation. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She would have told you—she would have asked you to join them, + I'm sure, but she said you were going to a banquet. I'm <i>sure</i> she + said so.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did tell her so—last night,” nodded Bertram, dully. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah frowned a little. Still more anxiously she endeavored to + explain to this disappointed lover why his sweetheart was not at home to + greet him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, of course, my boy, she'd never think of your coming here + to-night; and when she found Mr. Arkwright was going to sing—” + </p> + <p> + “Arkwright!” There was no listlessness in Bertram's voice or manner now. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Didn't you see it in the paper? Such a splendid chance for him! His + picture was there, too.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I didn't see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't know about it, of course,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “But he's + to take the part of Johnson in 'The Girl of the Golden West.' Isn't that + splendid? I'm so glad! And Billy was, too. She hurried right off this + morning to get the tickets and to ask the Greggorys.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Bertram got to his feet a little abruptly, and held out his hand. + “Well, then, I might as well say good-by then, I suppose,” he suggested + with a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she could + remind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for not being + there to welcome him, he was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only go up-stairs + and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in general, and of Bertram + in particular. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy came + home, so she heard the automobile come to a stop before the door, and she + called to Billy when the girl came upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was it + good?” + </p> + <p> + Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face. + There was no brightness in her eyes now, no pink in her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, it was good—very good,” she replied listlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't Mary Jane—all + right?” + </p> + <p> + “Mary Jane? Oh!—oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah.” + </p> + <p> + “'Very good,' indeed!” echoed the lady, indignantly. “He must have been!—when + you speak as if you'd actually forgotten that he sang at all, anyway!” + </p> + <p> + Billy had forgotten—almost. Billy had found that, in spite of her + getting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, all + day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning. + </p> + <p> + “But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,” she cried, with some show of + animation. “And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of + curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I <i>am</i> tired,” + she broke off wearily. + </p> + <p> + “You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't + keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh—Bertram didn't go to + that banquet, after all. He came here,” she added, as Billy turned to go. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram!” The girl wheeled sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all,” chuckled + Aunt Hannah. “Did you suppose I would?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Billy had gone. + </p> + <p> + In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had + always fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that. + Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see her—and + she could not see him. She dared not. If she did—Billy knew now how + pitifully little it would take to make her actually <i>willing</i> to slay + Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a + nuisance generally—if only she could have Bertram while she was + doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she + had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had + not been a success—because of her, either for the reason that he + loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl—except to + paint. + </p> + <p> + Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at Aunt + Hannah's bedside. + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled. + </p> + <p> + Billy sat down on the edge of the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah,” she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a + lesson she had learned by heart, “please listen, and please try not to be + too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like to visit + your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If you don't + mind we'll go to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed. + </p> + <p> + “<i>To-day</i>—child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” nodded Billy, unsmilingly. “We shall have to go somewhere to-day, + and I thought you would like that place best.” + </p> + <p> + “But—Billy!—what does this mean?” + </p> + <p> + Billy sighed heavily. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah fell nervelessly back on the pillow. Her teeth fairly + chattered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my grief and conscience—<i>Billy!</i> Won't you please pull up + that blanket,” she moaned. “Billy, what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Billy shook her head and got to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “I can't tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don't ask me; and + don't—talk. You <i>will</i>—go with me, won't you?” And Aunt + Hannah, with her terrified eyes on Billy's piteously agitated face, nodded + her head and choked: + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course I'll go—anywhere—with you, Billy; but—why + did you do it, why did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + A little later, Billy, in her own room, wrote this note to Bertram: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. PETE TO THE RESCUE + </h2> + <p> + One by one the weeks passed 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Billy sprang to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Aunt Hannah, what is it? What's the matter?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hannah sank into a chair, still wringing her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Billy, Billy, how can I tell you, how can I tell you?” she moaned. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me! Aunt Hannah, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—oh—oh! Billy, I can't—I can't!” + </p> + <p> + “But you'll have to! What is it, Aunt Hannah?” + </p> + <p> + “It's—B-Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + “Bertram!” Billy's face grew ashen. “Quick, quick—what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Hannah, you must tell me! You must—you must!” + </p> + <p> + “I can't, Billy. It's Bertram. He's—<i>hurt!</i>” choked Aunt + Hannah, hysterically. + </p> + <p> + “Hurt! How?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Pete told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Pete!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Rosa had told him we were coming, and he called me up. He said maybe + I could do something. So he told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes! But told you what?” + </p> + <p> + “That he was hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h!” Billy fell back as if the words had been a blow. “Not that, Aunt + Hannah—not that!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For—<i>me?</i>” A swift change came to Billy's face. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>really</i>, + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Billy was on her feet now. Her fingers were on the electric push-button + that would summon Rosa. Her face was illumined. The next moment Rosa + appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Tell John to bring Peggy to the door at once, please,” directed her + mistress. + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” gasped Aunt Hannah again, as the maid disappeared. Billy was + tremblingly putting on the hat she had but just taken off. “Billy, what + are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + Billy turned in obvious surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I'm going to Bertram, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “To Bertram! But it's nearly half-past eight, child, and it rains, and + everything!” + </p> + <p> + “But Bertram <i>wants</i> me!” exclaimed Billy. “As if I'd mind rain, or + time, or anything else, <i>now!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—oh, my grief and conscience!” groaned Aunt Hannah, + beginning to wring her hands again. + </p> + <p> + Billy reached for her coat. Aunt Hannah stirred into sudden action. + </p> + <p> + “But, Billy, if you'd only wait till to-morrow,” she quavered, putting out + a feebly restraining hand. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow!” The young voice rang with supreme scorn. “Do you think I'd + wait till to-morrow—after all this? I say Bertram <i>wants</i> me.” + Billy picked up her gloves. + </p> + <p> + “But you broke it off, dear—you said you did; and to go down there + to-night—like this—” + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her head. Her eyes shone. Her whole face was a glory of love + and pride. + </p> + <p> + “That was before. I didn't know. He <i>wants</i> me, Aunt Hannah. Did you + hear? He <i>wants</i> me! And now I won't even—hinder him, if he + can't—p-paint again!” Billy's voice broke. The glory left her face. + Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her head was still bravely uplifted. “I'm + going to Bertram!” + </p> + <p> + Blindly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. Still more blindly she reached for + her bonnet and cloak on the chair near her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, will you go, too?” asked Billy, abstractedly, hurrying to the window + to look for the motor car. + </p> + <p> + “Will I go, too!” burst out Aunt Hannah's indignant voice. “Do you think + I'd let you go alone, and at this time of night, on such a wild-goose + chase as this?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, I'm sure,” murmured Billy, still abstractedly, peering out + into the rain. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know, indeed! Oh, my grief and conscience!” groaned Aunt Hannah, + setting her bonnet hopelessly askew on top of her agitated head. + </p> + <p> + But Billy did not even answer now. Her face was pressed hard against the + window-pane. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS + </h2> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Where is he, Pete?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Pete, where is he?” interposed Billy. “Tell Mr. Bertram I am here—or, + wait! I'll go right in and surprise him.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Billy!</i>” This time it was Aunt Hannah who gasped her name. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>we</i> + are here, and ask if he will receive <i>us</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Pete's lips twitched. The emphatic “we” and “us” were not lost on him. But + his face was preternaturally grave when he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bertram is up and dressed, ma'am. He's in the den. I'll speak to + him.” + </p> + <p> + Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door of Bertram's + den and threw it wide open. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm + with a contented little sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to-night that you wanted me, I + came,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>didn't</i> want you?” + </p> + <p> + Billy's eyes widened a little. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Bertram's voice was a little strained. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of—of course,” stammered Billy, “I couldn't help thinking that + maybe you had found out you <i>didn't</i> want me.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Didn't want you!</i>” groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + Billy blushed. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>any</i> girl, only to paint—oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us,” she + broke off wildly, beginning to sob. + </p> + <p> + “Pete told you that I didn't care for any girl, only to paint?” demanded + Bertram, angry and mystified. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>can't</i> say it! But that's one of the + things that made me know I <i>could</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>can't</i> 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—<i>now!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. She + pulled herself half away from Bertram's encircling arm. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Billy,” cried the man, in pained surprise. “You don't mean to say + you're <i>sorry</i> I'm going to paint again!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! Oh, no, Bertram—never that!” she faltered, still regarding + him with fearful eyes. “It's only—for <i>me</i>, you know. I <i>can't</i> + go back now, and not have you—after this!—even if I do hinder + you, and—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hinder me!</i> What are you talking about, Billy?” + </p> + <p> + Billy drew a quivering sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Well, to begin with, Kate said—” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! Is Kate in <i>this</i>, too?” Bertram's voice was savage + now. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she wrote a letter.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll warrant she did! Great Scott, Billy! Don't you know Kate by this + time?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes, I said so, too. But, Bertram, what she wrote was true. I found it + everywhere, afterwards—in magazines and papers, and even in Marie.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph! Well, dearie, I don't know yet what you found, but I do know you + wouldn't have found it at all if it hadn't been for Kate—and I wish + I had her here this minute!” + </p> + <p> + Billy giggled hysterically. + </p> + <p> + “I don't—not <i>right</i> here,” she cooed, nestling comfortably + against her lover's arm. “But you see, dear, she never <i>has</i> approved + of the marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, who's doing the marrying—she, or I?” “That's what I said, too—only + in another way,” sighed Billy. “But she called us flyaway flutterbudgets, + and she said I'd ruin your career, if I did marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can tell you right now, Billy, you will ruin it if you don't!” + declared Bertram. “That's what ailed me all the time I was painting that + miserable portrait. I was so worried—for fear I'd lose you.” + </p> + <p> + “Lose me! Why, Bertram Henshaw, what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + A shamed red crept to the man's forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scared + blue, Billy, with jealousy of—Arkwright.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed gayly—but she shifted her position and did not meet + her lover's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Arkwright? Nonsense!” she cried. “Why, he's going to marry Alice + Greggory. I know he is! I can see it as plain as day in her letters. He's + there a lot.” + </p> + <p> + “And you never did think for a minute, Billy, that you cared for him?” + Bertram's gaze searched Billy's face a little fearfully. He had not been + slow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked him now + straight in the face—it was a level, frank gaze of absolute truth. + </p> + <p> + “Never, dear,” she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned the + question on <i>her</i> love instead of Arkwright's!) “There has never + really been any one but you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that,” breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright head nearer + and held it close. + </p> + <p> + After a minute Billy stirred and sighed happily. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't lovers the beat'em for imagining things?” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “They certainly are.” + </p> + <p> + “You see—I wasn't in love with Mr. Arkwright.” + </p> + <p> + “I see—I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and you didn't care <i>specially</i> for—for Miss + Winthrop?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Well, no!” exploded Bertram. “Do you mean to say you really—” + </p> + <p> + Billy put a soft finger on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Er—'people who live in <i>glass houses</i>,' you know,” she + reminded him, with roguish eyes. + </p> + <p> + Bertram kissed the finger and subsided. + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” he commented. + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence; then, a little breathlessly, Billy asked: + </p> + <p> + “And you don't—after all, love me—just to paint?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is that? Is that Kate, too?” demanded Bertram, grimly. + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed. + </p> + <p> + “No—oh, she said it, all right, but, you see, <i>everybody</i> said + that to me, Bertram; and that's what made me so—so worried sometimes + when you talked about the tilt of my chin, and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, by Jove!” breathed Bertram. + </p> + <p> + There was another silence. Then, suddenly, Bertram stirred. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, I'm going to marry you to-morrow,” he announced decisively. + </p> + <p> + Billy lifted her head and sat back in palpitating dismay. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram! What an absurd idea!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am. I don't <i>know</i> as I can trust you out of my sight till + <i>then!</i> You'll read something, or hear something, or get a letter + from Kate after breakfast to-morrow morning, that will set you 'saving me' + again; and I don't want to be saved—that way. I'm going to marry you + to-morrow. I'll get—” He stopped short, with a sudden frown. + “Confound that law! I forgot. Great Scott, Billy, I'll have to trust you + five days, after all! There's a new law about the license. We've <i>got</i> + to wait five days—and maybe more, counting in the notice, and all.” + </p> + <p> + Billy laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “Five days, indeed, sir! I wonder if you think I can get ready to be + married in five days.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't want you to get ready,” retorted Bertram, promptly. “I saw Marie + get ready, and I had all I wanted of it. If you really must have all those + miles of tablecloths and napkins and doilies and lace rufflings we'll do + it afterwards,—not before.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “Besides, I <i>need</i> you to take care of me,” cut in Bertram, craftily. + </p> + <p> + “Bertram, do you—really?” + </p> + <p> + The tender glow on Billy's face told its own story, and Bertram's eager + eyes were not slow to read it. + </p> + <p> + “Sweetheart, see here, dear,” he cried softly, tightening his good left + arm. And forthwith he began to tell her how much he did, indeed, need her. + </p> + <p> + “Billy, my dear!” It was Aunt Hannah's plaintive voice at the doorway, a + little later. “We must go home; and William is here, too, and wants to see + you.” + </p> + <p> + Billy rose at once as Aunt Hannah entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Aunt Hannah, I'll come; besides”—she glanced at Bertram + mischievously—“I shall need all the time I've got to prepare for—my + wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “Your wedding! You mean it'll be before—October?” Aunt Hannah + glanced from one to the other uncertainly. Something in their smiling + faces sent a quick suspicion to her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” nodded Billy, demurely. “It's next Tuesday, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Next Tuesday! But that's only a week away,” gasped Aunt Hannah. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a week.” + </p> + <p> + “But, child, your trousseau—the wedding—the—the—a + week!” Aunt Hannah could not articulate further. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; that is a good while,” cut in Bertram, airily. “We wanted it + to-morrow, but we had to wait, on account of the new license law. + Otherwise it wouldn't have been so long, and—” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Hannah was gone. With a low-breathed “Long! Oh, my grief and + conscience—<i>William!</i>” she had fled through the hall door. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it <i>is</i> long,” maintained Bertram, with tender eyes, as he + reached out his hand to say good-night. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Miss Billy's Decision, by Eleanor H. 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