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@@ -0,0 +1,9845 @@ +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] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS BILLY'S DECISION *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller + + + + + +MISS BILLY'S DECISION + +By Eleanor H. Porter + +Author of "Miss Billy," etc. + + +TO My Cousin Helen + + + CONTENTS + CHAPTER + I. CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING + II. AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER + III. BILLY AND BERTRAM + IV. FOR MARY JANE + V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND + VI. AT THE SIGN OF THE PINK + VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW + VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME + IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID + X. A JOB FOR PETE--AND FOR BERTRAM + XI. A CLOCK AND AUNT HANNAH + XII. SISTER KATE + XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING + XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE + XV. "MR. BILLY" AND "MISS MARY JANE" + XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT + XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT-- + XVIII. SUGARPLUMS + XIX. ALICE GREGGORY + XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY + XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS + XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS + XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM + XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART + XXV. THE OPERETTA + XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY + XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH + XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN + XXIX. KATE WRITES A LETTER + XXX. "I'VE HINDERED HIM" + XXXI. FLIGHT + XXXII. PETE TO THE RESCUE + XXXIII. BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS + + + + + +MISS BILLY'S DECISION + + + + +CHAPTER I. CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING + + +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: + +"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." + +Farther along in this same letter Calderwell touched upon his new friend +again. + +"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!" + +Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as he sat at a small table +in a Paris cafe. 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." + +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. + +"Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!" he was thinking. Then +Arkwright spoke. + +"How long since you've been in correspondence with members of my +family?" + +"Eh?" + +Arkwright laughed grimly. + +"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." + +"_Mary Jane!_ You mean they actually _call_ you that?" + +"Yes," bowed the big fellow, calmly, as he struck a light. +"Appropriate!--don't you think?" + +Calderwell did not answer. He thought he could not. + +"Well, silence gives consent, they say," laughed the other. "Anyhow, you +must have had _some_ reason for calling me that." + +"Arkwright, what _does_ 'M. J.' stand for?" demanded Calderwell. + +"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." + +"Mary Jane! You!" + +Arkwright smiled oddly. + +"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." + +Calderwell gave a sudden start. + +"You don't mean Billy--Neilson?" + +The other turned sharply. + +"Do _you_ know Billy Neilson?" + +Calderwell gave his friend a glance from scornful eyes. + +"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." + +"Apple pie!" scouted Arkwright. + +Calderwell shrugged his shoulders. + +"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." + +"Indeed! And is it--buried, yet?" + +"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. + +For a moment there was silence, then Calderwell spoke again. + +"Where did you know--Miss Billy?" + +"Oh, I don't know her at all. I know of her--through Aunt Hannah." + +Calderwell sat suddenly erect. + +"Aunt Hannah! Is she your aunt, too? Jove! This _is_ a little old world, +after all; isn't it?" + +"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?" + +"She does," rejoined Calderwell, with an unexpected chuckle. "I wonder +if you know how she happened to live with her, at first." + +"Why, no, I reckon not. What do you mean?" + +Calderwell chuckled again. + +"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." + +"Well?" + +"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!" + +"The Strata!" + +"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 _the_ Bertram Henshaw, you understand; the artist." + +"Not the 'Face-of-a-Girl' Henshaw?" + +"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 naive request for a home came." + +"Great Scott!" breathed Arkwright, appreciatively. + +"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." + +"With never a suspicion?" + +"With never a suspicion." + +"Gorry!" + +"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." + +"But what did the Henshaws do?" + +"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." + +"So that's how it happened! Well, by George!" cried Arkwright. + +"Yes," nodded the other. "So you see there are untold possibilities just +in a name. Remember that. Just suppose _you_, as Mary Jane, should beg a +home in a feminine household--say in Miss Billy's, for instance!" + +"I'd like to," retorted Arkwright, with sudden warmth. + +Calderwell stared a little. + +The other laughed shamefacedly. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +Arkwright laughed quietly; then he frowned. + +"But how about it?" he asked. "I thought she was keeping house with Aunt +Hannah. Didn't she stay at all with the Henshaws?" + +"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." + +"And she's not married--or even engaged?" + +"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 _she_ had a +letter from Billy in August. But I heard nothing of any engagement." + +"How about the Henshaws? I should think there might be a chance there +for a romance--a charming girl, and three unattached men." + +Calderwell gave a slow shake of the head. + +"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." + +"But there's--yourself." + +Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch. + +"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 _know_ there's no chance +for me--now." + +"Then you'll leave me a clear field?" bantered the other. + +"Of course--'Mary Jane,'" retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness. + +"Thank you." + +"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." + +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. + +Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said: + +"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." + +"Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather +sudden?" + +"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." + +"Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know +it." + +"Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook." + +"You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time," grinned Calderwell. + +"Thanks. You know well enough what I mean," shrugged the other. + +There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried: + +"Arkwright, how old are you?" + +"Twenty-four." + +"Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?" + +"Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be +supplemented now, I reckon." + +"What are you going to do?" + +There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, +came the answer: + +"Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably--in vaudeville." + +Calderwell smiled appreciatively. + +"You _can_ sing like the devil," he admitted. + +"Thanks," returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. "Do you mind +calling it 'an angel'--just for this occasion?" + +"Oh, the matinee-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, +Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?" + +"Let 'em alone." + +"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 'Senor Martini +Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J.' +really did stand for," hinted Calderwell, shamelessly. + +"'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." + +"But--how shall you manage?" + +"Time will tell." + +Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair. + +"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." + +"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, _into_ it--before I give up." + +"Where you going to study? New York?" + +Again there was an almost imperceptible hesitation before the answer +came. + +"I'm not quite prepared to say." + +"Why not try it here?" + +Arkwright shook his head. + +"I did plan to, when I came over but I've changed my mind. I believe I'd +rather work while longer in America." + +"Hm-m," murmured Calderwell. + +There was a brief silence, followed by other questions and other +answers; after which the friends said good night. + +In his own room, as he was dropping off to sleep, Calderwell muttered +drowsily: + +"By George! I haven't found out yet what that blamed 'M. J.' stands +for!" + + + + +CHAPTER II. AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER + + +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. + +"Writing, my dear? Then don't let me disturb you." She turned as if to +go. + +Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew to the little woman's +side and whirled her half across the room. + +"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!" + +"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 _ever_ grow up?" + +"Hope not," purred Billy cheerfully, dropping herself on to a low +hassock at Aunt Hannah's feet. + +"But, my dear, you--you're engaged!" + +Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh. + +"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, _love_ him, and what beautiful +eyes he has, and _such_ a nose, and--" + +"Billy!" Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in pale horror. + +"Eh?" Billy's eyes were roguish. + +"You didn't write that in those notes!" + +"Write it? Oh, no! That's only what I _wanted_ 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. + +"Hm-m; that is very good--for you," admitted the lady. + +"Well, I like that!--after all my stern self-control and self-sacrifice +to keep out all those things I _wanted_ 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. + +"I don't doubt it," observed Aunt Hannah, dryly. + +Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the desk. + +"I'm writing to Belle Calderwell, now," she announced musingly, dropping +herself again on the hassock. "I suppose she'll tell Hugh." + +"Poor boy! He'll be disappointed." + +Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little. + +"He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, +that--that I couldn't." + +"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. + +There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh. + +"He _will_ 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 _me!_--if he never saw another tube of +paint!" + +"I think he does, my dear." + +Again there was silence; then, from Billy's lips there came softly: + +"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!" + +"The other _two!_" cried Aunt Hannah. + +Billy laughed. + +"Oh, I forgot. You didn't know about Cyril." + +"Cyril!" + +"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. + +"Billy!" protested Aunt Hannah, feebly. + +"But I _am_ 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." + +"That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, from +the start." + +A bright color flooded Billy's face. + +"I know; but if a girl _will_ 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!" + +"You can expect just what you got--misery, and almost a tragedy," +retorted Aunt Hannah, severely. + +A tender light came into Billy's eyes. + +"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!" + +"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 _you'd_ have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an +eyelid!" + +"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." + +Aunt Hannah's lips grew stern at the corners. + +"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. + +"Why-Aunt Hannah!" reproved Billy in mischievous horror. "I'm shocked at +you!" + +Aunt Hannah flushed miserably. + +"There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, of +course," she murmured agitatedly. + +Billy laughed. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"A niece?" + +"Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt,' just as you and the +Henshaw boys do. But I really am related to _her_, for her mother and I +are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to +the Henshaw family." + +"What's her name?" + +"'Mary Jane Arkwright.' Where is that letter?" + +"Here it is, on the floor," reported Billy. "Were you going to read it +to me?" she asked, as she picked it up. + +"Yes--if you don't mind." + +"I'd love to hear it." + +"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." + +"How old is she?" + +"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." + +"You don't remember her, then?" + +Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its +envelope. + +"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.'" + +"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. + +"Very well," sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began to +read. + + + "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." + + +"Grand Opera! Oh, how perfectly lovely," cried Billy. + +"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." + +Billy frowned and hesitated. + +"Why, it sounded--a little--that way; but--" Suddenly her face cleared. +"Aunt Hannah, I've thought of the very thing. We _will_ take her!" + +"Oh, Billy, I couldn't think of letting you do that," demurred Aunt +Hannah. "You're very kind--but, oh, no; not that!" + +"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." + +"But--but--we don't know anything about her." + +"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!" + +"But--I don't know anything about her age." + +"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!" + +"Oh, I do, of course; but--" + +"Then it's all settled," interposed Billy, springing to her feet. + +"But what if we--we shouldn't like her?" + +"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!" + +Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. + +"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." + +"You've rested me," declared Billy, flinging wide her arms. + +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. + +Billy laughed. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. BILLY AND BERTRAM + + +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. + +"Why, darling, what's the matter?" he demanded, his own eyes growing +wide and frightened. + +"Bertram, it's--done!" + +"What's done? What do you mean?" + +"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, _everybody_ will know it." Her +voice was tragic. + +Bertram relaxed visibly. A tender light came to his eyes. + +"Well, didn't you expect everybody would know it, my dear?" + +"Y-yes; but--" + +At her hesitation, the tender light changed to a quick fear. + +"Billy, you aren't--sorry?" + +The pink glory that suffused her face answered him before her words did. + +"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." + +"_Afraid_--Billy!" + +"Yes." + +Billy sighed, and gazed with pensive eyes into the fire. + +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. + +"Why, Billy!" he breathed. + +Billy drew another sigh. It seemed to come from the very bottoms of her +small, satin-slippered feet. + +"Well, I am. You're _the_ 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!'" + +Bertram gave a relieved laugh. + +"Nonsense, sweetheart! I should think you were a picture I'd painted and +hung on a wall." + +"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. + +"_Like_ it!" + +"Yes. The picture--me, I mean." + +"They can't help liking it," he retorted, with the prompt certainty of +an adoring lover. + +Billy shook her head. Her eyes had gone back to the fire. + +"Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. 'What, _she_--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!" + +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. + +"'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--" + +"And naughtiness?" put in Billy herself. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Now you are mine--really mine, sweetheart!" The man's voice and hand +shook as he slipped the ring on Billy's outstretched finger. + +Billy caught her breath with almost a sob. + +"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." + +The man drew her into a close embrace. + +"As if I cared for that," he scoffed lovingly. + +Billy looked up in quick horror. + +"Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't--care?" + +He laughed lightly, and took the dismayed little face between his two +hands. + +"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 +_now_--just you. I love _you_, you know." + +There was a moment's pause. Billy's eyes, as they looked at him, carried +a curious intentness in their dark depths. + +"You mean, you like--the turn of my head and the tilt of my chin?" she +asked a little breathlessly. + +"I adore them!" came the prompt answer. + +To Bertram's utter amazement, Billy drew back with a sharp cry. + +"No, no--not that!" + +"Why, _Billy!_" + +Billy laughed unexpectedly; then she sighed. + +"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. + +"Well; only what?" demanded Bertram. + +Billy blushed the more deeply, but she gave a light laugh. + +"Nothing, only something Hugh Calderwell said to me once. You see, +Bertram, I don't think Hugh ever thought you would--marry." + +"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. + +Billy smiled. + +"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--" + +"Billy!" This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror. + +Billy threw him a roguish glance. + +"Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I _wanted_ +to say. What I really said was--quite another matter," she finished with +a saucy uptilting of her chin. + +Bertram relaxed with a laugh. + +"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!" + +"Pooh! Just another face of a girl," teased the adorable one. + +Bertram gave a sudden exclamation. + +"There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is." + +"To paint a portrait?" + +"Yes." + +"Can't. Who is it?" + +"J. G. Winthrop's daughter." + +"Not _the_ J. G. Winthrop?" + +"The same." + +"Oh, Bertram, how splendid!" + +"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." + +"No, I haven't seen her. Is she so _very_ beautiful?" Billy spoke a +little soberly. + +"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." + +"Will it? I'm so glad--and you'll get it, I know you will," claimed +Billy, clearing her throat a little nervously. + +"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." + +"Yes; yes, indeed!" Billy cleared her throat again. "You've seen her, of +course, lately?" + +"Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details--sittings +and costume, and deciding on the pose." + +"Did you find one--to suit?" + +"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." + +Billy gave a nervous little laugh. + +"Isn't that--unusual?" she asked. + +Bertram lifted his eyebrows with a quizzical smile. + +"Well, they aren't all Marguerite Winthrops," he reminded her. + +"Marguerite!" cried Billy. "Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do think +Marguerite is the dearest name!" Billy's eyes and voice were wistful. + +"I don't--not the _dearest_. Oh, it's all well enough, of course, but it +can't be compared for a moment to--well, say, 'Billy'!" + +Billy smiled, but she shook her head. + +"I'm afraid you're not a good judge of names," she objected. + +"Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matter +what it was." + +"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." + +"You're going to have a Mary Jane here? Do you mean that Rosa's going +away?" + +"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." + +Bertram frowned. + +"Well, of course, that's very nice for--_Mary Jane_," he sighed with +meaning emphasis. + +Billy laughed. + +"Don't worry, dear. She won't bother us any." + +"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." + +"Never!" laughed Billy. "Besides, what would you have me do when a +lonesome young girl was coming to Boston? Anyhow, _you're_ not the one +to talk, young man. I've known _you_ to take in a lonesome girl and give +her a home," she flashed merrily. + +Bertram chuckled. + +"Jove! What a time that was!" he exclaimed, regarding his companion with +fond eyes. "And Spunk, too! Is she going to bring a Spunk?" + +"Not that I've heard," smiled Billy; "but she _is_ going to wear a +pink." + +"Not really, Billy?" + +"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 _two_ pinks worn this time. _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!" + +Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + +"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 _can't_ 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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. FOR MARY JANE + + +"I have a letter here from Mary Jane, my dear," announced Aunt Hannah at +the luncheon table one day. + +"Have you?" Billy raised interested eyes from her own letters. "What +does she say?" + +"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." + +"Nonsense! She doesn't refuse, does she?" + +"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." + +Billy laughed. + +"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?" + +"Half past four, South Station." + +"Thursday, at half past four. Let me see--that's the day of the +Carletons' 'At Home,' isn't it?" + +"Oh, my grief and conscience, yes! But I had forgotten it. What shall we +do?" + +"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." + +"As if it could look any other way, if _you_ had anything to do with +it," sighed Aunt Hannah, admiringly. + +Billy laughed. + +"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 _my_ room." + +Aunt Hannah raised shocked hands of protest. + +"As if we would! Mercy, what a time that was!" + +Billy laughed again. + +"I never shall forget, _never_, 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!" + +"As if I didn't see quite enough when I saw William's face that morning +he came for me!" retorted Aunt Hannah, spiritedly. + +"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." + +"I know. She comes to-morrow, doesn't she?" + +"Yes, and I'm glad. I shall tell Marie she needn't leave Cyril on _my_ +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. + +"It's the telephone, Miss Neilson. Mr. Bertram Henshaw wants you." + +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. + +"Billy, my dear, excuse me, but have you forgotten what time it is? +Weren't you going out with Bertram?" + +Billy stopped playing at once, but she did not turn her head. Her +fingers busied themselves with some music on the piano. + +"We aren't going, Aunt Hannah," she said. + +"Bertram can't." + +"_Can't!_" + +"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." + +"Why, how--how--" Aunt Hannah stopped helplessly. + +"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. + +Slowly Aunt Hannah turned and went up-stairs. Her eyes were troubled. +Not since Billy's engagement had she heard Billy play like that. + +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: + +"Well, how did the picture go?" + +Bertram rose then, crossed the room, and took Billy very gently into his +arms. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"Oh, Bertram, I'm proud, proud, _proud_ of you!" she breathed. "Come, +let's go over to the fire-and talk!" + + + + +CHAPTER V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND + + +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. + +"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.'" + +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. + +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. + +Billy's lips curved in a mischievous smile. + +"No, he didn't come," she said. "He didn't want to--a little bit." + +Marie grew actually pale. + +"Didn't _want_ to!" she stammered. + +Billy gave her a spasmodic hug. + +"Goosey! No, he didn't--a _little_ bit; but he did a great _big_ 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." + +Marie sighed her relief. + +"Oh, that's all right then. I was afraid he was sick--when I didn't see +him." + +Billy laughed softly. + +"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." + +The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow +hair. + +"Billy, dear, he--he didn't!" + +"Marie, dear--he--he did!" + +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. + +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: + +"Have you settled on where you're going to live?" + +"Not quite. We're going to talk of that to-night; but we _do_ know that +we aren't going to live at the Strata." + +"Marie!" + +Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in her +friend's voice. + +"But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure," she argued hastily. "There +will be you and Bertram--" + +"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." + +Marie smiled, but she shook her head. + +"Lovely--but not practical, dear." + +Billy laughed ruefully. + +"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." + +"Billy, what are you talking about?" + +Billy threw a roguish glance into her friend's amazed blue eyes. + +"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." + +Marie's eyes softened. + +"Did he say--that?" + +"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." + +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. + +"Did you know--then--about--me?" she asked, with heightened color. + +"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." + +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. + +"I'm so glad he wants--just puddings and stockings," she began a little +breathlessly. "You see, for so long I supposed he _wouldn't_ want +anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing +beautifully; a wife he'd be proud of--like you." + +"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!" + +Marie drew a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on a point far ahead up +the curveless street. + +"I hope it will, indeed!" she breathed. + +Not until they were almost home did Billy say suddenly: + +"Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is coming +to-morrow to stay a while at the house." + +"Er--yes, Cyril told me," admitted Marie. + +Billy smiled. + +"Didn't like it, I suppose; eh?" she queried shrewdly. + +"N-no, I'm afraid he didn't--very well. He said she'd be--one more to be +around." + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. AT THE SIGN OF THE PINK + + +After a week of beautiful autumn weather, Thursday dawned raw and cold. +By noon an east wind had made the temperature still more uncomfortable. + +At two o'clock Aunt Hannah tapped at Billy's chamber door. She showed a +troubled face to the girl who answered her knock. + +"Billy, _would_ you mind very much if I asked you to go alone to the +Carletons' and to meet Mary Jane?" she inquired anxiously. + +"Why, no--that is, of course I should _mind_, dear, because I always +like to have you go to places with me. But it isn't necessary. You +aren't sick; are you?" + +"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--" + +"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. + +"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 _have_ 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." + +"Yes, dear, don't worry. I'll take your cards and explain to Mrs. +Carleton and her daughters." + +"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. + +"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. + +"Well, thank you, my dear; perhaps I will," sighed Aunt Hannah, drawing +the gray shawl about her as she turned away contentedly. + +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. + +"And they _did_ put up their lorgnettes and say, 'Is _that_ the one?'" +she declared; "and I know some of them finished with 'Did you ever?' +too," she sighed. + +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. + +"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. + +Her hostess gave a sudden laugh. + +"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 _boy_ with +a pink, who turned out to be a girl. Now, to even things up, your girl +should turn out to be a boy!" + +Billy smiled and reddened. + +"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!" + +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: + +"The man says the train comes in on Track Fourteen, Miss, an' it's on +time." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As she glanced toward him, their eyes met. Then, to Billy's unbounded +amazement, the man advanced with uplifted hat. + +"I beg your pardon, but is not this--Miss Neilson?" + +Billy drew back with just a touch of hauteur. + +"Y-yes," she murmured. + +"I thought so--yet I was expecting to see you with Aunt Hannah. I am M. +J. Arkwright, Miss Neilson." + +For a brief instant Billy stared dazedly. + +"You don't mean--Mary Jane?" she gasped. + +"I'm afraid I do." His lips twitched. + +"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. + +"Oh--oh!" she chuckled. "How perfectly funny! You _have_ 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 _was_ +'Billy,'" she cried. "Your name isn't really--Mary Jane'?" + +"I am often called that." His brown eyes twinkled, but they did not +swerve from their direct gaze into her own. + +"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?" + +The man raised a protesting hand. + +"Thank you; but, Miss Neilson, really--I couldn't think of trespassing +on your hospitality--now, you know." + +"But we--we invited you," stammered Billy. + +He shook his head. + +"You invited _Miss_ Mary Jane." + +Billy bubbled into low laughter. + +"I beg your pardon, but it _is_ funny," she sighed. "You see _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. + +"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--!" + +"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_ don't want to make explanations. Do you?" + +"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." + +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. + +"To think that this thing should have happened to _me!_" she +said, almost aloud. "And here I am telephoning just like Uncle +William--Bertram said Uncle William _did_ telephone about _me!_" + +In due course Billy had Aunt Hannah at the other end of the wire. + +"Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened. +Mary Jane is--a man." + +Billy heard a dismayed gasp and a muttered "Oh, my grief and +conscience!" then a shaking "Wha-at?" + +"I say, Mary Jane is a man." Billy was enjoying herself hugely. + +"A _ma-an!_" + +"Yes; a great big man with a brown beard. He's waiting now with John and +I must go." + +"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!" + +Billy laughed roguishly. + +"I don't know. _You_ 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 _never_ hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just that +kind!" + +A half stifled groan came over the wire. + +"Billy, he can't stay here." + +Billy laughed again. + +"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. _Remember those curling tongs!_" And the receiver clicked sharply +against the hook. + +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: + +"I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought to +be--warned." + +"You are very kind. What did she say?--if I may ask." + +There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered. + +"She said you called yourself 'Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any +business to be a big man with a brown beard." + +Arkwright laughed. + +"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." + +"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!" + +Arkwright laughed. Again he hesitated, and seemed to be weighing his +words. + +"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. + +Billy turned with reproachful eyes. + +"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.'" + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW + + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +She turned to Cyril with outstretched hand. + +"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." + +"And Mary Jane?" demanded William, a little anxiously + +"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 tete-a-tete. Naturally, then, Will wants to see +Mary Jane." + +Billy began to laugh hysterically. She dropped into a chair and raised +both her hands, palms outward. + +"Don't, don't--please don't!" she choked, "or I shall die. I've had all +I can stand, already." + +"All you can stand?" + +"What do you mean?" + +"Is she so--impossible?" This last was from Bertram, spoken softly, and +with a hurried glance toward the hall. + +Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulled +her face into sobriety--all but her eyes--and announced: + +"Mary Jane is--a man." + +"Wha-at?" + +"A _man!_" + +"Billy!" + +Three masculine forms sat suddenly erect. + +"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!" + +"Child, child! what _are_ you talking about?" William's face was red. + +"A _man!_--_Mary Jane!_" Cyril was merely cross. + +"Billy, what does this mean?" Bertram had grown a little white. + +Billy began to laugh again, yet she was plainly trying to control +herself. + +"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_ 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!" + +"Billy, my-my dear," remonstrated Uncle William, mildly. + +"But what _is_ his name?" demanded Cyril. + +"Did the creature sign himself 'Mary Jane'?" exploded Bertram. + +"I don't know his name, except that it's 'M. J.'--and that's how he +signed the letters. But he _is_ 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. + +"Didn't he write again?" asked William. + +"Yes." + +"Well, why didn't he correct the mistake, then?" demanded Bertram. + +Billy chuckled. + +"He didn't want to, I guess. He thought it was too good a joke." + +"Joke!" scoffed Cyril. + +"But, see here, Billy, he isn't going to live here--now?" Bertram's +voice was almost savage. + +"Oh, no, he isn't going to live here--now," interposed smooth tones from +the doorway. + +"Mr.--Arkwright!" breathed Billy, confusedly. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +After dinner somebody suggested music. + +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. + +Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy. + +"Which is it, Cyril?" he called with cheerful impertinence; "stool, +piano, or audience that is the matter to-night?" + +Only a shrug from Cyril answered. + +"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!" + +"Nonsense!" scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his +chair. "I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all." + +"You see," nodded Bertram again. + +"I see," bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement. + +"I believe--Mr. Mary Jane--sings," observed Billy, at this point, +demurely. + +"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." + +Everybody laughed. + +"Won't you sing, please?" asked Billy. "Can you--without your notes? I +have lots of songs if you want them." + +For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose and +went to the piano. + +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. + +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. + +Bertram, looking at her, was conscious of a vague irritation. + +"Arkwright, you're a lucky dog," he declared almost crossly. "I wish I +could sing like that!" + +"I wish I could paint a 'Face of a Girl,'" smiled the tenor as he turned +from the piano. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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, +_per se_. 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. + +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. + +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: + +"Billy, how long does it take--to learn to sing?" + +"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?" + +Bertram wished then he had not asked the question; but all he said was: + +"'Mr. Mary Jane,' indeed! What an absurd name!" + +"But doesn't he sing beautifully?" + +"Eh? Oh, yes, he sings all right," said Bertram's tongue. Bertram's +manner said: "Oh, yes, anybody can sing." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME + + +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. + +"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. + +Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did not speak. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yes, I know," smiled Aunt Hannah. "By the way, where is she this +morning?" + +Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically. + +"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!" + +"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." + +Billy laughed. + +"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 crepe 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 _shopped_ that day, and to some purpose. We accomplished +lots." + +Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned. + +"But she must have _some_ things started!" + +"Oh, she has--'most everything now. _I've_ 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." + +Aunt Hannah laughed softly. + +"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!" + +The color deepened in Billy's cheeks. + +"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!" + +"Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking +with last evening--just after he left us, I mean?" + +"Miss Winthrop--Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is--is painting her +portrait, you know." + +"Oh, is that the one?" murmured Aunt Hannah. "Hm-m; well, she has a +beautiful face." + +"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. + +"There's a peculiar something in her face," mused Aunt Hannah, aloud. + +The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh. + +"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. + +Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently--Aunt Hannah had heard only the +flippancy, not the shake. + +"I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon." + +Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to the +floor. + +"Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon," she said lightly, as she +stooped to pick up the egg. + +"Why, I'm sure he told me--" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a +questioning pause. + +"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." + +"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. + +"It,'s Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music," +she announced. + +"Tell him I'll be down at once," directed the mistress of Hillside. + +As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly to +her feet. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Oh, that was--beautiful," she breathed. + +Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight. + +"I could not resist singing it just once--here," he said a little +unsteadily, as their hands met. + +"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." + +Arkwright shook his head slowly. + +"The inspiration of the room--that is all,", he said. "It is a beautiful +song. All of your songs are beautiful." + +Billy blushed rosily. + +"Thank you. You know--more of them, then?" + +"I think I know them all--unless you have some new ones out. Have you +some new ones, lately?" + +Billy shook her head. + +"No; I haven't written anything since last spring." + +"But you're going to?" + +She drew a long sigh. + +"Yes, oh, yes. I know that _now_--" 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, _now_ 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." + +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. + +"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." + +"Nor I," replied Arkwright in a voice that was not quite steady. + +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. + +"Didn't you?" she murmured abstractedly. "I supposed _you'd_ sung them +before; but you see I never did--until the other night. There, let's try +this one!" + +"This one" was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a long +breath. + +"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." + +"Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow," retorted the +man, warmly. + +"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." + +Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + +"She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in +vaudeville." + +"Calderwell! Do you mean--Hugh Calderwell?" Billy's cheeks showed a +deeper color. + +The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let that +name slip out just yet. + +"Yes." He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. "We tramped half over +Europe together last summer." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Have you begun here, yet?" + +"Y-yes, I've had my voice tried." + +Billy sat erect with eager interest. + +"They liked it, of course?" + +Arkwright laughed. + +"I'm not saying that." + +"No, but I am," declared Billy, with conviction. "They couldn't help +liking it." + +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. + +"Thank you," was all he said. + +Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair. + +"And you'll begin to learn roles right away?" + +"I already have, some--after a fashion--before I came here." + +"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." + +Arkwright laughed--but his eyes glowed with pleasure. + +"Aren't you hurrying things a little?" he ventured. + +"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!" + +"Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had your +flattering enthusiasm on the matter," he smiled. + +"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." + +A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face. + +"The--_wedding?_" he asked, a little faintly. + +"Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril +Henshaw next month." + +The man opposite relaxed visibly. + +"Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know," he murmured; then, with sudden +astonishment he added: "And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?" + +"Yes. You seem surprised." + +"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. + +A swift crimson stained Billy's face. + +"But surely you must know that--that--" + +"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--" + +"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. + +"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." + +Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if _now_ 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 _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin-- + +Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand in +good-by. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID + + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again," stammered the +man,--delight now in sole possession. + +"She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete," smiled the eldest +Henshaw, hurrying forward. + +"I wish she had now," whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's +quick stride, had reached Billy's side first. + +From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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!" + +Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he +said: + +"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. + +"I don't think any one is--_worrying_," he said with quiet emphasis. + +Billy smiled. + +"I should think they might be," she answered. "Only think how dreadfully +upsetting I was in the first place!" + +William's beaming face grew a little stern. + +"Nobody knew it but Kate--and she didn't _know_ it; she only imagined +it," he said tersely. + +Billy shook her head. + +"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." + +"You were an inspiration," corrected Bertram. "Think of the posing you +did for me." + +A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before her +lover could question its meaning, it was gone. + +"And I know I was a torment to Cyril." Billy had turned to the musician +now. + +"Well, I admit you were a little--upsetting, at times," retorted that +individual, with something of his old imperturbable rudeness. + +"Nonsense!" cut in William, sharply. "You were never anything but a +comfort in the house, Billy, my dear--and you never will be." + +"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." + +An anxious frown showed on Bertram's face. + +"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." + +"Don't want them!" echoed Billy, indignantly. "Of course I want them!" + +"But--Pete _is_ old, and--" + +"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 _wants_ to stay! As for Dong Ling--" + +A sudden movement of Bertram's hand arrested her words. She looked up to +find Pete in the doorway. + +"Dinner is served, sir," announced the old butler, his eyes on his +master's face. + +William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah. + +"Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner," he declared. + +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. + +"And now," said Cyril, when dinner was over, "suppose you come up and +see the rug." + +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. + +"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." + +"Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_ 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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Fancy Cyril _liking_ 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 _any_ rug? He won't have so +much as a ravelling on the floor up here to walk on." + +A startled dismay came into Marie's blue eyes. + +"Why, I thought he wanted rugs," she faltered. "I'm sure he said--" + +"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?" + +"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. + +Even Cyril laughed at this, though all he said was: + +"Come, come, I got you up here to look at the rug." + +Bertram, however, was not to be silenced. + +"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." + +"Bertram, be still," growled Cyril. + +Bertram refused to be still. + +"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." + +"Bertram, will you be still?" cut in Cyril, testily, again. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertram +who broke the pause with a long-drawn: + +"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!" + +Cyril shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. + +"If you've seen all you want of the rug we'll go down-stairs," he said +nonchalantly. + +"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: + +"Oh, Cyril, to think you can play like that--and won't--on demand!" + +"I can't--on demand," shrugged Cyril again. + +On the way down-stairs they stopped at William's rooms. + +"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. + +"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Marie, over Billy's shoulder. "But what are +they?" + +The collector turned, his face alight. + +"Mirror knobs. I've got lots of them. Would you like to see +them--really? They're right here." + +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. + +"Oh, how pretty," cried Marie again; "but how--how queer! Tell me about +them, please." + +William drew a long breath. His eyes glistened. William loved to +talk--when he had a curio and a listener. + +"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." + +"But what a beautiful ship--on that round one!" exclaimed Marie. "And +what's this one?--glass?" + +"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." + +"Er--any time, William," began Bertram, mischievously; but William did +not seem to hear. + +"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--" + +"Er, of course, William, any time--" interposed Bertram again, his eyes +twinkling. + +William stopped with a laugh. + +"Yes, I know. 'Tis time I talked of something else, Bertram," he +conceded. + +"But 'twas lovely, and I _was_ interested, really," claimed Marie. +"Besides, there are such a lot of things here that I'd like to see," she +finished, turning slowly about. + +"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. + +"Well, here is something you _will_ 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. + +"How about leap year?" quizzed Billy. + +"Ho! Trust Will to find another 'Old Blue' or a 'perfect treasure of a +black basalt' by that time," shrugged Bertram. + +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. + +"And you don't use them yet?" remonstrated Billy, as she paused at an +open door. + +"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. + +"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. + +"And now for the den and some good stories before the fire," proposed +Bertram, as the six reached the first floor again. + +"But we haven't seen your pictures, yet," objected Billy. + +Bertram made a deprecatory gesture. + +"There's nothing much--" he began; but he stopped at once, with an odd +laugh. "Well, I sha'n't say _that_," 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. + +"'Much,' indeed!" exclaimed William. + +"Oh, how lovely!" breathed Marie. + +"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. + +"But how--when did you do them?" queried Marie. + +"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. + +"What a dear little cat!" cried Marie. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"There, I think the tilt of this chin is perfect." It was Bertram +speaking. + +Billy gave a sudden cry. Her face whitened. She stumbled forward. + +"No, no, Bertram, you--you didn't mean the--the tilt of the chin," she +faltered wildly. + +The man turned in amazement. + +"Why--Billy!" he stammered. "Billy, what is it?" + +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. + +"N-nothing," she gesticulated hurriedly. "It was nothing at all, truly." + +"But, Billy, it _was_ something." Bertram's eyes were still troubled. +"Was it the picture? I thought you liked this picture." + +Billy laughed again--this time more naturally. + +"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!" + +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. + +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: + +"Oh, Bertram, what is this?" + +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. + +"Bertram!" gasped Billy, as a kiss brushed her cheek. + +"Pooh! They're gone. Besides, what if they did see? Billy, what was the +matter with the tilt of that chin?" + +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. + +"Bertram, if you say another word about--about the tilt of that chin, I +shall _scream!_" she panted. + +"Why, Billy!" + +With a nervous little movement Billy turned and began to reverse the +canvases nearest her. + +"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." + +Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make a move to assist her. His +ardent gray eyes were following her slim, graceful figure admiringly. + +"Billy, it doesn't seem true, yet, that you're really mine," he said at +last, in a low voice shaken with emotion. + +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. + +"Then you _do_ want me," she began, "--just _me!_--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." + +"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. + + + +CHAPTER X + +A JOB FOR PETE--AND FOR BERTRAM + + +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. + +"But Billy, it was to be a _simple_ wedding," she cried. + +"And so it is." + +"But what is this I hear about a breakfast?" + +Billy's chin assumed its most stubborn squareness. + +"I don't know, I'm sure, what you did hear," she retorted calmly. + +"Billy!" + +Billy laughed. The chin was just as stubborn, but the smiling lips above +it graced it with an air of charming concession. + +"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 _fed!_" + +"But this is so elaborate, from what I hear." + +"Nonsense! Not a bit of it." + +"Rosa says there'll be salads and cakes and ices--and I don't know what +all." + +Billy looked concerned. + +"Well, of course, Marie, if you'd _rather_ have oatmeal and doughnuts," +she began with kind solicitude; but she got no farther. + +"Billy!" besought the bride elect. "Won't you be serious? And there's +the cake in wedding boxes, too." + +"I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner than--just fingers," +apologized an anxiously serious voice. + +Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on. + +"And the flowers--roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't let +you do all this for me." + +"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. + +Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows. + +"And for my trousseau--there were so many things that you simply would +buy!" + +"I didn't get one of the egg-beaters," Billy reminded her anxiously. + +Marie smiled now, but she shook her head, too. + +"Billy, I cannot have you do all this for me." + +"Why not?" + +At the unexpectedly direct question, Marie fell back a little. + +"Why, because I--I can't," she stammered. "I can't get them for myself, +and--and--" + +"Don't you love me?" + +A pink flush stole to Marie's face. + +"Indeed I do, dearly." + +"Don't I love you?" + +The flush deepened. + +"I--I hope so." + +"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. + +Marie sprang to her feet and cuddled the bowed head in a loving embrace. + +"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?" + +There was the briefest of hesitations, then came the muffled reply: + +"Yes--if you really want them." + +"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. + +Her cheeks burned with shame then. But almost at once she smiled. + +"Now wasn't that just like Billy?" she was saying to herself, with a +tender glow in her eyes. + + +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. + +"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 _your_ taking it." + +"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." + +"Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face." He +hesitated, then turned slowly. "Good day, Miss Billy." + +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. + +"You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete," she said pleasantly. + +The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a little +proudly. + +"Yes, Miss. I--I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man." + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +Billy's brown eyes grew a little misty. + +"I suppose they must," she admitted. + +The old man hesitated; then, as if impelled by some hidden force, he +plunged on: + +"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." + +As he said the words, Pete stood with head and shoulders erect, his eyes +looking straight forward but not at Billy. + +"Don't you _want_ to stay?" The girlish voice was a little reproachful. + +Pete's head drooped. + +"Not if--I'm not wanted," came the husky reply. + +With an impulsive movement Billy came straight to the old man's side and +held out her hand. + +"Pete!" + +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. + +"Miss Billy!" + +"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!" + +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. + +"Not another syllable!" she repeated sternly. + +"Miss Billy!" choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anything +but his usual dignity. + +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. + +Bertram's eyes grew mutinous. + +"Do you expect me to hug all that?" he demanded. + +Billy flashed him a mischievous glance. + +"Of course not! You don't _have_ to hug anything, you know." + +For answer he impetuously swept the offending linen into the nearest +chair and drew the girl into his arms. + +"Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's table-cloth!" she cried, +with reproachful eyes. + +Bertram sniffed imperturbably. + +"I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie," he alleged. + +"Bertram!" + +"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--" + +"I'm here," interrupted Billy, with decision. + +"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?" + +Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced. + +"The twelfth;--that is, there'll be a--pause, then." + +"Well, I'm thankful if--eh?" broke off the man, with a sudden change of +manner. "What do you mean by 'a pause'?" + +Billy cast down her eyes demurely. + +"Well, of course _this_ 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." + +"Billy, you darling!" breathed a supremely happy voice in a shell-like +ear--Billy was not at arm's length now. + +Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness. + +"And now I must go back to my sewing," she said. + +Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again. + +"That is," she amended, "I must be practising my part of--the +understudy, you know." + +"You darling!" breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let her +go. + +"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?" + +"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." + +Bertram laughed. + +"Is it so bad as that?" + +"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." + +"As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!" +scoffed Bertram, merrily. + +"I know; but I didn't mention that part," smiled Billy. "I just singled +out the dowdy one." + +"Did it work?" + +Billy made a gesture of despair. + +"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 _was_ 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 _not_ a +dowdy woman." + +"You poor dear," laughed Bertram. "No wonder you don't have time to give +to me!" + +A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face. + +"Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, +sir," she reminded him. + +"What do you mean?" + +"There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--" + +"Oh, but you _let_ me off, then," argued Bertram, anxiously. "And you +said--" + +"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?" + +"Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, 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. + +"Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and more +sittings?" + +"Well, yes," laughed Bertram, a little shortly. "You see, she's changed +the pose twice already." + +"Changed it!" + +"Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different." + +"But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?" + +"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." + +Billy wet her lips. + +"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." + +"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." + +"I-is it?" Billy's voice was a little faint. + +"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." + +"But you won't fail, Bertram!" + +The artist lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders. + +"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 _their_ 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. + +Billy tossed her work aside and sprang to her feet. Her eyes, too, were +alight, now. + +"But you aren't going to fail, dear," she cried, holding out both her +hands. "You're going to succeed!" + +Bertram caught the hands and kissed first one then the other of their +soft little palms. + +"Of course I am," he agreed passionately, leading her to the sofa, and +seating himself at her side. + +"Yes, but you must really _feel_ it," she urged; "feel the '_sure_' in +yourself. You have to!--to doing things. That's what I told Mary Jane +yesterday, when he was running on about what _he_ wanted to do--in his +singing, you know." + +Bertram stiffened a little. A quick frown came to his face. + +"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." + +Billy broke into a rippling laugh. + +"I wish I could, dear," she sighed ingenuously. + +"Honestly, it bothers me because I _can't_ think of him as anything but +'Mary Jane.' It seems so silly!" + +"It certainly does--when one remembers his beard." + +"Oh, he's shaved that off now. He looks rather better, too." + +Bertram turned a little sharply. + +"Do you see the fellow--often?" + +Billy laughed merrily. + +"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." + +"Indeed! Well, that's a pity, I'm sure," rejoined Bertram, icily. + +Billy turned in slight surprise. + +"Why, Bertram, don't you like Mary Jane?" + +"Billy, for heaven's sake! _Hasn't_ he got any name but that?" + +Billy clapped her hands together suddenly. + +"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." + +"I couldn't say, I'm sure. What is it?" + +"Oh, he didn't tell us. You see he left us to guess it." + +"Did he?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +Billy smiled. + +"Nothing--only engaged him for our butler--for life." + +"Oh, I see. That was dear of you, Billy." + +"As if I'd do anything else! And now for Dong Ling, I suppose, some +day." + +Bertram chuckled. + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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!" + + + + +CHAPTER XI. A CLOCK AND AUNT HANNAH + + +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. + +Billy received the news of little Kate's coming with outspoken delight. + +"The very thing!" she cried. "We'll have her for a flower girl. She was +a dear little creature, as I remember her." + +Aunt Hannah gave a sudden low laugh. + +"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." + +Billy made a wry face. + +"Did I say that? Dear me! I _was_ 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." + +"I think I should have liked to know Spunk," smiled Marie from the other +side of the sewing table. + +"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 +_something_," she finished mischievously. + +"Oh, I don't mind the inference--as long as I know your admiration of +cats," laughed Marie. + +"Let me see; Kate writes she is coming the tenth," murmured Aunt Hannah, +going back to the letter in her hand. + +"Good!" nodded Billy. "That will give time to put little Kate through +her paces as flower girl." + +"Yes, and it will give Big Kate time to _try_ to make your breakfast a +supper, and your roses pinks--or sunflowers," cut in a new voice, dryly. + +"Cyril!" chorussed the three ladies in horror, adoration, and +amusement--according to whether the voice belonged to Aunt Hannah, +Marie, or Billy. + +Cyril shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + +"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. + +"No, I haven't--forgotten," observed Billy, meaningly. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Even when she told you in the first place what a--er--torment you were +to us?" quizzed Cyril. + +"Yes," flashed Billy. "She was being kind to _you_, then." + +"Humph!" vouchsafed Cyril. + +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. + +"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!" + +Marie's delicate face flushed painfully. + +"It's got loose--my hair," she stammered, "and it looks so dowdy that +way!" + +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. + + +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. + +Billy's fingers, in particular, were flying very fast. + +"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." + +"I hope Kate's train won't be late," worried Aunt Hannah. + +"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. + +Aunt Hannah put out a restraining hand. + +"No, no, dear, that's half-past ten." + +"But it struck eleven." + +"Yes, I know. It does--at half-past ten." + +"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." + +"But I don't want it fixed," demurred Aunt Hannah. + +Billy stared a little. + +"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. + +"Y-yes, I do," stammered the lady, apologetically. "You see, I--I worked +very hard to fix it so it would strike that way." + +"_Aunt Hannah!_" + +"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." + +"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. + +Aunt Hannah elevated her chin a little. + +"Because that clock was always striking one." + +"One!" + +"Yes--half-past, you know; and I never knew which half-past it was." + +"But it must strike half-past now, just the same!" + +"It does." There was the triumphant ring of the conqueror in Aunt +Hannah's voice. "But now it strikes half-past _on the hour_, and the +clock in the hall tells me _then_ what time it is, so I don't care." + +For one more brief minute Billy stared, before a sudden light of +understanding illumined her face. Then her laugh rang out gleefully. + +"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!" + +Aunt Hannah colored a little, but she stood her ground. + +"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." + +"Of course," chuckled Billy. + +"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." + +"Why doesn't she have one of those phosphorous things?" questioned +Billy. + +Marie laughed quietly. + +"She did. I sent her one,--and she stood it just one night." + +"Stood it!" + +"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." + +"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 _town_ clock strike, it's just the same, and even better; for there +aren't any half-hours at all to think of there." + +"I will--and I think it's lovely," declared Marie. + +"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. + +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. + +"Yes'm, 'tis a little chilly, Miss," said John, in answer to her +greeting, as he tucked the heavy robes about her. + +"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." + +John's grizzled old face twitched. So evident were the words that were +not spoken that Billy asked laughingly: + +"Well, John, what is it?" + +John reddened furiously. + +"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." + +"Why, John! Nonsense! I--I love to haul in other folks's ships," laughed +the girl, embarrassedly. + +"Yes, Miss; I know you do," grunted John. + +Billy colored. + +"No, no--that is, I mean--I don't do it--very much," she stammered. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. SISTER KATE + + +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. + +"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. + +"Thank you, you are very kind," murmured the lady; "but--are you alone, +Billy? Where are the boys?" + +"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." + +"Oh, doesn't he?" murmured the lady, reaching for her daughter's hand. + +Billy looked down with a smile. + +"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?" + +"I'm eight. I've been eight six weeks." + +Billy's eyes twinkled. + +"And you don't remember me, I suppose." + +The little girl shook her head. + +"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." + +Billy's face changed color. Mrs. Hartwell gave a despairing gesture. + +"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." + +Billy bit her lip. For a moment she said nothing, then, a little +constrainedly, she rejoined: + +"Perhaps. Still--let us hope we have the right one, now." + +Mrs. Hartwell raised her eyebrows. + +"Well, my dear, I'm not so confident of that. _My_ choice has been and +always will be--William." + +Billy bit her lip again. This time her brown eyes flashed a little. + +"Is that so? But you see, after all, _you_ 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. + +It was Mrs. Hartwell's turn to bite her lip--and she did it. + +"So it seems," she rejoined frigidly, after the briefest of pauses. + +It was not until they were on their way to Corey Hill some time later +that Mrs. Hartwell turned with the question: + +"Cyril is to be married in church, I suppose?" + +"No. They both preferred a home wedding." + +"Oh, what a pity! Church weddings are so attractive!" + +"To those who like them," amended Billy in spite of herself. + +"To every one, I think," corrected Mrs. Hartwell, positively. + +Billy laughed. She was beginning to discern that it did not do much +harm--nor much good--to disagree with her guest. + +"It's in the evening, then, of course?" pursued Mrs. Hartwell. + +"No; at noon." + +"Oh, how could you let them?" + +"But they preferred it, Mrs. Hartwell." + +"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!" + +Mrs. Hartwell's voice was aggrievedly despairing. + +"Oh, yes," smiled Billy, demurely. "We have guests invited--and I'm +afraid we can't change the time." + +"No, of course not; but it's too bad. I conclude there are announcements +only, as I got no cards. + +"Announcements only," bowed Billy. + +"I wish Cyril had consulted _me_, a little, about this affair." + +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." + +In a moment Mrs. Hartwell spoke again. + +"Of course a noon wedding is quite pretty if you darken the rooms and +have lights--you're going to do that, I suppose?" + +Billy shook her head slowly. + +"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Hartwell. That isn't the plan, now." + +"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, _that +can_ be changed," she finished serenely. + +Billy opened her lips, but she shut them without speaking. After a +minute she opened them again. + +"You might consult--Cyril--about that," she said in a quiet voice. + +"Yes, I will," nodded Mrs. Hartwell, brightly. She was looking pleased +and happy again. "I love weddings. Don't you? You can _do_ so much with +them!" + +"Can you?" laughed Billy, irrepressibly. + +"Yes. Cyril is happy, of course. Still, I can't imagine _him_ in love +with any woman." + +"I think Marie can." + +"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?" + +"Yes. She is a very sweet girl." + +"Hm-m; I suppose so. Still, I think 'twould have been better if Cyril +could have selected some one that _wasn't_ musical--say a more domestic +wife. He's so terribly unpractical himself about household matters." + +Billy gave a ringing laugh and stood up. The car had come to a stop +before her own door. + +"Do you? Just you wait till you see Marie's trousseau of--egg-beaters +and cake tins," she chuckled. + +Mrs. Hartwell looked blank. + +"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?" + +"Maybe--sometime," laughed Billy, as she took little Kate's hand and led +the way up the steps. + +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. + +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 _she_ 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. + +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. + +"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. + +Mrs. Hartwell scorned naps, and she said so very emphatically. She said +something else, too. + +"Billy, why do you always call me 'Mrs. Hartwell' in that stiff, formal +fashion? You used to call me 'Aunt Kate.'" + +"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. + +"Very true. Then why not 'Kate' now?" + +Billy hesitated. She was wondering why it seemed so hard to call Mrs. +Hartwell "Kate." + +"Of course," resumed the lady, "when you're Bertram's wife and my +sister--" + +"Why, of course," cried Billy, in a sudden flood of understanding. +Curiously enough, she had never before thought of Mrs. Hartwell as _her_ +sister. "I shall be glad to call you 'Kate'--if you like." + +"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." + +"But it couldn't," smiled Billy. "It wasn't William--that I loved." + +"But _Bertram!_--it's so absurd." + +"Absurd!" The smile was gone now. + +"Yes. Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear of +Bertram's engagement as I was of Cyril's." + +Billy grew a little white. + +"But Bertram was never an avowed--woman-hater, like Cyril, was he?" + +"'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?" + +Billy had risen suddenly. + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _know_--she didn't +know before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will not +not--_not_ believe that you love me--just to paint. No matter what they +say--all of them! I _will not!_" + +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. + +"I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music," she said +pleasantly, going straight to the piano. + +"Indeed I would!" agreed Mrs. Hartwell. + +Billy sat down then and played--played as Mrs. Hartwell had never heard +her play before. + +"Why, Billy, you amaze me," she cried, when the pianist stopped and +whirled about. "I had no idea you could play like that!" + +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 _did not love only to paint!_ + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING + + +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-- + +It _was_ 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. + +"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. + +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. + +Kate answered the ring. + +"Hullo, is that you, Kate?" called a despairing voice. + +"Yes. Good morning, Bertram. Isn't this a fine day for the wedding?" + +"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." + +"A lunatic!" + +"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?" + +"Certainly not! Don't be absurd, Bertram. What do you mean?" + +"See here, Kate, that show comes off at twelve sharp, doesn't it?" + +"Show, indeed!" retorted Kate, indignantly. "The _wedding_ is at noon +sharp--as the best man should know very well." + +"All right; then tell Billy, please, to see that it is sharp, or I won't +answer for the consequences." + +"What do you mean? What is the matter?" + +"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." + +"Nonsense, Bertram!" + +"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." + +"Bertram!" + +Bertram chuckled remorselessly. + +"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." + +"What an absurd idea!" + +"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." + +"Well, you remind Cyril, please, that there are other people besides +himself concerned in this wedding," observed Kate, icily. + +"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." + +"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. + +She turned to confront the startled eyes of the bride elect. + +"What is it? Is anything wrong--with Cyril?" faltered Marie. + +Kate laughed and raised her eyebrows slightly. + +"Nothing but a little stage fright, my dear." + +"Stage fright!" + +"Yes. Bertram says he's trying to find some one to play his role, I +believe, in the ceremony." + +"_Mrs. Hartwell!_" + +At the look of dismayed terror that came into Marie's face, Mrs. +Hartwell laughed reassuringly. + +"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." + +Marie still looked distressed. + +"But he never said--I thought--" She stopped helplessly. + +"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. + +"But if he'd told me--in time, I wouldn't have had a thing--but the +minister," faltered Marie. + +"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!" + +Marie's cheeks grew a deeper pink. Her nostrils dilated a little. + +"It wouldn't be a 'whim,' Mrs. Hartwell, and I should be _glad_ to give +up," she said with decision. + +Mrs. Hartwell laughed again, her amused eyes on Marie's face. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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--" + +"The wedding cake--to some _hospital!_" + +"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?" + +"_Marie!_" + +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. + +Billy almost laughed--but she almost cried, too. Then she said: + +"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." + +"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. + +Billy, once assured that Marie was out of hearing, ran to the telephone. + +Bertram answered. + +"Bertram, tell Cyril I want to speak to him, please." + +"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." + +A moment later Cyril's tersely nervous "Good morning, Billy," came +across the line. + +Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly apprehensive glance over +her shoulder to make sure Marie was not near. + +"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!" + +"But I don't." + +"Oh, yes, you do--to-day! You would--if you could see Marie now." + +"What do you mean?" + +"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." + +"Sensible girl!" + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At four o'clock, however, with only William and Bertram remaining for +guests, something like quiet descended at last on the little house. + +"Well, it's over," sighed Billy, dropping exhaustedly into a big chair +in the living-room. + +"And _well_ over," supplemented Aunt Hannah, covering her white shawl +with a warmer blue one. + +"Yes, I think it was," nodded Kate. "It was really a very pretty +wedding." + +"With your help, Kate--eh?" teased William. + +"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. + +"Even if you did hurry into my room and scare me into conniption fits +telling me I'd be late," laughed Billy. + +Kate tossed her head. + +"Well, how was I to know that Aunt Hannah's clock only meant half-past +eleven when it struck twelve?" she retorted. + +Everybody laughed. + +"Oh, well, it was a pretty wedding," declared William, with a long sigh. + +"It'll do--for an understudy," said Bertram softly, for Billy's ears +alone. + +Only the added color and the swift glance showed that Billy heard, for +when she spoke she said: + +"And didn't Cyril behave beautifully? 'Most every time I looked at him +he was talking to some woman." + +"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 +_woman_ who was talking to _Cyril!_" + +Billy laughed. + +"Well, anyhow," she maintained, "he listened. He didn't run away." + +"As if a bridegroom could!" cried Kate. + +"I'm going to," avowed Bertram, his nose in the air. + +"Pooh!" scoffed Kate. Then she added eagerly: "You must be married in +church, Billy, and in the evening." + +Bertram's nose came suddenly out of the air. His eyes met Kate's +squarely. + +"Billy hasn't decided yet how _she_ does want to be married," he said +with unnecessary emphasis. + +Billy laughed and interposed a quick change of subject. + +"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." + +"As--_Mary Jane?_" asked Bertram, a little stiffly. + +"Really, my dear," murmured Aunt Hannah, "I think it _would_ be more +respectful to call him by his name." + +"By the way, what is his name?" questioned William. + +"That's what we don't know," laughed Billy. + +"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?" + +Billy clapped her hands, and threw a merry glance at Aunt Hannah. + +"There! we never thought of 'Methuselah,'" she gurgled gleefully. "Maybe +it _is_ '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.'" + +"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?" + +"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!" + +William smiled, hesitated, and sat down. + +"Well, of course--" he began. + +"Yes, of course," finished Billy, quickly. "I'll telephone Pete that +you'll stay here--both of you." + +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. + +"Uncle William, didn't you _want_ to marry my going-to-be-Aunt Billy?" + +"Kate!" gasped her mother, "didn't I tell you--" Her voice trailed into +an incoherent murmur of remonstrance. + +Billy blushed. Bertram said a low word under his breath. Aunt Hannah's +"Oh, my grief and conscience!" was almost a groan. + +William laughed lightly. + +"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." + +"Does she want to marry Uncle Bertram?" "Kate!" gasped Billy and Mrs. +Hartwell together this time, fearful of what might be coming next. + +"We'll hope so," nodded Uncle William, speaking in a cheerfully +matter-of-fact voice, intended to discourage curiosity. + +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. + +"Uncle William, would she have got Uncle Cyril if Aunt Marie hadn't +nabbed him first?" + +"Kate!" The word was a chorus of dismay this time. + +Mrs. Hartwell struggled to her feet. + +"Come, come, Kate, we must go up-stairs--to bed," she stammered. + +The little girl drew back indignantly. + +"To bed? Why, mama, I haven't had my supper yet!" + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE + + +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. + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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: + +"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." + +"But--the wedding presents?" + +"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." + +"Well, you can at least go over to the apartment and work," suggested +Aunt Hannah, hopefully. + +"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." + +"But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some +new songs after the wedding." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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!" + +A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minor +melody. Billy was at the piano. + +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. + +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. + +"I _was_ going in town--and I believe I'll go now," she cried. + +"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." + +"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. + +She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at +four o'clock Rosa brought in the card. + +Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little +cry. + +"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?" + +Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned. + +"Oh, Billy!" she remonstrated. "Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little +later, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came," she said with reproving +emphasis. + +Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder. + +"All right," she nodded. "I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll be +down directly." + +In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordial +hand. + +"How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless +and lonesome to-day?" she demanded. + +A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes. + +"I didn't know it," he rejoined. "I only knew that I was specially +restless and lonesome myself." + +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. + +"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. + +"Tension?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"Is long hair--necessary--for poets?" Arkwright's smile was quizzical. + +"Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters, +too. But now they look just like--folks." + +Arkwright laughed. + +"It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing +ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?" + +"I'm afraid it is," dimpled Billy. "I _love_ velvet coats and flowing +ties!" + +"May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture," +declared the man, promptly. + +Billy smiled and shook her head. + +"I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and +worsteds too well!" + +"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. + +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. + +With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano. + +"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." + +Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with an +exclamation of eager acquiescence. + +It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently. + +"Have you written any new songs lately?" + +"No." + +"You're going to?" + +"Perhaps--if I find one to write." + +"You mean--you have no words?" + +"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." + +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. + +"Are you too tired to try this?" he asked. + +A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face. + +"Why, no, but--" + +"Well, children, I've come down to hear the music," announced Aunt +Hannah, smilingly, from the doorway; "only--Billy, _will_ you run up +and get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, and +there's only the white one down here." + +"Of course," cried Billy, rising at once. "You shall have a dozen +shawls, if you like," she laughed, as she left the room. + +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. + +"After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends +and yours," he said, at last. "Your friends _are_ doing things. They've +succeeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_." + +"But they will succeed," cried Billy. + +"Some of them," amended the man. + +"Not--all of them?" Billy looked a little troubled. + +Arkwright shook his head slowly. + +"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." + +"But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried," grieved Billy. + +"It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity, +aren't they?" + +"Y-yes," sighed the girl. "But--if there were only something one could +do to--help!" + +Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke, +was purposely light. + +"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. + +"I have known great good to come from great disappointments," remarked +Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically. + +"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." + +Billy turned interestedly. + +"What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?" + +"Then--you don't know?" + +"Not exactly. I've heard of them, in a vague fashion." + +"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." + +"Morning! But the concert isn't till afternoon!" + +"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." + +Billy's eyes widened. + +"And they'll stand all that time and wait?" + +"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." + +"But only think of _standing_ all that time!" + +"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 _big_ 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. + +"Why, how--how dreadful!" stammered Billy. + +"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." + +"But who--who are they? Where do they come from? Who _would_ go and +stand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat?" questioned Billy. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +Billy read them at once, hurriedly, then more carefully. + +"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 _is_ 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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. "MR. BILLY" AND "MISS MARY JANE" + + +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." + +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. + +"Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think--Mary Jane wrote the words +himself, so of course I can use them!" + +"Billy, dear, _can't_ you say 'Mr. Arkwright'?" pleaded Aunt Hannah. + +Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little old lady an impulsive +hug. + +"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!" + +"Yes, yes, dear, of course; but--" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a +vaguely troubled pause. + +Billy turned in surprise. + +"Why, Aunt Hannah, aren't you glad? You _said_ you'd be glad!" + +"Yes, dear; and I am--very glad. It's only--if it doesn't take too much +time--and if Bertram doesn't mind." + +Billy flushed. She laughed a little bitterly. + +"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." + +"Fiddlededee!" bristled Aunt Hannah. + +"What did she mean by that?" + +Billy smiled ruefully. + +"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." + +"Fiddlededee!" ejaculated the irate Aunt Hannah, even more sharply. "I +hope you have too much good sense to mind what Kate says, Billy." + +"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. + +"Humph! Well, I don't think I should worry about that," observed Aunt +Hannah with grim positiveness. + +"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." + +"Yes, of course," agreed Aunt Hannah. + +"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. + +"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. + +"No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if he +were really--your niece, Mary Jane," laughed Billy. + +Aunt Hannah moved restlessly. + +"Billy," she hazarded, "he knows, of course, of your engagement?" + +"Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah everybody does!" Billy's eyes were +plainly surprised. + +"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. + +"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. + +Left to herself, Aunt Hannah drew a long breath. + +"I'm glad she didn't suspect," she was thinking. "I believe she'd +consider even the _question_ disloyal to Bertram--dear child! And of +course Mary"--Aunt Hannah corrected herself with cheeks aflame--"I mean +Mr. Arkwright does--know." + +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. + +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. + +Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of greeting. + +"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. + +"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. + +Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano. + +"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! + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"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?" + +"Have you guessed it?" he bantered. + +"No--unless it's 'Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other day." + +"Wrong again!" he laughed. + +"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 _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_ +soul-inspiring music!" + +"Billy, my dear!" remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT + + +Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the +telephone. + +"Oh, good morning, Uncle William," she called, in answer to the +masculine voice that replied to her "Hullo." + +"Billy, are you very busy this morning?" + +"No, indeed--not if you want me." + +"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?" + +"Of course I will! What time?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?" + +"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?" + +"I'm afraid not," returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. "She's got +_three_ 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. + +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. + +"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." + +Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed +face she lifted a determined chin. + +"Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't +mind--for myself; but only think of the people whose _homes_ are here," +she finished, just above her breath. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +The man rose at once. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the +collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled. + +"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 _don't_ see that +every day! They get separated, most generally, you know." + +"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." + +"Perfect! I should say they were," cried the man. + +"They are, then--valuable?" Mrs. Greggory's voice shook. + +"Indeed they are! But you must know that." + +"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. + +William Henshaw cleared his throat. + +"But, madam, if you do not wish to sell--" He stopped abruptly. His +longing eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china. + +Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry. + +"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. + +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 _not_ wanting +it--if he did not buy it. + +"And so you see, I do very much wish to sell." + +Mrs. Greggory said then. "Perhaps you will tell me what it would be +worth to you," she concluded tremulously. + +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. + +"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." + +Mrs. Greggory started visibly. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Mother, what is it? Who are these people?" she asked sharply. + +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." + +"My name is Henshaw, Miss--Greggory, I presume," he said quietly. "I was +sent here by Mr. Harlow." + +"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--" + +"Neilson," supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated. + +A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgment +of the introductions she turned to her mother. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"A hundred dollars!" echoed the girl, faintly. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +Alice Greggory turned as if stung. + +"_Wished to sell!_" 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 _wishes_ 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?" + +"Alice, Alice, my love!" protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly. + +"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 _wishing_ to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we _wish_ to live +in a place like this; that we _wish_ to have rugs that are darned, +and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead of +clothes!" + +"Alice!" gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror. + +With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory stepped +back. Her face had grown white again. + +"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." + +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. + +"Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ 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?" + +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. + +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. + +Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself +proudly erect. + +"Thank you," she said with crisp coldness; "but, distasteful as darns +and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!" + +"Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand," faltered Billy. + +For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it +open. + +"Oh, Alice, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly. + +"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. + +Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, +William Henshaw drew a long breath. + +"Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't +be to this place," he fumed. + +"Wasn't it awful!" choked Billy. + +"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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT-- + + +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. + +"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 _turned out_ of a house before!" + +"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." + +"Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there. +Besides, of course I shall see them again!" + +Bertram's jaw dropped. + +"Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again +for that trumpery teapot!" + +"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!" + +"I know, darling; but _you_ don't expect to buy them new rugs and new +tablecloths, do you?" + +Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs. + +"Mercy!" she chuckled. "Only picture Miss Alice's face if I _should_ 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." + +"Or a smile--which I fancy will be the best gift of the lot," amended +Bertram, fondly. + +Billy dimpled and shook her head. + +"Smiles--my smiles--are not so valuable, I'm afraid--except to you, +perhaps," she laughed. + +"Self-evident facts need no proving," retorted Bertram. "Well, and what +else has happened in all these ages I've been away?" + +Billy brought her hands together with a sudden cry. + +"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." + +Bertram stiffened. + +"Indeed! And is--Mary Jane a poet, with all the rest?" he asked, with +affected lightness. + +"Oh, no, of course not," smiled Billy; "but these words _are_ pretty. +And they just sang themselves into the dearest little melody right away. +So I'm writing the music for them." + +"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. + +"That's what I asked him," laughed Billy. + + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"So it's music--a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white +paper--that is my only rival!" + +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. + +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? + +Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano. + +"There!" she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the +song. "Did you--like it?" + +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: + +"Of course, dear, I--I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be +much better, later." + +"But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart--indeed it is," protested Bertram, +hurriedly. + +"Well, of course I'm glad--if you like it," murmured Billy; but the glow +did not come back to her face. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. SUGARPLUMS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. +There were such a lot of things she wished to do. + +"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." + +"Much!" scoffed Bertram. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +Billy turned in confused surprise. + +"Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all--that?" + +"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?" + +Billy's chin rose to a defiant stubbornness. + +"I'm going to try to--if I can find out what kind of frosting she +likes." + +"How about the Alice lady--or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?" +smiled the man. + +Billy relaxed visibly. + +"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. + +"And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?" + +"Yes," avowed Billy. "I'm going down there one of these days, in the +morning--" + +"You're going down there! Billy--not alone?" + +"Yes. Why not?" + +"But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says." + +"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." + +Bertram made a restless movement. + +"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. + +Billy chuckled. + +"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!" + +"Yes, I suppose so," rejoined Bertram, with an unwilling smile. +"Still--well, you _can_ take Rosa," he concluded decisively. + +"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." + +"Then leave Rosa outside in the hall," planned Bertram, promptly; and +after a few more arguments, Billy finally agreed to this. + +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. + +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. + +"Oh! Why--why, good morning," murmured the lady, in evident +embarrassment. "Won't you--come m?" + +"Thank you. May I?--just a minute?" smiled Billy, brightly. + +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. + +"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." + +A swift change crossed Mrs. Greggory's perturbed face. + +"Oh, then you didn't come for it again--to-day," she said. "I'm so glad! +I didn't want to refuse--_you_." + +"Indeed I didn't come for it--and we sha'n't again. Don't worry about +that, please." + +Mrs. Greggory sighed. + +"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." + +Billy raised a quick hand of protest. + +"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Greggory," she begged. + +"But it was our fault that you came. We _asked_ 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 _your_ offer, too, which we could +not, of course, accept," she finished, the bright color flooding her +delicate face. + +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. + +"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." + +"Of course," murmured Billy, sympathetically. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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." + +Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as she +murmured: + +"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 _might_ put them in water--right there. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. ALICE GREGGORY + + +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. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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 _did_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying: + +"What a shame!--and after all our struggles to get here! If only we +hadn't lost that other train!" + +"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 +_never_ get in!" + +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 _would_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Miss Greggory!" she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. "You look +actually ill. Are you ill?" + +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. + +"Thank you, no. I am not ill, Miss Neilson," said the girl, coldly. + +"But you look so tired out!" + +"I have been standing here some time; that is all." + +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. + +"But you must have come--so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet," she +faltered. + +A slight smile curved Alice Greggory's lips. + +"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." + +"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. + +Miss Greggory's thin shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. + +"Half-past one." + +Billy gave a dismayed cry. + +"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." + +Miss Greggory shook her head. + +"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. + +"No luncheon! Why--oh, you couldn't leave your place, of course," +frowned Billy. + +"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. + +"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--" + +"Thank you--no. I couldn't do that," cut in the other, sharply, but in a +low voice. + +"But you'll take my ticket," begged Billy. + +Miss Greggory shook her head. + +"Certainly not." + +"But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't," +grieved Billy. + +The other made a peremptory gesture. + +"_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--" + +"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 _must_ do this. Go to some restaurant near here and +get a good luncheon--something that will sustain you. I will take your +place here." + +"_Miss Neilson!_" + +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. + +"_You_--will stand _here?_" + +"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. + +"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. + +"Well, then--I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich. +And--thank you," she choked, as she turned and hurried away. + +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. + +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 +"_Billy!_" was in her ears. + +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. + +"Yes, I know," she gurgled. "You don't have to say it-your face is +saying even more than your tongue _could!_ This is just for a girl I +know. I'm keeping her place." + +Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up and +walking off with her. + +"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. + +"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 _she's_ 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." + +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 fiancee the subject +of inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as: + +"Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's +place in a twenty-five-cent ticket line." + +He shivered at the thought. + +"Are you cold?" worried Billy. "If you are, don't stand here, please!" + +He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the +only one whose coming could bring him relief. + +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. + +"That was Alice Greggory, Bertram," she told him, as they walked on +swiftly; "and Bertram, she was actually almost _crying_ when she took my +place." + +"Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be," growled Bertram, +perversely. + +"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?" + +"I'm afraid not," regretted Bertram. "I wish I could, but I'm busier +than busy to-day--and I was _supposed_ to be already late when I saw +you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!" + +"You looked it," twinkled Billy. "It was worth a farm just to see your +face!" + +"I'd want the farm--if I was going through that again," retorted the +man, grimly--Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading. + +But Billy only laughed again. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY + + +Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and +Billy put the finishing touches to the new song. + +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. + +"You knew the girl, of course--I think you said you knew the girl," +ventured Arkwright. + +"Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, +over a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know _how_ I met her," +smiled Billy. + +"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." + +Billy gave a little cry. + +"Why, it is--it must be! _My_ Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, +do you know them, really?" + +"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." + +"That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly," cried Billy's eager voice. +"And the daughter?" + +"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." + +"About my height, and with light-brown hair and big blue-gray eyes that +look steely cold when she's angry?" questioned Billy. + +"I reckon that's about it," acknowledged the man, with a faint smile. + +"Then they _are_ 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?" + +"Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?" asked Aunt +Hannah, turning smiling eyes from Billy to the man at her side. + +"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." + +"I knew there was some such story as that back of them," declared Billy. +"But how do you suppose they came here?" + +"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." + +"I suppose so," sighed Billy. "Still--they must have had friends." + +"They did, of course; but when the love of one's friends becomes _too_ +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." + +"I _do_ 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. + +"It must have been hard, indeed," murmured Aunt Hannah with a sigh, as +she set down her teacup. + +"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. + +"They might have carried the thing through, maybe," continued Arkwright, +"and never _apparently_ 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." + +"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. + +"You forget; they wouldn't wish to see me," demurred the man. And again +Billy noticed the odd constraint in his voice. + +"But they wouldn't mind _you--here_," argued Billy. + +"I'm afraid they would. In fact, I'm sure they'd refuse entirely to see +me." + +Billy's eyes grew determined. + +"But they can't refuse--if I bring about a meeting just casually, you +know," she challenged. + +Arkwright laughed. + +"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?" + +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. + +"But tell me, please, before you go, how did those rumors come +out--about Judge Greggory's honesty, I mean?" + +"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." + +"Oh, I wish it might," sighed Billy. "Think what it would mean to those +women!" + +"'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. + +"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. + +The door had scarcely closed behind Arkwright when Billy turned to Aunt +Hannah a beaming face. + +"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." + +"Why, no, dear; I didn't see anything unusual," murmured the elder lady. + +"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." + +"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!" + +"Oh, _they_ 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!" + +"Yes, yes, poor things, poor things!" sighed Aunt Hannah. + +"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 _know_ 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 _have_ taken. They'd +change, I know, in a minute, at my recommendation--that is, of course, +if I can _give_ the recommendation," continued Billy, with a troubled +frown. "Anyhow, I'm going down to begin operations to-morrow." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS + + +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. + +"Rosa says that Billy's not there," called Bertram's aggrieved voice, +when Aunt Hannah had said, "Good morning, my boy." + +"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 _are_ coming out to-night, aren't you?" + +"Yes; oh, yes! But what is it? Where's she gone?" + +Aunt Hannah laughed softly. + +"Well, she's gone down to the Greggorys'." + +"The Greggorys'! What--again?" + +"Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram," bantered Aunt Hannah, +"for there'll be a good many 'agains,' I fancy." + +"Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?" Bertram's voice was not quite +pleased. + +"Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be +old friends of Mr. Arkwright's." + +"_Friends_ of Arkwright's!" Bertram's voice was decidedly displeased +now. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"But she is probably--very good--at teaching." Billy hesitated a little. + +"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. + +Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how +she had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this +Alice Greggory. + +"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." + +"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--" + +"And here she is right now," interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door +opened under a hurried hand. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"Of course she took cold--standing all those hours in that horrid wind, +Friday!" cried Billy, indignantly. + +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 _reminding_ 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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +"Alice, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Greggory, extending a frightened hand. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control. + +"Please--please, forgive me!" she choked. "But you see--you couldn't, of +course, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't _girls_. They're just a man +and an automobile!" + +An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still +stood her ground. + +"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." + +There was a moment's hush. Billy's eyes had filled with tears. + +"I never even _thought_--charity," said Billy, so gently that a faint +red stole into the white cheeks opposite. + +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: + +"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 _girls!_ 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." + +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: + +"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?" + +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. + +"Indeed I would! I should be glad to do it." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To Aunt +Hannah, upon her return, she expressed herself thus: + +"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 _planned_ 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 _what_ +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." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS + + +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. + +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. + +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 +_accompanying_ 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. + +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. + +"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 _is--you!_" 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 _you_ stand in line for a +twenty-five-cent admission!" she scorned. + +"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. + +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. + +"'Words by M. J.--'"--there was a visible start, and a pause before the +"'Arkwright'" was uttered in a slightly different tone. + +Billy noted both the start and the pause--and gloried in them. + +"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?" + +Alice Greggory gave a short little laugh. + +"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. + +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. + +"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 _name_ 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 _is_ anything good to tell the poor girl, he can tell it." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Now, if you please, Miss Greggory, I'm going to put you up-stairs on +the couch in the sewing-room for a nap." + +"But I've just got up," remonstrated Miss Greggory. + +"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?" + +"N-no." + +"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 _may_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"But there is time, Miss Billy--if you'd give me leave--to say--" + +"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!" + +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. + +Billy and Arkwright had turned at her first words. At her last, +Arkwright, with a half-despairing, half-reproachful glance at Billy, +stepped forward. + +"Miss Greggory!--you _are_ Miss Alice Greggory, I am sure," he said +pleasantly. + +At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left the +room. To Aunt Hannah she flew with a woebegone face. + +"Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah," she wailed, half laughing, half crying; +"that wretched little fib-teller of a clock of yours spoiled it all!" + +"Spoiled it! Spoiled what, child?" + +"My first meeting between Mary Jane and Miss Greggory. I had it all +arranged that they were to have it _alone_; 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!" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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--_now_. 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 _she_ 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. + +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. + +"But what shall we do, Miss Greggory?" appealed Billy. "It _is_ 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." + +An odd expression flitted across Miss Greggory's face. + +"Mr. Arkwright used to sing--tenor," she observed quietly. + +"As if he didn't now--a perfectly glorious tenor," retorted Billy. "But +as if _he_ would take _this!_" + +For only a brief moment did Arkwright hesitate; then blandly he +suggested: + +"Suppose you try him, and see." + +Billy sat suddenly erect. + +"Would you, really? _Could_ you--take the time, and all?" she cried. + +"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." + +"Oh, if you only would take it," breathed Billy, "we'd be so glad!" + +"Well," said Arkwright, his eyes on Billy's frankly delighted face, "as +I said before--under the circumstances I think I would." + +"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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM + + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"But--my pupils," Alice Greggory had demurred. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"I suppose you don't ever call him 'Mary Jane,'" she said to the girl, a +little mischievously, one day. + +"'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." + +"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?" + +Miss Greggory looked up in surprise. + +"Why, it's--" She stopped short, her eyes questioning. "Why, hasn't he +ever told you?" she queried. + +Billy lifted her chin. + +"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." + +"'Methuselah John,' indeed!" laughed the other, merrily. + +"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?" + +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: + +"If he hasn't told you, I sha'n't. You'll have to go to him." + +"Oh, well, I can still call him 'Mary Jane,'" retorted Billy, with airy +disdain. + +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. + +"They used to know each other long ago, Mr. Arkwright tells me," Billy +began warily. + +"Yes." + +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. + +"I think it was so romantic--their running across each other like this, +Mrs. Greggory," she murmured. "And there _was_ a romance, wasn't there? +I have just felt in my bones that there was--a romance!" + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"But, Mrs. Greggory," stammered Billy, "I'm sure Mr. Arkwright would +want--" An up-lifted hand silenced her peremptorily. + +"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--_ever!_ +There, please, dear Miss Neilson, let us not talk of it any more," +begged Mrs. Greggory, brokenly. + +"No, indeed, of course not!" cried Billy; but her heart rejoiced. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +Once, torn by jealousy, and exasperated at the frequent interruptions of +their quiet hours together, he had complained openly. + +"Actually, Billy, it's worse than Marie's wedding," he declared, "_Then_ +it was tablecloths and napkins that could be dumped in a chair. _Now_ +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!" + +Billy laughed, but she frowned, too. + +"I know, dear; I don't like that part. I wish they _would_ 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." + +"But you're wearing yourself all out with it, dear," scowled Bertram. + +"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!" + +"Don't want it," avowed Bertram. + +"But the _work_ may," retorted Billy, showing all her dimples. "Never +mind, though; it'll all be over after the twentieth. _This_ isn't an +understudy like Marie's wedding, you know," she finished demurely. + +"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 _were_ +an understudy to what was to come later when Music, his rival, had +really conquered? + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART + + +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. + +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. + +"What a lovely blue!" + +"Marvellous color sense!" + +"Now those shadows are--" + +"He gets his high lights so--" + +"I declare, she looks just like Blanche Payton!" + +"Every line there is full of meaning." + +"I suppose it's very fine, but--" + +"Now, I say, Henshaw is--" + +"Is this by the man that's painting Margy Winthrop's portrait?" + +"It's idealism, man, idealism!" + +"I'm going to have a dress just that shade of blue." + +"Isn't that just too sweet!" + +"Now for realism, I consider Henshaw--" + +"There aren't many with his sensitive, brilliant touch." + +"Oh, what a pretty picture!" + +William moved on then. + +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. + +"Oh, Bertram, isn't it splendid! I'm so proud of you," she whispered +softly, when a moment's lull gave her opportunity. + +"They're all words, words, idle words," he laughed; but his eyes shone. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I know," laughed Bertram. "I've done it, in days long gone." + +"Bertram, not really?" cried Billy. + +"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!" + +"And what did you hear?" demanded the girl. + +"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." + +"Serves you right, sir--listening like that," scolded Billy. + +Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders. + +"Well, it cured me, anyhow. I haven't done it since," he declared. + +It was some time later, on the way home, that Bertram said: + +"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." + +"The next time?" Billy's eyes were slightly puzzled. + +"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." + +"Oh, Bertram!" + +"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." + +"Well, I should think I might," retorted Billy, a little tremulously, +"after all I've heard about it. I should think _everybody_ 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!" + +"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--" + +"But you aren't going to fail," interposed the girl, resolutely. + +"No, I know I'm not. I only said 'if,'" fenced the man, his voice not +quite steady. + +"There isn't going to be any 'if,'" settled Billy. "Now tell me, when is +the exhibition?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Of course--she knows it," murmured Billy, a little faintly, but with a +peculiar intonation in her voice. + +"And so you see," sighed Bertram, "what the twentieth of March is going +to mean for me." + +"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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. THE OPERETTA + + +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. + +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." + +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 _not_ learn that a +duet meant a _duet_--not two solos, independently hurried or retarded as +one's fancy for the moment dictated. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"Miss Neilson, you aren't--crying!" exclaimed a low voice; and Billy +turned to find Arkwright standing by her side in the dim light. + +"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." + +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. + +"Dear me, if those girls _would_ only pull together! But then, what's +the difference? I supposed you had gone home long ago, Mr. Arkwright." + +"Miss Neilson, you _are_ crying!" Arkwright's voice was low and +vibrant. "As if anything or anybody in the world _could_ make _you_ 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. + +Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed the +persistent tears from her eyes. + +"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." + +"Everybody--in the operetta!" Arkwright did look a little startled, at +this wholesale slaughter. + +"Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was to-night?" +moaned the girl. + +Arkwright's face relaxed. + +"Oh, so _that's_ 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!" + +Billy blinked off the tears and essayed a smile as she retorted: + +"Well, if that's so, then ours to-morrow night ought to be a--a--" + +"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?" + +Billy laughed tremulously. + +"N-no, thank you; not that you can--slay, I fancy," she sighed. +"That is--not that you _will_," she amended wistfully, with a sudden +remembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so much--if he only +would. + +Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curling +hair behind Billy's ear. His eyes had flashed into sudden fire. + +"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--" + +"Miss Neilson, please," called the despairing voice of one of the +earth-bound fairies; "Miss Neilson, you _are_ there, aren't you?" + +"Yes, I'm right here," answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too, +but not aloud--which was wise. + +"Oh dear! you're tired, I know," wailed the fairy, "but if you would +please come and help us just a minute! Could you?" + +"Why, yes, of course." Billy rose to her feet, still wearily. + +Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was very +white--so white that her eyes widened in surprised questioning. + +As if answering the unspoken words, the man shook his head. + +"I can't, now, of course," he said. "But there _is_ something I want to +say--a story I want to tell you--after to-morrow, perhaps. May I?" + +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. + +"Of course you may," she cried. "Come any time after to-morrow night, +please," she smiled encouragingly, as she turned toward the stage. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY + + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Very sure," smiled Billy. + +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. + +"You want it from the beginning?" + +"By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek at the ending. I don't +think it's fair to the author." + +"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." + +"Of course--if it's a nice story," twinkled Billy. + +"And--there's a man, too. It's a love story, you see." + +"Again of course--if it's interesting." Billy laughed mischievously, but +she flushed a little. + +"Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might as +well own up at the beginning--I'm the man." + +"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." + +Arkwright drew in his breath. + +"We'll hope--it'll really be so," he murmured. + +There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what to +say. + +"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." + +Arkwright sighed. + +"Perhaps--on paper; but, you see, my story has been _lived_, so far. So +it's quite different." + +"Very well, then--what did happen?" smiled Billy. + +"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." + +"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. + +"No, I didn't know the girl--till afterwards. Before that I was always +dreaming and wondering what she would be like." + +"Oh!" Billy subsided into her chair, still with the puzzled questioning +in her eyes. + +"Then I met her." + +"Yes?" + +"And she was everything and more than I had pictured her." + +"And you fell in love at once?" Billy's voice had grown confident again. + +"Oh, I was already in love," sighed Arkwright. "I simply sank deeper." + +"Oh-h!" breathed Billy, sympathetically. "And the girl?" + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Billy, do you mean, really, that there is--hope for me?" he begged +brokenly. + +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. + +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: + +"Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, so +I'm not the one to give hope; and--" + +"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--" + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"But you know--you _must_ know that I am not yours to win!" she +reproached him sharply. "I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's--_wife_." 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. + +From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back. + +"Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!" he exclaimed. There was no +mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face. + +Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and +a terrified appeal took its place. + +"You don't mean that you _didn't--know?_" she faltered. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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!" + +"I've been trying to think, myself," returned the man, still in a dull, +emotionless voice. + +"It's been so--so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew +it," maintained Billy. + +"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." + +"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!" + +"To a certain extent, yes," sighed Arkwright. "But I took your +friendship with him and his brothers as--as a matter of course. _That_ +was _my_ '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." + +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 _always_ she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to +love any girl--except to paint? + +"But--but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement--now," she +stammered. + +"Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival +in Boston. We do not correspond." + +There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again. + +"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. + +Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a choking +sob. + +Arkwright turned sharply. + +"Miss Neilson, don't--please," he begged. "There is no need that you +should suffer--too." + +"But I am so ashamed that such a thing _could_ 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 _thought_ 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. + +"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. + +Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, _anything_, to say, +when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless voice +that Billy thought would break her heart. + +"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." + +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. + +"But you don't mean that you--cared--that I was the--" She could not +finish. + +Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair. + +"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. + +Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Sweetheart, what _is_ 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!" + +"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." + +"But I want to know so _I_ can forget it," persisted Bertram. "What is +it? Maybe I could help." + +She shook her head with a little frightened cry. + +"No, no--you can't help--really." + +"But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ me +about it?" + +Billy looked distressed. + +"I can't, dear--truly. You see, it isn't quite mine--to tell." + +"Not yours!" + +"Not--entirely." + +"But it makes you feel bad?" + +"Yes--very." + +"Then can't I know that part?" + +"Oh, no--no, indeed, no! You see--it wouldn't be fair--to the other." + +Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines. + +"Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know." + +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. + +"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." + +"But it has made you cry!" + +"Yes. It made me feel very unhappy." + +"Then--it was something you couldn't help?" + +To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushed +scarlet. + +"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!" + +Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh. + +"All right, dear; you know best, of course--since I don't know +_anything_ about it," he finished a little stiffly. + +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. + +"And, do you know? Aunt Hannah's clock _has_ 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 _her_ 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!" + +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: + +"Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to _hear_ the word 'operetta' +again for a year!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"By the way, where is Mary Jane these days?" he asked then. + +"I don't know, I'm sure. He hasn't been here lately," murmured Billy, +reaching for a book on the table. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then he +asked abruptly: + +"Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn't shown up once since the +operetta, has he?" + +Billy, always truthful,--and just now always embarrassed when +Arkwright's name was mentioned,--walked straight into the trap. + +"Oh, yes; well, he was here once--the day after the operetta. I haven't +seen him since." + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"After all, what's the difference? What do you care for this, or +anything again if Billy is lost to you?" + +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. + +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. + +But the portrait was, irrefutably, nearing completion, and it was to be +exhibited the twentieth of the month. Bertram knew these for facts. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN + + +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. + +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! + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on both +sides." + +"Nonsense! This isn't frosting--it's business," Billy had laughed. + +"And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice--they're business, +too, I suppose?" + +"Certainly," retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low +laugh and said: "Mercy! If Alice Greggory thought it was anything _but_ +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!" + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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 _her?_ 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? + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. KATE WRITES A LETTER + + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +The artist shrugged his shoulders. + +"But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?" he asked. + +"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!" + +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. + +"What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure," he said tenderly. "But +as if fighting could do any good--in this case!" + +Billy's tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears. + +"No, I don't suppose it would," she choked, beginning to cry, so that +Bertram had to turn comforter. + +"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." + +"But _this_ 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 _what_ people mean by +talking so about it!" + +Bertram shook his head. His eyes grew sombre again. + +"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." + +"Then why don't they look at those, and let this alone?" wailed Billy, +with indignation. + +"Because I deliberately put up this for them to see," smiled the artist, +wearily. + +Billy sighed, and twisted in her chair. + +"What does--Mr. Winthrop say?" she asked at last, in a faint voice. + +Bertram lifted his head. + +"Mr. Winthrop's been a trump all through, dear. He's already insisted on +paying for this--and he's ordered another." + +"Another!" + +"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. + +Billy hesitated. + +"Perhaps--his daughter--influenced him--some." + +"Perhaps," nodded Bertram. "She, too, has been very kind, all the way +through." + +Billy hesitated again. + +"But I thought--it was going so splendidly," she faltered, in a +half-stifled voice. + +"So it was--at the first." + +"Then what--ailed it, at the last, do you suppose?" Billy was holding +her breath till he should answer. + +The man got to his feet. + +"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. + +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. + +Kate's letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking of +various other matters: + +"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 _must_ 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! + +"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! + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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 _know_ 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. + +"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 _failed_ 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 +_your_ 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 +_anybody_, it should be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be +a _help_ to him. But when I think of you two flyaway flutterbudgets +marrying--! + +"Now, for heaven's sake, Billy, _do_ 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? + +"Faithfully yours, + +"KATE HARTWELL. + +"P. S. _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 +_always_ thought William was the one for you. Think it over. + +"P. S. No. 2. You can see by the above that it isn't you I'm objecting +to, my dear. It's just _you-and-Bertram_. + +"K." + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. "I'VE HINDERED HIM" + + +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. + +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. + +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 _she_, 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! + +At this point Billy got out her pen and paper and wrote to Kate. + +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 _live_ 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. + +Then Billy signed her name and took the letter out to post immediately. + +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. + +Very soon, however, she began to think--not so much of what _she_ +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: + +"William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over +something, and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past." + +"A woman is at the bottom of it--... you are that woman." + +"You can't make him happy." + +"Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man." + +"Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to +paint. And they never will." + +"Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, +and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied +himself to any one girl until last fall." + +"Now what has it been since?" + +"He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike +himself; and his picture has failed, dismally." + +"Do you want to ruin his career?" + +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. + +Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ acted +strangely, of late. Bertram _had_ seemed troubled over something. His +picture _had_--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 _was_ settled. Very scornfully she declared that +it was "only Kate," after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate make +her unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current magazine and began +to read. + +As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the first +article she opened to was headed in huge black type: + + +"MARRIAGE AND THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT." + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _would_ find it, she _did_ 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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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. + +Billy found Marie in tears. + +"Why, Marie!" she cried in dismay. + +"Sh-h!" warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of +Cyril's den. + +"But, dear, what is it?" begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with +greater caution. + +"Sh-h!" admonished Marie again. + +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: + +"Cyril's at work on a new piece for the piano." + +"Well, what if he is?" demanded Billy. "That needn't make you cry, need +it?" + +"Oh, no--no, indeed," demurred Marie, in a shocked voice. + +"Well, then, what is it?" + +Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for +sympathy, she sobbed: + +"It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough for +Cyril." + +Billy stared frankly. + +"Not _good_ enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?" + +"Well, not good _for_ 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 _was_ 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, _my darns--bunches!_" Marie's face +and voice were tragic. + +"Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you," comforted Billy, promptly, +trying not to laugh too hard. "It wasn't _your_ 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 _you_ found it +out. So don't worry over that." + +"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 _please_ 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. + +Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised +hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle. + +"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." + +Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax. + +"You don't understand," she moaned. "It's myself. I've _hindered_ 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. + +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: + +"Marriage and the Artistic Temperament." + +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. + +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, +_was_ 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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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 _she_ might be happy! Indeed, no! Hence she broke +the engagement. + +This was the letter: + + + "DEAR BERTRAM:--You won't make the + move, so I must. I knew, from the way you spoke + to-day, that it _was_ 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 _know_ what I am doing is best--all + round. + "Always your friend, + "BILLY." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. FLIGHT + + +Billy feared if she did not mail the letter at once she would not have +the courage to mail it at all. So she slipped down-stairs very quietly +and went herself to the post box a little way down the street; then she +came back and sobbed herself to sleep--though not until after she had +sobbed awake for long hours of wretchedness. + +When she awoke in the morning, heavy-eyed and unrested, there came to +her first the vague horror of some shadow hanging over her, then the +sickening consciousness of what that shadow was. For one wild minute +Billy felt that she must run to the telephone, summon Bertram, and +beseech him to return unread the letter he would receive from her that +day. Then there came to her the memory of Bertram's face as it had +looked the night before when she had asked him if she were the cause of +his being troubled. There came, too, the memory of Kate's scathing +"Do you want to ruin his career?" Even the hated magazine article and +Marie's tragic "I've _hindered_ him!" added their mite; and Billy knew +that she should not go to the telephone, nor summon Bertram. + +The one fatal mistake now would be to let Bertram see her own distress. +If once he should suspect how she suffered in doing this thing, there +would be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. She +must, therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertram--not to let him +see her until she felt more sure of her self-control no matter what he +said. The easiest way to do this was, of course, to go away. But where? +How? She must think. Meanwhile, for these first few hours, she would not +tell any one, even Aunt Hannah, what had happened. There must _no one_ +speak to her of it, yet. That she could not endure. Aunt Hannah would, +of course, shiver, groan "Oh, my grief and conscience!" and call for +another shawl; and Billy just now felt as if she should scream if she +heard Aunt Hannah say "Oh, my grief and conscience!"--over that. Billy +went down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactly +as usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know--yet. + +When people try to "act exactly as usual," they generally end in acting +quite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence her +attempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter giggles +that rang too frequently to be quite sincere--though from Aunt Hannah +it all elicited only an affectionate smile at "the dear child's high +spirits." + +A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morning +paper--now no longer barred from the door--she gave a sudden cry. + +"Billy, just listen to this!" she exclaimed, reading from the paper in +her hand. "'A new tenor in "The Girl of the Golden West." Appearance +of Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House to-night. Owing to the +sudden illness of Dubassi, who was to have taken the part of Johnson +tonight, an exceptional opportunity has come to a young tenor singer, +one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwright +is said to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, and +a purity of tone and smoothness of execution that few of his age and +experience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke at +one of the popular-priced Saturday night performances of "Rigoletto"; +and his extraordinary success on that occasion, coupled with his +familiarity with, and fitness for the part of Johnson in "The Girl +of the Golden West," led to his being chosen to take Dubassi's place +to-night. His performance is awaited with the greatest of interest.' Now +isn't that splendid for Mary Jane? I'm so glad!" beamed Aunt Hannah. + +"Of course we're glad!" cried Billy. "And didn't it come just in time? +This is the last week of opera, anyway, you know." + +"But it says he sang before--on a Saturday night," declared Aunt Hannah, +going back to the paper in her hand. "Now wouldn't you have thought we'd +have heard of it, or read of it? And wouldn't you have thought he'd have +told us?" + +"Oh, well, maybe he didn't happen to see us so he could tell us," +returned Billy with elaborate carelessness. + +"I know it; but it's so funny he _hasn't_ seen us," contended Aunt +Hannah, frowning. "You know how much he used to be here." + +Billy colored, and hurried into the fray. + +"Oh, but he must have been so busy, with all this, you know. And of +course we didn't see it in the paper--because we didn't have any paper +at that time, probably. Oh, yes, that's my fault, I know," she laughed; +"and I was silly, I'll own. But we'll make up for it now. We'll go, of +course, I wish it had been on our regular season-ticket night, but I +fancy we can get seats somewhere; and I'm going to ask Alice Greggory +and her mother, too. I'll go down there this morning to tell them, and +to get the tickets. I've got it all planned." + +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. + +"I'll go right away," she said. + +"But, my dear," frowned Aunt Hannah, anxiously, "I don't believe I can +go to-night--though I'd love to, dearly." + +"But why not?" + +"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. + +"Why, you poor dear, what a shame!" + +"Won't Bertram go?" asked Aunt Hannah. + +Billy shook her head--but she did not meet Aunt Hannah's eyes. + +"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. + +"But you'll have the Greggorys--that is, Mrs. Greggory _can_ go, can't +she?" inquired Aunt Hannah. + +"Oh, yes; I'm sure she can," nodded Billy. "You know she went to the +operetta, and this is just the same--only bigger." + +"Yes, yes, I know," murmured Aunt Hannah. + +"Dear me! How can she get about so on those two wretched little sticks? +She's a perfect marvel to me." + +"She is to me, too," sighed Billy, as she hurried from the room. + +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. + +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 _could not_ 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. + + +Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannah +answered it. + +"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!" + +"Didn't you? Well, is--is Billy there?" + +"No, she isn't. She's gone down to see Alice Greggory." + +"Oh!" So evident was the disappointment in the voice that Aunt Hannah +added hastily: + +"I'm so sorry! She hasn't been gone ten minutes. But--is there any +message?" + +"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?" + +Aunt Hannah laughed in obvious amusement. + +"Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a _long_ 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." + +An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catch +came across the line; then a somewhat hurried "All right. Thank you. +Good-by." + +The next time Aunt Hannah was called to the telephone, Billy spoke to +her. + +"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." + +"All right, dear," replied Aunt Hannah. "Did you get the tickets?" + +"Yes, and the Greggorys will go. Oh, and Aunt Hannah!" + +"Yes, dear." + +"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." + +"Very well, dear. I'll tell him." + +"Thank you. How's the poor head?" + +"Better, a little, I think." + +"That's good. Won't you repent and go, too?" + +"No--oh, no, indeed!" + +"All right, then; good-by. I'm sorry!" + +"So'm I. Good-by," sighed Aunt Hannah, as she hung up the receiver and +turned away. + +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'. + +"There! and I forgot," she confessed. "Bertram called you up just after +you left this morning, my dear." + +"Did he?" Billy's face was turned away, but Aunt Hannah did not notice +that. + +"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. + +"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. + +Then Billy was gone. + +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. + +Mrs. Stetson went down at once. + +"Why, my dear boy," she exclaimed, as she entered the room; "Billy said +you had a banquet on for to-night!" + +"Yes, I know; but--I didn't go." Bertram's face was pale and drawn. His +voice did not sound natural. + +"Why, Bertram, you look ill! _Are_ you ill?" The man made an impatient +gesture. + +"No, no, I'm not ill--I'm not ill at all. Rosa says--Billy's not here." + +"No; she's gone to the opera with the Greggorys." + +"The _opera!_" There was a grieved hurt in Bertram's voice that +Aunt Hannah quite misunderstood. She hastened to give an apologetic +explanation. + +"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 _sure_ she said +so." + +"Yes, I did tell her so--last night," nodded Bertram, dully. + +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. + +"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--" + +"Arkwright!" There was no listlessness in Bertram's voice or manner now. + +"Yes. Didn't you see it in the paper? Such a splendid chance for him! +His picture was there, too." + +"No. I didn't see it." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was it +good?" + +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. + +"Oh, yes, it was good--very good," she replied listlessly. + +"Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't Mary +Jane--all right?" + +"Mary Jane? Oh!--oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah." + +"'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!" + +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. + +"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 _am_ tired," she +broke off wearily. + +"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. + +"Bertram!" The girl wheeled sharply. + +"Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all," chuckled +Aunt Hannah. "Did you suppose I would?" + +There was no answer. Billy had gone. + + +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 _willing_ 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. + +Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at Aunt +Hannah's bedside. + +"Billy!" exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled. + +Billy sat down on the edge of the bed. + +"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." + +Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed. + +"_To-day_--child?" + +"Yes," nodded Billy, unsmilingly. "We shall have to go somewhere to-day, +and I thought you would like that place best." + +"But--Billy!--what does this mean?" + +Billy sighed heavily. + +"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." + +Aunt Hannah fell nervelessly back on the pillow. Her teeth fairly +chattered. + +"Oh, my grief and conscience--_Billy!_ Won't you please pull up that +blanket," she moaned. "Billy, what do you mean?" + +Billy shook her head and got to her feet. + +"I can't tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don't ask me; +and don't--talk. You _will_--go with me, won't you?" And Aunt Hannah, +with her terrified eyes on Billy's piteously agitated face, nodded her +head and choked: + +"Why, of course I'll go--anywhere--with you, Billy; but--why did you do +it, why did you do it?" + +A little later, Billy, in her own room, wrote this note to Bertram: + + + "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." + + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. PETE TO THE RESCUE + + +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. + +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-- + +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." + +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. + +Billy sprang to her feet. + +"Why, Aunt Hannah, what is it? What's the matter?" she demanded. + +Aunt Hannah sank into a chair, still wringing her hands. + +"Oh, Billy, Billy, how can I tell you, how can I tell you?" she moaned. + +"You must tell me! Aunt Hannah, what is it?" + +"Oh--oh--oh! Billy, I can't--I can't!" + +"But you'll have to! What is it, Aunt Hannah?" + +"It's--B-Bertram!" + +"Bertram!" Billy's face grew ashen. "Quick, quick--what do you mean?" + +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. + +"Aunt Hannah, you must tell me! You must--you must!" + +"I can't, Billy. It's Bertram. He's--_hurt!_" choked Aunt Hannah, +hysterically. + +"Hurt! How?" + +"I don't know. Pete told me." + +"Pete!" + +"Yes. Rosa had told him we were coming, and he called me up. He said +maybe I could do something. So he told me." + +"Yes, yes! But told you what?" + +"That he was hurt." + +"How?" + +"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!" + +"Oh-h!" Billy fell back as if the words had been a blow. "Not that, Aunt +Hannah--not that!" + +"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." + +"For--_me?_" A swift change came to Billy's face. + +"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, _really_, +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!" + +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. + +"Tell John to bring Peggy to the door at once, please," directed her +mistress. + +"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?" + +Billy turned in obvious surprise. + +"Why, I'm going to Bertram, of course." + +"To Bertram! But it's nearly half-past eight, child, and it rains, and +everything!" + +"But Bertram _wants_ me!" exclaimed Billy. "As if I'd mind rain, or +time, or anything else, _now!_" + +"But--but--oh, my grief and conscience!" groaned Aunt Hannah, beginning +to wring her hands again. + +Billy reached for her coat. Aunt Hannah stirred into sudden action. + +"But, Billy, if you'd only wait till to-morrow," she quavered, putting +out a feebly restraining hand. + +"To-morrow!" The young voice rang with supreme scorn. "Do you think I'd +wait till to-morrow--after all this? I say Bertram _wants_ me." Billy +picked up her gloves. + +"But you broke it off, dear--you said you did; and to go down there +to-night--like this--" + +Billy lifted her head. Her eyes shone. Her whole face was a glory of +love and pride. + +"That was before. I didn't know. He _wants_ me, Aunt Hannah. Did +you hear? He _wants_ 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!" + +Blindly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. Still more blindly she reached for +her bonnet and cloak on the chair near her. + +"Oh, will you go, too?" asked Billy, abstractedly, hurrying to the +window to look for the motor car. + +"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?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure," murmured Billy, still abstractedly, peering +out into the rain. + +"Don't know, indeed! Oh, my grief and conscience!" groaned Aunt Hannah, +setting her bonnet hopelessly askew on top of her agitated head. + +But Billy did not even answer now. Her face was pressed hard against the +window-pane. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS + + +With stiffly pompous dignity Pete opened the door. The next moment +he fell back in amazement before the impetuous rush of a starry-eyed, +flushed-cheeked young woman who demanded: + +"Where is he, Pete?" + +"Miss Billy!" gasped the old man. Then he saw Aunt Hannah--Aunt Hannah +with her bonnet askew, her neck-bow awry, one hand bare, and the other +half covered with a glove wrong side out. Aunt Hannah's cheeks, too, +were flushed, and her eyes starry, but with dismay and anger--the last +because she did not like the way Pete had said Miss Billy's name. It was +one matter for her to object to this thing Billy was doing--but quite +another for Pete to do it. + +"Of course it's she!" retorted Aunt Hannah, testily. "As if you yourself +didn't bring her here with your crazy messages at this time of night!" + +"Pete, where is he?" interposed Billy. "Tell Mr. Bertram I am here--or, +wait! I'll go right in and surprise him." + +"_Billy!_" This time it was Aunt Hannah who gasped her name. + +Pete had recovered himself by now, but he did not even glance toward +Aunt Hannah. His face was beaming, and his old eyes were shining. + +"Miss Billy, Miss Billy, you're an angel straight from heaven, you +are--you are! Oh, I'm so glad you came! It'll be all right now--all +right! He's in the den, Miss Billy." + +Billy turned eagerly, but before she could take so much as one step +toward the door at the end of the hall, Aunt Hannah's indignant voice +arrested her. + +"Billy-stop! You're not an angel; you're a young woman--and a crazy +one, at that! Whatever angels do, young women don't go unannounced and +unchaperoned into young men's rooms! Pete, go tell your master that _we_ +are here, and ask if he will receive _us_." + +Pete's lips twitched. The emphatic "we" and "us" were not lost on him. +But his face was preternaturally grave when he spoke. + +"Mr. Bertram is up and dressed, ma'am. He's in the den. I'll speak to +him." + +Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door of +Bertram's den and threw it wide open. + +Opposite the door, on a low couch, lay Bertram, his head bandaged, and +his right arm in a sling. His face was turned toward the door, but his +eyes were closed. He looked very white, and his features were pitifully +drawn with suffering. + +"Mr. Bertram," began Pete--but he got no further. A flying figure +brushed by him and fell on its knees by the couch, with a low cry. + +Bertram's eyes flew open. Across his face swept such a radiant look of +unearthly joy that Pete sobbed audibly and fled to the kitchen. Dong +Ling found him there a minute later polishing a silver teaspoon with +a fringed napkin that had been spread over Bertram's tray. In the hall +above Aunt Hannah was crying into William's gray linen duster that hung +on the hall-rack--Aunt Hannah's handkerchief was on the floor back at +Hillside. + +In the den neither Billy nor Bertram knew or cared what had become of +Aunt Hannah and Pete. There were just two people in their world--two +people, and unutterable, incredible, overwhelming rapture and peace. +Then, very gradually it dawned over them that there was, after all, +something strange and unexplained in it all. + +"But, dearest, what does it mean--you here like this?" asked Bertram +then. As if to make sure that she was "here, like this," he drew her +even closer--Bertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that was +usable. + +Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm +with a contented little sigh. + +"Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to-night that you wanted me, +I came," she said. + +"You darling! That was--" Bertram stopped suddenly. A puzzled frown +showed below the fantastic bandage about his head. "'As soon as,'" he +quoted then scornfully. "Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I +_didn't_ want you?" + +Billy's eyes widened a little. + +"Why, Bertram, dear, don't you see? When you were so troubled that +the picture didn't go well, and I found out it was about me you were +troubled--I--" + +"Well?" Bertram's voice was a little strained. + +"Why, of--of course," stammered Billy, "I couldn't help thinking that +maybe you had found out you _didn't_ want me." + +"_Didn't want you!_" groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. "May I +ask why?" + +Billy blushed. + +"I wasn't quite sure why," she faltered; "only, of course, I thought +of--of Miss Winthrop, you know, or that maybe it was because you didn't +care for _any_ girl, only to paint--oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us," she +broke off wildly, beginning to sob. + +"Pete told you that I didn't care for any girl, only to paint?" demanded +Bertram, angry and mystified. + +"No, no," sobbed Billy, "not that. It was all the others that told +me that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the accident, you know, and he +said--he said--Oh, Bertram, I _can't_ say it! But that's one of the +things that made me know I _could_ come now, you see, because I--I +wouldn't hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any other of those dreadful +things if--if you couldn't ever--p-paint again," finished Billy in an +uncontrollable burst of grief. + +"There, there, dear," comforted Bertram, patting the bronze-gold head +on his breast. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking +about--except the last; but I know there _can't_ be anything that ought +to make you cry like that. As for my not painting again--you didn't +understand Pete, dearie. That was what they were afraid of at +first--that I'd lose my arm; but that danger is all past now. I'm +loads better. Of course I'm going to paint again--and better than ever +before--_now!_" + +Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. +She pulled herself half away from Bertram's encircling arm. + +"Why, Billy," cried the man, in pained surprise. "You don't mean to say +you're _sorry_ I'm going to paint again!" + +"No, no! Oh, no, Bertram--never that!" she faltered, still regarding +him with fearful eyes. "It's only--for _me_, you know. I _can't_ go back +now, and not have you--after this!--even if I do hinder you, and--" + +"_Hinder me!_ What are you talking about, Billy?" + +Billy drew a quivering sigh. + +"Well, to begin with, Kate said--" + +"Good heavens! Is Kate in _this_, too?" Bertram's voice was savage now. + +"Well, she wrote a letter." + +"I'll warrant she did! Great Scott, Billy! Don't you know Kate by this +time?" + +"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." + +"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!" + +Billy giggled hysterically. + +"I don't--not _right_ here," she cooed, nestling comfortably against +her lover's arm. "But you see, dear, she never _has_ approved of the +marriage." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Lose me! Why, Bertram Henshaw, what do you mean?" + +A shamed red crept to the man's forehead. + +"Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scared +blue, Billy, with jealousy of--Arkwright." + +Billy laughed gayly--but she shifted her position and did not meet her +lover's eyes. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Never, dear," she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned +the question on _her_ love instead of Arkwright's!) "There has never +really been any one but you." + +"Thank God for that," breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright head +nearer and held it close. + +After a minute Billy stirred and sighed happily. + +"Aren't lovers the beat'em for imagining things?" she murmured. + +"They certainly are." + +"You see--I wasn't in love with Mr. Arkwright." + +"I see--I hope." + +"And--and you didn't care _specially_ for--for Miss Winthrop?" + +"Eh? Well, no!" exploded Bertram. "Do you mean to say you really--" + +Billy put a soft finger on his lips. + +"Er--'people who live in _glass houses_,' you know," she reminded him, +with roguish eyes. + +Bertram kissed the finger and subsided. + +"Humph!" he commented. + +There was a long silence; then, a little breathlessly, Billy asked: + +"And you don't--after all, love me--just to paint?" + +"Well, what is that? Is that Kate, too?" demanded Bertram, grimly. + +Billy laughed. + +"No--oh, she said it, all right, but, you see, _everybody_ 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." + +"Well, by Jove!" breathed Bertram. + +There was another silence. Then, suddenly, Bertram stirred. + +"Billy, I'm going to marry you to-morrow," he announced decisively. + +Billy lifted her head and sat back in palpitating dismay. + +"Bertram! What an absurd idea!" + +"Well, I am. I don't _know_ as I can trust you out of my sight till +_then!_ 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 _got_ to +wait five days--and maybe more, counting in the notice, and all." + +Billy laughed softly. + +"Five days, indeed, sir! I wonder if you think I can get ready to be +married in five days." + + +"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." + +"But--" + +"Besides, I _need_ you to take care of me," cut in Bertram, craftily. + +"Bertram, do you--really?" + +The tender glow on Billy's face told its own story, and Bertram's eager +eyes were not slow to read it. + +"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. + + +"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." + +Billy rose at once as Aunt Hannah entered the room. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Yes," nodded Billy, demurely. "It's next Tuesday, you see." + +"Next Tuesday! But that's only a week away," gasped Aunt Hannah. + +"Yes, a week." + +"But, child, your trousseau--the wedding--the--the--a week!" Aunt Hannah +could not articulate further. + +"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--" + +But Aunt Hannah was gone. With a low-breathed "Long! Oh, my grief and +conscience--_William!_" she had fled through the hall door. + +"Well, it _is_ long," maintained Bertram, with tender eyes, as he +reached out his hand to say good-night. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Miss Billy's Decision, by Eleanor H. Porter + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS BILLY'S DECISION *** + +***** This file should be named 362.txt or 362.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/362/ + +Produced by Charles Keller + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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