Miss Billy by Eleanor H. Porter (page 3)

“And where is Cyril?” asked Mrs. Stetson, coming into the room at that moment.

William stirred restlessly.

“Well, Cyril couldn’t–couldn’t come,” stammered William with an uneasy glance at his brother.

Billy laughed unexpectedly.

“It’s too bad–about Mr. Cyril’s not coming,” she murmured. And again Bertram caught the twinkle in the downcast eyes.

To Bertram the twinkle looked interesting, and worth pursuit; but at the very beginning of the chase Calderwell’s card came up, and that ended–everything, so Bertram declared crossly to himself.

Billy found her dirt to dig in, and her furnace to shake, in Brookline. There were closets, too, and a generous expanse of veranda. They all belonged to a quaint little house perched on the side of Corey Hill. From the veranda in the rear, and from many of the windows, one looked out upon a delightful view of many-hued, many-shaped roofs nestling among towering trees, with the wide sweep of the sky above, and the haze of faraway hills at the horizon.

“In fact, it’s as nearly perfect as it can be–and not take angel- wings and fly away,” declared Billy. “I have named it ‘Hillside.'”

Very early in her career as house-owner, Billy decided that however delightful it might be to have a furnace to shake, it would not be at all delightful to shake it; besides, there was the new motor car to run. Billy therefore sought and found a good, strong man who had not only the muscle and the willingness to shake the furnace, but the skill to turn chauffeur at a moment’s notice. Best of all, this man had also a wife who, with a maid to assist her, would take full charge of the house, and thus leave Billy and Mrs. Stetson free from care. All these, together with a canary, and a kitten as near like Spunk as could be obtained, made Billy’s household.

“And now I’m ready to see my friends,” she announced.

“And I think your friends will be ready to see you,” Bertram assured her.

And they were–at least, so it appeared. For at once the little house perched on the hillside became the Mecca for many of the Henshaws’ friends who had known Billy as William’s merry, eighteen- year-old namesake. There were others, too, whom Billy had met abroad; and there were soft-stepping, sweet-faced old women and an occasional white-whiskered old man–Aunt Hannah’s friends–who found that the young mistress of Hillside was a charming hostess. There were also the Henshaw “boys,” and there was always Calderwell–at least, so Bertram declared to himself sometimes.

Bertram came frequently to the little house on the hill, even more frequently than William; but Cyril was not seen there so often. He came once at first, it is true, and followed Billy from room to room as she proudly displayed her new home. He showed polite interest in her view, and a perfunctory enjoyment of the tea she prepared for him. But he did not come again for some time, and when he did come, he sat stiffly silent, while his brothers did most of the talking.

As to Calderwell–Calderwell seemed suddenly to have lost his interest in impenetrable forests and unclimbable mountains. Nothing more intricate than the long Beacon Street boulevard, or more inaccessible than Corey Hill seemed worth exploring, apparently. According to Calderwell’s own version of it, he had “settled down”; he was going to “be something that was something.” And he did spend sundry of his morning hours in a Boston law office with ponderous, calf-bound volumes spread in imposing array on the desk before him. Other hours–many hours–he spent with Billy.

One day, very soon, in fact, after she arrived in Boston, Billy asked Calderwell about the Henshaws.

“Tell me about them,” she said. “Tell me what they have been doing all these years.”

“Tell you about them! Why, don’t you know?”

She shook her head.

“No. Cyril says nothing. William little more–about themselves; and you know what Bertram is. One can hardly separate sense from nonsense with him.”

“You don’t know, then, how splendidly Bertram has done with his art?”

“No; only from the most casual hearsay. Has he done well then?”

“Finely! The public has been his for years, and now the critics are tumbling over each other to do him honor. They rave about his ‘sensitive, brilliant, nervous touch,’–whatever that may be; his ‘marvelous color sense’; his ‘beauty of line and pose.’ And they quarrel over whether it’s realism or idealism that constitutes his charm.”

“I’m so glad! And is it still the ‘Face of a Girl’?”

“Yes; only he’s doing straight portraiture now as well. It’s got to be quite the thing to be ‘done’ by Henshaw; and there’s many a fair lady that has graciously commissioned him to paint her portrait. He’s a fine fellow, too–a mighty fine fellow. You may not know, perhaps, but three or four years ago he was–well, not wild, but ‘frolicsome,’ he would probably have called it. He got in with a lot of fellows that–well, that weren’t good for a chap of Bertram’s temperament.”

“Like–Mr. Seaver?”

Calderwell turned sharply.

“Did YOU know Seaver?” he demanded in obvious surprise.

“I used to SEE him–with Bertram.”

“Oh! Well, he WAS one of them, unfortunately. But Bertram shipped him years ago.”

Billy gave a sudden radiant smile–but she changed the subject at once.

“And Mr. William still collects, I suppose,” she observed.

“Jove! I should say he did! I’ve forgotten the latest; but he’s a fine fellow, too, like Bertram.”

“And–Mr. Cyril?”

Calderwell frowned.

“That chap’s a poser for me, Billy, and no mistake. I can’t make him out!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. Probably I’m not ‘tuned to his pitch.’ Bertram told me once that Cyril was very sensitively strung, and never responded until a certain note was struck. Well, I haven’t ever found that note, I reckon.”

Billy laughed.

“I never heard Bertram say that, but I think I know what he means; and he’s right, too. I begin to realize now what a jangling discord I must have created when I tried to harmonize with him three years ago! But what is he doing in his music?”

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“Same thing. Plays occasionally, and plays well, too; but he’s so erratic it’s difficult to get him to do it. Everything must be just so, you know–air, light, piano, and audience. He’s got another book out, I’m told–a profound treatise on somebody’s something or other–musical, of course.”

“And he used to write music; doesn’t he do that any more?”

“I believe so. I hear of it occasionally through musical friends of mine. They even play it to me sometimes. But I can’t stand for much of it–his stuff–really, Billy.”

“‘Stuff’ indeed! And why not?” An odd hostility showed in Billy’s eyes.

Again Calderwell shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know. But they’re always dead slow, somber things, with the wail of a lost spirit shrieking through them.”

“But I just love lost spirits that wail,” avowed Billy, with more than a shade of reproach in her voice.

Calderwell stared; then he shook his head.

“Not in mine, thank you;” he retorted whimsically. “I prefer my spirits of a more sane and cheerful sort.”

The girl laughed, but almost instantly she fell silent.

“I’ve been wondering,” she began musingly, after a time, “why some one of those three men does not–marry.”

“You wouldn’t wonder–if you knew them better,” declared Calderwell. “Now think. Let’s begin at the top of the Strata–by the way, Bertram’s name for that establishment is mighty clever! First, Cyril: according to Bertram Cyril hates ‘all kinds of women and other confusion’; and I fancy Bertram hits it about right. So that settles Cyril. Then there’s William–you know William. Any girl would say William was a dear; but William isn’t a MARRYING man. Dad says,”–Calderwell’s voice softened a little–“dad says that William and his young wife were the most devoted couple that he ever saw; and that when she died she seemed to take with her the whole of William’s heart–that is, what hadn’t gone with the baby a few years before. There was a boy, you know, that died.”

“Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, quick tears in her eyes. “Aunt Hannah told me.”

“Well, that counts out William, then,” said Calderwell, with an air of finality.

“But how about Bertram? You haven’t settled Bertram,” laughed Billy, archly.

“Bertram!” Calderwell’s eyes widened. “Billy, can you imagine Bertram’s making love in real earnest to a girl?”

“Why, I–don’t–know; maybe!” Billy tipped her head from side to side as if she were viewing a picture set up for her inspection.

“Well, I can’t. In the first place, no girl would think he was serious; or if by any chance she did, she’d soon discover that it was the turn of her head or the tilt of her chin that he admired– TO PAINT. Now isn’t that so?”

Billy laughed, but she did not answer.

“It is, and you know it,” declared Calderwell. “And that settles him. Now you can see, perhaps, why none of these men–will marry.”

It was a long minute before Billy spoke.

“Not a bit of it. I don’t see it at all,” she declared with roguish merriment. “Moreover, I think that some day, some one of them–will marry, Sir Doubtful!”

Calderwell threw a quick glance into her eyes. Evidently something he saw there sent a swift shadow to his own. He waited a moment, then asked abruptly:

“Billy, WON’T you marry me?”

Billy frowned, though her eyes still laughed.

“Hugh, I told you not to ask me that again,” she demurred.

“And I told you not to ask impossibilities of me,” he retorted imperturbably. “Billy, won’t you, now–seriously? “

“Seriously, no, Hugh. Please don’t let us go all over that again when we’ve done it so many times.”

“No, let’s don’t,” agreed the man, cheerfully. “And we don’t have to, either, if you’ll only say ‘yes,’ now right away, without any more fuss.”

Billy sighed impatiently.

“Hugh, won’t you understand that I’m serious?” she cried; then she turned suddenly, with a peculiar flash in her eyes.

“Hugh, I don’t believe Bertram himself could make love any more nonsensically than you can!”

Calderwell laughed, but he frowned, too; and again he threw into Billy’s face that keenly questioning glance. He said something–a light something–that brought the laugh to Billy’s lips in spite of herself; but he was still frowning when he left the house some minutes later, and the shadow was not gone from his eyes.

CHAPTER XXIII

BERTRAM DOES SOME QUESTIONING

Billy’s time was well occupied. There were so many, many things she wished to do, and so few, few hours in which to do them. First there was her music. She made arrangements at once to study with one of Boston’s best piano teachers, and she also made plans to continue her French and German. She joined a musical club, a literary club, and a more strictly social club; and to numerous church charities and philanthropic enterprises she lent more than her name, giving freely of both time and money.

Friday afternoons, of course, were to be held sacred to the Symphony concerts; and on certain Wednesday mornings there was to be a series of recitals, in which she was greatly interested.

For Society with a capital S, Billy cared little; but for sociability with a small s, she cared much; and very wide she opened her doors to her friends, lavishing upon them a wealth of hospitality. Nor did they all come in carriages or automobiles– these friends. A certain pale-faced little widow over at the South End knew just how good Miss Neilson’s tea tasted on a crisp October afternoon and Marie Hawthorn, a frail young woman who gave music lessons, knew just how restful was Miss Neilson’s couch after a weary day of long walks and fretful pupils.

“But how in the world do you discover them all–these forlorn specimens of humanity?” queried Bertram one evening, when he had found Billy entertaining a freckled-faced messenger-boy with a plate of ice cream and a big square of cake.

“Anywhere–everywhere,” smiled Billy.

“Well, this last candidate for your favor, who has just gone–who’s he?”

“I don’t know, beyond that his name is ‘Tom,’ and that he likes ice cream.”

“And you never saw him before?”

“Never.”

“Humph! One wouldn’t think it, to see his charming air of nonchalant accustomedness.”

“Oh, but it doesn’t take much to make a little fellow like that feel at home,” laughed Billy.

“And are you in the habit of feeding every one who comes to your house, on ice cream and chocolate cake? I thought that stone doorstep of yours was looking a little worn.”

“Not a bit of it,” retorted Billy. “This little chap came with a message just as I was finishing dinner. The ice cream was particularly good to-night, and it occurred to me that he might like a taste; so I gave it to him.”

Bertram raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“Very kind, of course; but–why ice cream?” he questioned. “I thought it was roast beef and boiled potatoes that was supposed to be handed out to gaunt-eyed hunger.”

“It is,” nodded Billy, “and that’s why I think sometimes they’d like ice cream and chocolate frosting. Besides, to give sugar plums one doesn’t have to unwind yards of red tape, or worry about ‘pauperizing the poor.’ To give red flannels and a ton of coal, one must be properly circumspect and consult records and city missionaries, of course; and that’s why it’s such a relief sometimes just to hand over a simple little sugar plum and see them smile.”

For a minute Bertram was silent, then he asked abruptly:

“Billy, why did you leave the Strata?”

Billy was taken quite by surprise. A pink flush spread to her forehead, and her tongue stumbled at first over her reply.

“Why, I–it seemed–you–why, I left to go to Hampden Falls, to be sure. Don’t you remember?” she finished gaily.

“Oh, yes, I remember THAT,” conceded Bertram with disdainful emphasis. “But why did you go to Hampden Falls?”

“Why, it–it was the only place to go–that is, I WANTED to go there,” she corrected hastily. “Didn’t Aunt Hannah tell you that I–I was homesick to get back there?”

“Oh, yes, Aunt Hannah SAID that,” observed the man; “but wasn’t that homesickness a little–sudden?”

Billy blushed pink again.

“Why, maybe; but–well, homesickness is always more or less sudden; isn’t it?” she parried.

Bertram laughed, but his eyes grew suddenly almost tender.

“See here, Billy, you can’t bluff worth a cent,” he declared. “You are much too refreshingly frank for that. Something was the trouble. Now what was it? Won’t you tell me, please?”

Billy pouted. She hesitated and gazed anywhere but into the challenging eyes before her. Then very suddenly she looked straight into them.

“Very well, there WAS a reason for my leaving,” she confessed a little breathlessly. “I–didn’t want to–bother you any more–all of you.”

“Bother us!”

“No. I found out. You couldn’t paint; Mr. Cyril couldn’t play or write; and–and everything was different because I was there. But I didn’t blame you–no, no!” she assured him hastily. “It was only that I–found out.”

“And may I ask HOW you obtained this most extraordinary information?” demanded Bertram, savagely.

Billy shook her head. Her round little chin looked suddenly square and determined.

“You may ask, but I shall not tell,” she declared firmly.

If Bertram had known Billy just a little better he would have let the matter drop there; but he did not know Billy, so he asked:

“Was it anything I did–or said?”

The girl did not answer.

“Billy, was it?” Bertram’s voice showed terror now.

Billy laughed unexpectedly.

“Do you think I’m going to say ‘no’ to a series of questions, and then give the whole thing away by my silence when you come to the right one?” she demanded merrily. “No, sir!”

“Well, anyhow, it wasn’t I, then,” sighed the man in relief; “for you just observed that you were not going to say ‘no to a series of questions’–and that was the first one. So I’ve found out that much, anyhow,” he concluded triumphantly.

The girl eyed him for a moment in silence; then she shook her head.

“I’m not going to be caught that way, either,” she smiled. “You know–just what you did in the first place about it: nothing.”

The man stirred restlessly and pondered. After a long pause he adopted new tactics. With a searching study of her face to note the slightest change, he enumerated:

“Was it Cyril, then? Will? Aunt Hannah? Kate? It couldn’t have been Pete, or Dong Ling!”

Billy still smiled inscrutably. At no name had Bertram detected so much as the flicker of an eyelid; and with a glance half-admiring, half-chagrined, he fell back into his chair.

“I’ll give it up. You’ve won,” he acknowledged. “But, Billy,”– his manner changed suddenly–“I wonder if you know just what a hole you left in the Strata when you went away.”

“But I couldn’t have–in the whole Strata,” objected Billy. “I occupied only one stratum, and a stratum doesn’t go up and down, you know, only across; and mine was the second floor.”

Bertram gave a slow shake of his head.

“I know; but yours was a freak formation,” he maintained gravely. “It DID go up and down. Honestly, Billy, we did care–lots. Will and I were inconsolable, and even Cyril played dirges for a week.”

“Did he?” gurgled Billy, with sudden joyousness. “I’m so glad!”

“Thank you,” murmured Bertram, disapprovingly. “We hadn’t considered it a subject for exultation.”

“What? Oh, I didn’t mean that! That is–” she stopped helplessly.

“Oh, never mind about trying to explain,” interposed Bertram. “I fancy the remedy would be worse than the disease, in this case.”

“Nonsense! I only meant that I like to be missed–sometimes,” retorted Billy, a little nettled.

“And you rejoice then to have me mope, Cyril play dirges, and Will wander mournfully about the house with Spunkie in his arms! You should have seen William. If his forlornness did not bring tears to your eyes, the grace of the pink bow that lopped behind Spunkie’s left ear would surely have brought a copious flow.”

Billy laughed, but her eyes grew tender.

“Did Uncle William do–that?” she asked.

“He did–and he did more. Pete told me after a time that you had not left one thing in the house, anywhere; but one day, over behind William’s most treasured Lowestoft, I found a small shell hairpin, and a flat brown silk button that I recognized as coming from one of your dresses.”

“Oh!” said Billy, softly. “Dear Uncle William–and how good he was to me!”

CHAPTER XXIV

CYRIL, THE ENIGMA

Perhaps it was because Billy saw so little of Cyril that it was Cyril whom she wished particularly to see. William, Bertram, Calderwell–all her other friends came frequently to the little house on the hill, Billy told herself; only Cyril held aloof–and it was Cyril that she wanted.

Billy said that it was his music; that she wanted to hear him play, and that she wanted him to hear her. She felt grieved and chagrined. Not once since she had come had he seemed interested– really interested in her music. He had asked her, it is true, in a perfunctory way what she had done, and who her teachers had been. But all the while she was answering she had felt that he was not listening; that he did not care. And she cared so much! She knew now that all her practising through the long hard months of study, had been for Cyril. Every scale had been smoothed for his ears, and every phrase had been interpreted with his approbation in view. Across the wide waste of waters his face had shone like a star of promise, beckoning her on and on to heights unknown. . . And now she was here in Boston, but she could not even play the scale, nor interpret the phrase for the ear to which they had been so laboriously attuned; and Cyril’s face, in the flesh, was no beckoning star of promise, but was a thing as cold and relentless as was the waste of waters across which it had shone in the past.

Billy did not understand it. She knew, it is true, of Cyril’s reputed aversion to women in general and to noise; but she was neither women in general nor noise, she told herself indignantly. She was only the little maid, grown three years older, who had sat at his feet and adoringly listened to all that he had been pleased to say in the old days at the top of the Strata. And he had been kind then–very kind, Billy declared stoutly. He had been patient and interested, too, and he had seemed not only willing, but glad to teach her, while now–

Sometimes Billy thought she would ask him candidly what was the matter. But it was always the old, frank Billy that thought this; the impulsive Billy, that had gone up to Cyril’s rooms years before and cheerfully announced that she had come to get acquainted. It was never the sensible, circumspect Billy that Aunt Hannah had for three years been shaping and coaxing into being. But even this Billy frowned rebelliously, and declared that sometime something should be said that would at least give him a chance to explain.

In all the weeks since Billy’s purchase of Hillside, Cyril had been there only twice, and it was nearly Thanksgiving now. Billy had seen him once or twice, also, at the Beacon Street house, when she and Aunt Hannah had dined there; but on all these occasions he had been either the coldly reserved guest or the painfully punctilious host. Never had he been in the least approachable.

“He treats me exactly as he treated poor little Spunk that first night,” Billy declared hotly to herself.

Only once since she came had Billy heard Cyril play, and that was when she had shared the privilege with hundreds of others at a public concert. She had sat then entranced, with her eyes on the clean-cut handsome profile of the man who played with so sure a skill and power, yet without a note before him. Afterward she had met him face to face, and had tried to tell him how moved she was; but in her agitation, and because of a strange shyness that had suddenly come to her, she had ended only in stammering out some flippant banality that had brought to his face merely a bored smile of acknowledgment.

Twice she had asked him to play for her; but each time he had begged to be excused, courteously, but decidedly.

“It’s no use to tease,” Bertram had interposed once, with an airy wave of his hands. “This lion always did refuse to roar to order. If you really must hear him, you’ll have to slip up-stairs and camp outside his door, waiting patiently for such crumbs as may fall from his table.”

“Aren’t your metaphors a little mixed?” questioned Cyril irritably.

“Yes, sir,” acknowledged Bertram with unruffled temper. “but I don’t mind if Billy doesn’t. I only meant her to understand that she’d have to do as she used to do–listen outside your door.”

Billy’s cheeks reddened.

“But that is what I sha’n’t do,” she retorted with spirit. “And, moreover, I still have hopes that some day he’ll play to me.”

“Maybe,” conceded Bertram, doubtfully; “if the stool and the piano and the pedals and the weather and his fingers and your ears and my watch are all just right–then he’ll play.”

“Nonsense!” scowled Cyril. “I’ll play, of course, some day. But I’d rather not today.” And there the matter had ended. Since then Billy had not asked him to play.

CHAPTER XXV

THE OLD ROOM–AND BILLY

Thanksgiving was to be a great day in the Henshaw family. The Henshaw brothers were to entertain. Billy and Aunt Hannah had been invited to dinner; and so joyously hospitable was William’s invitation that it would have included the new kitten and the canary if Billy would have consented to bring them.

Once more Pete swept and garnished the house, and once more Dong Ling spoiled uncounted squares of chocolate trying to make the baffling fudge. Bertram said that the entire Strata was a-quiver. Not but that Billy and Aunt Hannah had visited there before, but that this was different. They were to come at noon this time. This visit was not to be a tantalizing little piece of stiffness an hour and a half long. It was to be a satisfying, whole-souled matter of half a day’s comradeship, almost like old times. So once more the roses graced the rooms, and a flaring pink bow adorned Spunkie’s fat neck; and once more Bertram placed his latest “Face of a Girl” in the best possible light. There was still a difference, however, for this time Cyril did not bring any music down to the piano, nor display anywhere a copy of his newest book.

The dinner was to be at three o’clock, but by special invitation the guests were to arrive at twelve; and promptly at the appointed hour they came.

“There, this is something like,” exulted Bertram, when the ladies, divested of their wraps, toasted their feet before the open fire in his den.

“Indeed it is, for now I’ve time to see everything–everything you’ve done since I’ve been gone,” cried Billy, gazing eagerly about her.

“Hm-m; well, THAT wasn’t what I meant,” shrugged Bertram.

“Of course not; but it’s what I meant,” retorted Billy. “And there are other things, too. I expect there are half a dozen new ‘Old Blues’ and black basalts that I want to see; eh, Uncle William?” she finished, smiling into the eyes of the man who had been gazing at her with doting pride for the last five minutes.

“Ho! Will isn’t on teapots now,” quoth Bertram, before his brother had a chance to reply. “You might dangle the oldest ‘Old Blue’ that ever was before him now, and he’d pay scant attention if he happened at the same time to get his eyes on some old pewter chain with a green stone in it.”

Billy laughed; but at the look of genuine distress that came into William’s face, she sobered at once.

“Don’t you let him tease you, Uncle William,” she said quickly. “I’m sure pewter chains with green stones in them sound just awfully interesting, and I want to see them right away now. Come,” she finished, springing to her feet, “take me up-stairs, please, and show them to me.”

William shook his head and said, “No, no!” protesting that what he had were scarcely worth her attention; but even while he talked he rose to his feet and advanced half eagerly, half reluctantly, toward the door.

“Nonsense,” said Billy, fondly, as she laid her hand on his arm. “I know they are very much worth seeing. Come!” And she led the way from the room. “Oh, oh!” she exclaimed a few moments later, as she stood before a small cabinet in one of William’s rooms. “Oh, oh, how pretty!”

“Do you like them? I thought you would,” triumphed William, quick joy driving away the anxious fear in his eyes. “You see, I–I thought of you when I got them–every one of them. I thought you’d like them. But I haven’t very many, yet, of course. This is the latest one.” And he tenderly lifted from its black velvet mat a curious silver necklace made of small, flat, chain-linked disks, heavily chased, and set at regular intervals with a strange, blue- green stone.

Billy hung above it enraptured.

“Oh, what a beauty! And this, I suppose, is Bertram’s ‘pewter chain’! ‘Pewter,’ indeed!” she scoffed. “Tell me, Uncle William, where did you get it?”

And uncle William told, happily, thirstily, drinking in Billy’s evident interest with delight. There were, too, a quaintly-set ring and a cat’s-eye brooch; and to each belonged a story which William was equally glad to tell. There were other treasures, also: buckles, rings, brooches, and necklaces, some of dull gold, some of equally dull silver; but all of odd design and curious workmanship, studded here and there with bits of red, green, yellow, blue, and flame-colored stones. Very learnedly then from William’s lips fell the new vocabulary that had come to him with his latest treasures: chrysoprase, carnelian, girasol, onyx, plasma, sardonyx, lapis lazuli, tourmaline, chrysolite, hyacinth, and carbuncle.

“They are lovely, perfectly lovely!” breathed Billy, when the last chain had slipped through her fingers into William’s hand. “I think they are the very nicest things you ever collected.”

“So do I,” agreed the man, emphatically. “And they are–different, too.”

“They are,” said Billy, “very–different.” But she was not looking at the jewelry: her eyes were on a small shell hairpin and a brown silk button half hidden behind a Lowestoft teapot.

On the way down-stairs William stopped a moment at Billy’s old rooms.

“I wish you were here now,” he said wistfully. “They’re all ready for you–these rooms.”

“Oh, but why don’t you use them?–such pretty rooms!” cried Billy, quickly.

William gave a gesture of dissent.

“We have no use for them; besides, they belong to you and Aunt Hannah. You left your imprint long ago, my dear–we should not feel at home in them.”

“Oh, but you should! You mustn’t feel like that!” objected Billy, hurriedly crossing the room to the window to hide a sudden nervousness that had assailed her. “And here’s my piano, too, and open!” she finished gaily, dropping herself upon the piano stool and dashing into a brilliant mazourka.

Billy, like Cyril, had a way of working off her moods at her finger tips; and to-day the tripping notes and crashing chords told of a nervous excitement that was not all joy. From the doorway William watched her flying fingers with fond pride, and it was very reluctantly that he acceded to Pete’s request to go down-stairs for a moment to settle a vexed question concerning the table decorations.

Billy, left alone, still played, but with a difference. The tripping notes slowed into a weird melody that rose and fell and lost itself in the exquisite harmony that had been born of the crashing chords. Billy was improvising now, and into her music had crept something of her old-time longing when she had come to that house a lonely, orphan girl, in search of a home. On and on she played; then with a discordant note, she suddenly rose from the piano. She was thinking of Kate, and wondering if, had Kate not “managed” the little room would still be home.

So swiftly did Billy cross to the door that the man on the stairs outside had not time to get quite out of sight. Billy did not see his face, however; she saw only a pair of gray-trousered legs disappearing around the curve of the landing above. She thought nothing of it until later when dinner was announced, and Cyril came down-stairs; then she saw that he, and he only, that afternoon wore trousers of that particular shade of gray.

The dinner was a great success. Even the chocolate fudge in the little cut glass bonbon dishes was perfect; and it was a question whether Pete or Dong Ling tried the harder to please.

After dinner the family gathered in the drawing-room and chatted pleasantly. Bertram displayed his prettiest and newest pictures, and Billy played and sung–bright, tuneful little things that she knew Aunt Hannah and Uncle William liked. If Cyril was pleased or displeased, he did not show it–but Billy had ceased to play for Cyril’s ears. She told herself that she did not care; but she did wonder: was that Cyril on the stairs, and if so–what was he doing there?

CHAPTER XXVI

“MUSIC HATH CHARMS”

Two days after Thanksgiving Cyril called at Hillside.

“I’ve come to hear you play,” he announced abruptly.

Billy’s heart sung within her–but her temper rose. Did he think then that he had but to beckon and she would come–and at this late day, she asked herself. Aloud she said:

“Play? But this is ‘so sudden’! Besides, you have heard me.”

The man made a disdainful gesture.

“Not that. I mean play–really play. Billy, why haven’t you played to me before?”

Billy’s chin rose perceptibly.

“Why haven’t you asked me?” she parried.

To Billy’s surprise the man answered this with calm directness.

“Because Calderwell said that you were a dandy player, and I don’t care for dandy players.”

Billy laughed now.

“And how do you know I’m not a dandy player, Sir Impertinent?” she demanded.

“Because I’ve heard you–when you weren’t.”

“Thank you,” murmured Billy.

Cyril shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, you know very well what I mean,” he defended. “I’ve heard you; that’s all.”

“When?”

“That doesn’t signify.”

Billy was silent for a moment, her eyes gravely studying his face. Then she asked:

“Were you long–on that stairway?”

“Eh? What? Oh!” Cyril’s forehead grew suddenly pink. “Well?” he finished a little aggressively.

“Oh, nothing,” smiled the girl. “Of course people who live in glass houses must not throw stones.”

“Very well then, I did listen,” acknowledged the man, testily. “I liked what you were playing. I hoped, down-stairs later, that you’d play it again; but you didn’t. I came to-day to hear it.”

Again Billy’s heart sung within her–but again her temper rose, too.

“I don’t think I feel like it,” she said sweetly, with a shake of her head. “Not to-day.”

For a brief moment Cyril stared frowningly; then his face lighted with his rare smile.

“I’m fairly checkmated,” he said, rising to his feet and going straight to the piano.

For long minutes he played, modulating from one enchanting composition to another, and finishing with the one “all chords with big bass notes” that marched on and on–the one Billy had sat long ago on the stairs to hear.

“There! Now will you play for me?” he asked, rising to his feet, and turning reproachful eyes upon her.

Billy, too, rose to her feet. Her face was flushed and her eyes were shining. Her lips quivered with emotion. As was always the case, Cyril’s music had carried her quite out of herself.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she sighed. “You don’t know–you can’t know how beautiful it all is–to me!”

“Thank you. Then surely now you’ll play to me,” he returned.

A look of real distress came to Billy’s face.

“But I can’t–not what you heard the other day,” she cried remorsefully. “You see, I was–only improvising.”

Cyril turned quickly.

“Only improvising! Billy, did you ever write it down–any of your improvising?”

An embarrassed red flew to Billy’s face.

“Not–not that amounted to–well, that is, some–a little,” she stammered.

“Let me see it.”

“No, no, I couldn’t–not YOU!”

Again the rare smile lighted Cyril’s eyes.

“Billy, let me see that paper–please.”

Very slowly the girl turned toward the music cabinet. She hesitated, glanced once more appealingly into Cyril’s face, then with nervous haste opened the little mahogany door and took from one of the shelves a sheet of manuscript music. But, like a shy child with her first copy book, she held it half behind her back as she came toward the piano.

“Thank you,” said Cyril as he reached far out for the music. The next moment he seated himself again at the piano.

Twice he played the little song through carefully, slowly.

“Now, sing it,” he directed.

Falteringly, in a very faint voice, and with very many breaths taken where they should not have been taken, Billy obeyed.

“When we want to show off your song, Billy, we won’t ask you to sing it,” observed the man, dryly, when she had finished.

Billy laughed and dimpled into a blush.

“When I want to show off my song I sha’n’t be singing it to you for the first time,” she pouted.

Cyril did not answer. He was playing over and over certain harmonies in the music before him.

“Hm-m; I see you’ve studied your counterpoint to some purpose,” he vouchsafed, finally; then: “Where did you get the words?”

The girl hesitated. The flush had deepened on her face.

“Well, I–” she stopped and gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’m like the small boy who made the toys. ‘I got them all out of my own head, and there’s wood enough to make another.'”

“Hm-m; indeed!” grunted the man. “Well, have you made any others?”

“One–or two, maybe.”

“Let me see them, please.”

“I think–we’ve had enough–for today,” she faltered.

“I haven’t. Besides, if I could have a couple more to go with this, it would make a very pretty little group of songs.”

“‘To go with this’! What do you mean?”

“To the publishers, of course.”

“The PUBLISHERS!”

“Certainly. Did you think you were going to keep these songs to yourself?”

“But they aren’t worth it! They can’t be–good enough!” Unbelieving joy was in Billy’s voice.

“No? Well, we’ll let others decide that,” observed Cyril, with a shrug. “All is, if you’ve got any more wood–like this–I advise you to make it up right away.”

“But I have already!” cried the girl, excitedly. “There are lots of little things that I’ve–that is, there are–some,” she corrected hastily, at the look that sprang into Cyril’s eyes.

“Oh, there are,” laughed Cyril. “Well, we’ll see what–” But he did not see. He did not even finish his sentence; for Billy’s maid, Rosa, appeared just then with a card.

“Show Mr. Calderwell in here,” said Billy. Cyril said nothing– aloud; which was well. His thoughts, just then, were better left unspoken.

CHAPTER XXVII

MARIE, WHO LONGS TO MAKE PUDDINGS

Wonderful days came then to Billy. Four songs, it seemed, had been pronounced by competent critics decidedly “worth it”–unmistakably “good enough”; and they were to be brought out as soon as possible.

“Of course you understand,” explained Cyril, “that there’s no ‘hit’ expected. Thank heaven they aren’t that sort! And there’s no great money in it, either. You’d have to write a masterpiece like ‘She’s my Ju-Ju Baby’ or some such gem to get the ‘hit’ and the money. But the songs are fine, and they’ll take with cultured hearers. We’ll get them introduced by good singers, of course, and they’ll be favorites soon for the concert stage, and for parlors.”

Billy saw a good deal of Cyril now. Already she was at work rewriting and polishing some of her half-completed melodies, and Cyril was helping her, by his interest as well as by his criticism. He was, in fact, at the house very frequently–too frequently, indeed, to suit either Bertram or Calderwell. Even William frowned sometimes when his cozy chats with Billy were interrupted by Cyril’s appearing with a roll of new music for her to “try”; though William told himself that he ought to be thankful if there was anything that could make Cyril more companionable, less reserved and morose. And Cyril WAS different–there was no disputing that. Calderwell said that he had come “out of his shell”; and Bertram told Billy that she must have “found his note and struck it good and hard.”

Billy was very happy. To the little music teacher, Marie Hawthorn, she talked more freely, perhaps, than she did to any one else.

“It’s so wonderful, Marie–so wonderfully wonderful,” she said one day, “to sit here in my own room and sing a little song that comes from somewhere, anywhere, out of the sky itself. Then by and by, that little song will fly away, away, over land and sea; and some day it will touch somebody’s heart just as it has touched mine. Oh, Marie, is it not wonderful?”

“It is, dear–and it is not. Your songs could not help reaching somebody’s heart. There’s nothing wonderful in that.”

“Sweet flatterer!”

“But I mean it. They are beautiful; and so is–Mr. Henshaw’s music.”

“Yes, it is,” murmured Billy, abstractedly.

There was a long pause, then Marie asked with shy hesitation:

“Do you think, Miss Billy–that he would care? I listened yesterday when he was playing to you. I was up here in your room, but when I heard the music I–I went out, on the stairs and sat down. Was it very–bad of me?”

Billy laughed happily.

“If it was, he can’t say anything,” she reassured her. “He’s done the same thing himself–and so have I.”

“HE has done it!”

“Yes. It was at his home last Thanksgiving. It was then that he found out–about my improvising.”

“Oh-h!” Marie’s eyes were wistful. “And he cares so much now for your music!”

“Does he? Do you think he does?” demanded Billy.

“I know he does–and for the one who makes it, too.”

“Nonsense!” laughed Billy, with pinker cheeks. “It’s the music, not the musician, that pleases him. Mr. Cyril doesn’t like women.”

“He doesn’t like women!”

“No. But don’t look so shocked, my dear. Every one who knows Mr. Cyril knows that.”

“But I don’t think–I believe it,” demurred Marie, gazing straight into Billy’s eyes. “I’m sure I don’t believe it.”

Under the little music teacher’s steady gaze Billy flushed again. The laugh she gave was an embarrassed one, but through it vibrated a pleased ring.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and moving restlessly about the room. With the next breath she had changed the subject to one far removed from Mr. Cyril and his likes and dislikes.

Some time later Billy played, and it was then that Marie drew a long sigh.

“How beautiful it must be to play–like that,” she breathed.

“As if you, a music teacher, could not play!” laughed Billy.

“Not like that, dear. You know it is not like that.”

Billy frowned.

“But you are so accurate, Marie, and you can read at sight so rapidly!”

“Oh, yes, like a little machine, I know!” scorned the usually gentle Marie, bitterly. “Don’t they have a thing of metal that adds figures like magic? Well, I’m like that. I see g and I play g; I see d and I play d; I see f and I play f; and after I’ve seen enough g’s and d’s and f’s and played them all, the thing is done. I’ve played.”

“Why, Marie! Marie, my dear!” The second exclamation was very tender, for Marie was crying.

“There! I knew I should some day have it out–all out,” sobbed Marie. “I felt it coming.”

“Then perhaps you’ll–you’ll feel better now,” stammered Billy. She tried to say more–other words that would have been a real comfort; but her tongue refused to speak them. She knew so well, so woefully well, how very wooden and mechanical the little music teacher’s playing always had been. But that Marie should realize it herself like this–the tragedy of it made Billy’s heart ache. At Marie’s next words, however, Billy caught her breath in surprise.

“But you see it wasn’t music–it wasn’t ever music that I wanted– to do,” she confessed.

“It wasn’t music! But what–I don’t understand,” murmured Billy.

“No, I suppose not,” sighed the other. “You play so beautifully yourself.”

“But I thought you loved music.”

“I do. I love it dearly–in others. But I can’t–I don’t want to make it myself.”

“But what do you want to do?”

Marie laughed suddenly.

“Do you know, my dear, I have half a mind to tell you what I do like to do–just to make you stare.”

“Well?” Billy’s eyes were wide with interest.

“I like best of anything to–darn stockings and make puddings.”

“Marie!”

“Rank heresy, isn’t it?” smiled Marie, tearfully. “But I do, truly. I love to weave the threads evenly in and out, and see a big hole close. As for the puddings I don’t mean the common bread- and-butter kind, but the ones that have whites of eggs and fruit, and pretty quivery jellies all ruby and amber lights, you know.”

“You dear little piece of domesticity,” laughed Billy. “Then why in the world don’t you do these things?”

“I can’t, in my own kitchen; I can’t afford a kitchen to do them in. And I just couldn’t do them–right along–in other people’s kitchens.”

“But why do you–play?”

“I was brought up to it. You know we had money once, lots of it,” sighed Marie, as if she were deploring a misfortune. “And mother was determined to have me musical. Even then, as a little tot, I liked pudding-making, and after my mud-pie days I was always begging mother to let me go down into the kitchen, to cook. But she wouldn’t allow it, ever. She engaged the most expensive masters and set me practising, always practising. I simply had to learn music; and I learned it like the adding machine. Then afterward, when father died, and then mother, and the money flew away, why, of course I had to do something, so naturally I turned to the music. It was all I could do. But–well, you know how it is, dear. I teach, and teach well, perhaps, so far as the mechanical part goes; but as for the rest–I am always longing for a cozy corner with a basket of stockings to mend, or a kitchen where there is a pudding waiting to be made.”

“You poor dear!” cried Billy. “I’ve a pair of stockings now that needs attention, and I’ve been just longing for one of your ‘quivery jellies all ruby and amber lights’ ever since you mentioned them. But–well, is there anything I could do to help?”

“Nothing, thank you,” sighed Marie, rising wearily to her feet, and covering her eyes with her hand for a moment. “My head aches shockingly, but I’ve got to go this minute and instruct little Jennie Knowls how to play the wonderful scale of G with a black key in it. Besides, you do help me, you have helped me, you are always helping me, dear,” she added remorsefully; “and it’s wicked of me to make that shadow come to your eyes. Please don’t think of it, or of me, any more.” And with a choking little sob she hurried from the room, followed by the amazed, questioning, sorrowful eyes of Billy.

CHAPTER XXVIII

“I’M GOING TO WIN”

Nearly all of Billy’s friends knew that Bertram Henshaw was in love with Billy Neilson before Billy herself knew it. Not that they regarded it as anything serious–“it’s only Bertram” was still said of him on almost all occasions. But to Bertram himself it was very serious.

The world to Bertram, indeed, had come to assume a vastly different aspect from what it had displayed in times past. Heretofore it had been a plaything which like a juggler’s tinsel ball might be tossed from hand to hand at will. Now it was no plaything–no glittering bauble. It was something big and serious and splendid–because Billy lived in it; something that demanded all his powers to do, and be–because Billy was watching; something that might be a Hades of torment or an Elysium of bliss–according to whether Billy said “no” or “yes.”

Since Thanksgiving Bertram had known that it was love–this consuming fire within him; and since Thanksgiving he had known, too, that it was jealousy–this fierce hatred of Calderwell. He was ashamed of the hatred. He told himself that it was unmanly, unkind, and unreasonable; and he vowed that he would overcome it. At times he even fancied that he had overcome it; but always the sight of Calderwell in Billy’s little drawing-room or of even the man’s card on Billy’s silver tray was enough to show him that he had not.

There were others, too, who annoyed Bertram not a little, foremost of these being his own brothers. Still he was not really worried about William and Cyril, he told himself. William he did not consider to be a marrying man; and Cyril–every one knew that Cyril was a woman-hater. He was doubtless attracted now only by Billy’s music. There was no real rivalry to be feared from William and Cyril. But there was always Calderwell, and Calderwell was serious. Bertram decided, therefore, after some weeks of feverish unrest, that the only road to peace lay through a frank avowal of his feelings, and a direct appeal to Billy to give him the great boon of her love.

Just here, however, Bertram met with an unexpected difficulty. He could not find words with which to make his avowal or to present his appeal. He was surprised and annoyed. Never before had he been at a loss for words–mere words. And it was not that he lacked opportunity. He walked, drove, and talked with Billy, and always she was companionable, attentive to what he had to say. Never was she cold or reserved. Never did she fail to greet him with a cheery smile.

Bertram concluded, indeed, after a time, that she was too companionable, too cheery. He wished she would hesitate, stammer, blush; be a little shy. He wished that she would display surprise, annoyance, even–anything but that eternal air of comradeship. And then, one afternoon in the early twilight of a January day, he freed his mind, quite unexpectedly.

“Billy, I wish you WOULDN’T be so–so friendly!” he exclaimed in a voice that was almost sharp.

Billy laughed at first, but the next moment a shamed distress drove the merriment quite out of her face.

“You mean that I presume on–on our friendship?” she stammered. “That you fear that I will again–shadow your footsteps?” It was the first time since the memorable night itself that Billy had ever in Bertram’s presence referred to her young guardianship of his welfare. She realized now, suddenly, that she had just been giving the man before her some very “sisterly advice,” and the thought sent a confused red to her cheeks.

Bertram turned quickly.

“Billy, that was the dearest and loveliest thing a girl ever did– only I was too great a chump to appreciate it!” finished Bertram in a voice that was not quite steady.

“Thank you,” smiled the girl, with a slow shake of her head and a relieved look in her eyes; “but I’m afraid I can’t quite agree to that.” The next moment she had demanded mischievously: “Why, then, pray, this unflattering objection to my–friendliness now?”

“Because I don’t want you for a friend, or a sister, or anything else that’s related,” stormed Bertram, with sudden vehemence. “I don’t want you for anything but–a wife! Billy, WON’T you marry me?”

Again Billy laughed–laughed until she saw the pained anger leap to the gray eyes before her; then she became grave at once.

“Bertram, forgive me. I didn’t think you could–you can’t be– serious!”

“But I am.”

Billy shook her head.

“But you don’t love me–not ME, Bertram. It’s only the turn of my head or–or the tilt of my chin that you love–to paint,” she protested, unconsciously echoing the words Calderwell had said to her weeks before. “I’m only another ‘Face of a Girl.'”

“You’re the only ‘Face of a girl’ to me now, Billy,” declared the man, with disarming tenderness.

“No, no, not that,” demurred Billy, in distress. “You don’t mean it. You only think you do. It couldn’t be that. It can’t be!”

“But it is, dear. I think I have loved you ever since that night long ago when I saw your dear, startled face appealing to me from beyond Seaver’s hateful smile. And, Billy, I never went once with Seaver again–anywhere. Did you know that?”

“No; but–I’m glad–so glad!”

“And I’m glad, too. So you see, I must have loved you then, though unconsciously, perhaps; and I love you now.”

“No, no, please don’t say that. It can’t be–it really can’t be. I–I don’t love you–that way, Bertram.”

The man paled a little.

“Billy–forgive me for asking, but it’s so much to me–is it that there is–some one else?” His voice shook.

“No, no, indeed! There is no one.”

“It’s not–Calderwell?”

Billy’s forehead grew pink. She laughed nervous1y.

“No, no, never!”

“But there are others, so many others!”

“Nonsense, Bertram; there’s no one–no one, I assure you!”

“It’s not William, of course, nor Cyril. Cyril hates women.”

A deeper flush came to Billy’s face. Her chin rose a little; and an odd defiance flashed from her eyes. But almost instantly it was gone, and a slow smile had come to her lips.

“Yes, I know. Every one–says that Cyril hates women,” she observed demurely.

“Then, Billy, I sha’n’t give up!” vowed Bertram, softly. “Sometime you WILL love me!”

“No, no, I couldn’t. That is, I’m not going to–to marry,” stammered Billy.

“Not going to marry!”

“No. There’s my music–you know how I love that, and how much it is to me. I don’t think there’ll ever be a man–that I’ll love better.”

Bertram lifted his head. Very slowly he rose till his splendid six feet of clean-limbed strength and manly beauty towered away above the low chair in which Billy sat. His mouth showed new lines about the corners, and his eyes looked down very tenderly at the girl beside him; but his voice, when he spoke, had a light whimsicality that deceived even Billy’s ears.

“And so it’s music–a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paper–that is my only rival,” he cried. “Then I’ll warn you, Billy, I’ll warn you. I’m going to win!” And with that he was gone.

CHAPTER XXIX

“I’M NOT GOING TO MARRY”

Billy did not know whether to be more amazed or amused at Bertram’s proposal of marriage. She was vexed; she was very sure of that. To marry Bertram? Absurd! . . . Then she reflected that, after all, it was only Bertram, so she calmed herself.

Still, it was annoying. She liked Bertram, she had always liked him. He was a nice boy, and a most congenial companion. He never bored her, as did some others; and he was always thoughtful of cushions and footstools and cups of tea when one was tired. He was, in fact, an ideal friend, just the sort she wanted; and it was such a pity that he must spoil it all now with this silly sentimentality! And of course he had spoiled it all. There was no going back now to their old friendliness. He would be morose or silly by turns, according to whether she frowned or smiled; or else he would take himself off in a tragic sort of way that was very disturbing. He had said, to be sure, that he would “win.” Win, indeed! As if she could marry Bertram! When she married, her choice would fall upon a man, not a boy; a big, grave, earnest man to whom the world meant something; a man who loved music, of course; a man who would single her out from all the world, and show to her, and to her only, the depth and tenderness of his love; a man who–but she was not going to marry, anyway, remembered Billy, suddenly. And with that she began to cry. The whole thing was so “tiresome,” she declared, and so “absurd.”

Billy rather dreaded her next meeting with Bertram. She feared– she knew not what. But, as it turned out, she need not have feared anything, for he met her tranquilly, cheerfully, as usual; and he did nothing and said nothing that he might not have done and said before that twilight chat took place.

Billy was relieved. She concluded that, after all, Bertram was going to be sensible. She decided that she, too, would be sensible. She would accept him on this, his chosen plane, and she would think no more of his “nonsense.”

Billy threw herself then even more enthusiastically into her beloved work. She told Marie that after all was said and done, there could not be any man that would tip the scales one inch with music on the other side. She was a little hurt, it is true, when Marie only laughed and answered:

“But what if the man and the music both happen to be on the same side, my dear; what then?”

Marie’s voice was wistful, in spite of the laugh–so wistful that it reminded Billy of their conversation a few weeks before.

“But it is you, Marie, who want the stockings to darn and the puddings to make,” she retorted playfully. “Not I! And, do you know? I believe I shall turn matchmaker yet, and find you a man; and the chiefest of his qualifications shall be that he’s wretchedly hard on his hose, and that he adores puddings.”

“No, no, Miss Billy, don’t, please!” begged the other, in quick terror. “Forget all I said the other day; please do! Don’t tell– anybody!”

She was so obviously distressed and frightened that Billy was puzzled.

“There, there, ’twas only a jest, of course,” she soothed her. “But, really Marie, it is the dear, domestic little mouse like yourself that ought to be somebody’s wife–and that’s the kind men are looking for, too.”

Marie gave a slow shake of her head.

“Not the kind of man that is somebody, that does something,” she objected; “and that’s the only kind I could–love. HE wants a wife that is beautiful and clever, that can do things like himself–LIKE HIMSELF!” she iterated feverishly.

Billy opened wide her eyes.

“Why, Marie, one would think–you already knew–such a man,” she cried.

The little music teacher changed her position, and turned her eyes away.

“I do, of course,” she retorted in a merry voice, “lots of them. Don’t you? Come, we’ve discussed my matrimonial prospects quite long enough,” she went on lightly. “You know we started with yours. Suppose we go back to those.”

“But I haven’t any,” demurred Billy, as she turned with a smile to greet Aunt Hannah, who had just entered the room. “I’m not going to marry; am I, Aunt Hannah?”

“Er–what? Marry? My grief and conscience, what a question, Billy! Of course you’re going to marry–when the time comes!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah.

Billy laughed and shook her head vigorously. But even as she opened her lips to reply, Rosa appeared and announced that Mr. Calderwell was waiting down-stairs. Billy was angry then, for after the maid was gone, the merriment in Aunt Hannah’s laugh only matched that in Marie’s–and the intonation was unmistakable.

“Well, I’m not!” declared Billy with pink cheeks and much indignation, as she left the room. And as if to convince herself, Marie, Aunt Hannah, and all the world that such was the case, she refused Calderwell so decidedly that night when he, for the half- dozenth time, laid his hand and heart at her feet, that even Calderwell himself was convinced–so far as his own case was concerned–and left town the next day.

Bertram told Aunt Hannah afterward that he understood Mr. Calderwell had gone to parts unknown. To himself Bertram shamelessly owned that the more “unknown” they were, the better he himself would be pleased.

CHAPTER XXX

MARIE FINDS A FRIEND

It was on a very cold January afternoon, and Cyril was hurrying up the hill toward Billy’s house, when he was startled to see a slender young woman sitting on a curbstone with her head against an electric-light post. He stopped abruptly.

“I beg your pardon, but–why, Miss Hawthorn! It is Miss Hawthorn; isn’t it?”

Under his questioning eyes the girl’s pale face became so painfully scarlet that in sheer pity the man turned his eyes away. He thought he had seen women blush before, but he decided now that he had not.

“I’m sure–haven’t I met you at Miss Neilson’s? Are you ill? Can’t I do something for you?” he begged.

“Yes–no–that is, I AM Miss Hawthorn, and I’ve met you at Miss Neilson’s,” stammered the girl, faintly. “But there isn’t anything, thank you, that you can do–Mr. Henshaw. I stopped to– rest.”

The man frowned.

“But, surely–pardon me, Miss Hawthorn, but I can’t think it your usual custom to choose an icy curbstone for a resting place, with the thermometer down to zero. You must be ill. Let me take you to Miss Neilson’s.”

“No, no, thank you,” cried the girl, struggling to her feet, the vivid red again flooding her face. “I have a lesson–to give.”

“Nonsense! You’re not fit to give a lesson. Besides, they are all folderol, anyway, half of them. A dozen lessons, more or less, won’t make any difference; they’ll play just as well–and just as atrociously. Come, I insist upon taking you to Miss Neilson’s.”

“No, no, thank you! I really mustn’t. I–” She could say no more. A strong, yet very gentle hand had taken firm hold of her arm in such a way as half to support her. A force quite outside of herself was carrying her forward step by step–and Miss Hawthorn was not used to strong, gentle hands, nor yet to a force quite outside of herself. Neither was she accustomed to walk arm in arm with Mr. Cyril Henshaw to Miss Billy’s door. When she reached there her cheeks were like red roses for color, and her eyes were like the stars for brightness. Yet a minute later, confronted by Miss Billy’s astonished eyes, the stars and the roses fled, and a very white-faced girl fell over in a deathlike faint in Cyril Henshaw’s arms.

Marie was put to bed in the little room next to Billy’s, and was peremptorily hushed when faint remonstrance was made. The next morning, white-faced and wide-eyed, she resolutely pulled herself half upright, and announced that she was all well and must go home– home to Marie was a six-by-nine hall bed-room in a South End lodging house.

Very gently Billy pushed her back on the pillow and laid a detaining hand on her arm.

“No, dear. Now, please be sensible and listen to reason. You are my guest. You did not know it, perhaps, for I’m afraid the invitation got a little delayed. But you’re to stay–oh, lots of weeks.”

“I–stay here? Why, I can’t–indeed, I can’t,” protested Marie.

“But that isn’t a bit of a nice way to accept an invitation,” disapproved Billy. “You should say, ‘Thank you, I’d be delighted, I’m sure, and I’ll stay.'”

In spite of herself the little music teacher laughed, and in the laugh her tense muscles relaxed.

“Miss Billy, Miss Billy, what is one to do with you? Surely you know–you must know that I can’t do what you ask!”

“I’m sure I don’t see why not,” argued Billy. “I’m merely giving you an invitation and all you have to do is to accept it.”

“But the invitation is only the kind way your heart has of covering another of your many charities,” objected Marie; “besides, I have to teach. I have my living to earn.”

“But you can’t,” demurred the other. “That’s just the trouble. Don’t you see? The doctor said last night that you must not teach again this winter.”

“Not teach–again–this winter! No, no, he could not be so cruel as that!”

“It wasn’t cruel, dear; it was kind. You would be ill if you attempted it. Now you’ll get better. He says all you need is rest and care–and that’s exactly what I mean my guest shall have.”

Quick tears came to the sick girl’s eyes.

“There couldn’t be a kinder heart than yours, Miss Billy,” she murmured, “but I couldn’t–I really couldn’t be a burden to you like this. I shall go to some hospital.”

“But you aren’t going to be a burden. You are going to be my friend and companion.”

“A companion–and in bed like this?”

“Well, THAT wouldn’t be impossible,” smiled Billy; “but, as it happens you won’t have to put that to the test, for you’ll soon be up and dressed. The doctor says so. Now surely you will stay.”

There was a long pause. The little music teacher’s eyes had left Billy’s face and were circling the room, wistfully lingering on the hangings of filmy lace, the dainty wall covering, and the exquisite water colors in their white-and-gold frames. At last she drew a deep sigh.

“Yes, I’ll stay,” she breathed rapturously; “but–you must let me help.”

“Help? Help what?”

“Help you; your letters, your music-copying, your accounts– anything, everything. And if you don’t let me help,”–the music teacher’s voice was very stern now–“if you don’t let me help, I shall go home just–as–soon–as–I–can–walk!”

“Dear me!” dimpled Billy. “And is that all? Well, you shall help, and to your heart’s content, too. In fact, I’m not at all sure that I sha’n’t keep you darning stockings and making puddings all the time,” she added mischievously, as she left the room.

Miss Hawthorn sat up the next day. The day following, in one of Billy’s “fluttery wrappers,” as she called them, she walked all about the room. Very soon she was able to go down-stairs, and in an astonishingly short time she fitted into the daily life as if she had always been there. She was, moreover, of such assistance to Billy that even she herself could see the value of her work; and so she stayed, content.

The little music teacher saw a good deal of Billy’s friends then, particularly of the Henshaw brothers; and very glad was Billy to see the comradeship growing between them. She had known that William would be kind to the orphan girl, but she had feared that Marie would not understand Bertram’s nonsense or Cyril’s reserve. But very soon Bertram had begged, and obtained, permission to try to reproduce on canvas the sheen of the fine, fair hair, and the veiled bloom of the rose-leaf skin that were Marie’s greatest charms; and already Cyril had unbent from his usual stiffness enough to play to her twice. So Billy’s fears on that score were at an end.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE ENGAGEMENT OF ONE

Many times during those winter days Billy thought of Marie’s words: “But what if the man and the music both happen to be on the same side?” They worried her, to some extent, and, curiously, they pleased and displeased her at the same time.

She told herself that she knew very well, of course, what Marie meant: it was Cyril; he was the man, and the music. But was Cyril beginning to care for her; and did she want him to? Very seriously one day Billy asked herself these questions; very calmly she argued the matter in her mind–as was Billy’s way.

She was proud, certainly, of what her influence had apparently done for Cyril. She was gratified that to her he was showing the real depth and beauty of his nature. It WAS flattering to feel that she, and only she, had thus won the regard of a professional woman- hater. Then, besides all this, there was his music–his glorious music. Think of the bliss of living ever with that! Imagine life with a man whose soul would be so perfectly attuned to hers that existence would be one grand harmony! Ah, that, truly, would be the ideal marriage! But she had planned not to marry. Billy frowned now, and tapped her foot nervously. It was, indeed, most puzzling–this question, and she did not want to make a mistake. Then, too, she did not wish to wound Cyril. If the dear man HAD come out of his icy prison, and were reaching out timid hands to her for her help, her interest, her love–the tragedy of it, if he met with no response! . . . . This vision of Cyril with outstretched hands, and of herself with cold, averted eyes was the last straw in the balance with Billy. She decided suddenly that she did care for Cyril–a little; and that she probably could care for him a great deal. With this thought, Billy blushed–already in her own mind she was as good as pledged to Cyril.

It was a great change for Billy–this sudden leap from girlhood and irresponsibility to womanhood and care; but she took it fearlessly, resolutely. If she was to be Cyril’s wife she must make herself fit for it–and in pursuance of this high ideal she followed Marie into the kitchen the very next time the little music teacher went out to make one of her dainty desserts that the family liked so well.

“I’ll just watch, if you don’t mind,” announced Billy.

“Why, of course not,” smiled Marie, “but I thought you didn’t like to make puddings.”

“I don’t,” owned Billy, cheerfully.

“Then why this–watchfulness?”

“Nothing, only I thought it might be just as well if I knew how to make them. You know how Cyril–that is, ALL the Henshaw boys like every kind you make.”

The egg in Marie’s hand slipped from her fingers and crashed untidily on the shelf. With a gleeful laugh Billy welcomed the diversion. She had not meant to speak so plainly. It was one thing to try to fit herself to be Cyril’s wife, and quite another to display those efforts so openly before the world.

The pudding was made at last, but Marie proved to be a nervous teacher. Her hand shook, and her memory almost failed her at one or two critical points. Billy laughingly said that it must be stage fright, owing to the presence of herself as spectator; and with this Marie promptly, and somewhat effusively, agreed.

So very busy was Billy during the next few days, acquiring her new domesticity, that she did not notice how little she was seeing of Cyril. Then she suddenly realized it, and asked herself the reason for it. Cyril was at the house certainly, just as frequently as he had been; but she saw that a new shyness in herself had developed which was causing her to be restless in his presence, and was leading her to like better to have Marie or Aunt Hannah in the room when he called. She discovered, too, that she welcomed William, and even Bertram, with peculiar enthusiasm–if they happened to interrupt a tete-a-tete with Cyril.

Billy was disturbed at this. She told herself that this shyness was not strange, perhaps, inasmuch as her ideas in regard to love and marriage had undergone so abrupt a change; but it must be overcome. If she was to be Cyril’s wife, she must like to be with him–and of course she really did like to be with him, for she had enjoyed his companionship very much during all these past weeks. She set herself therefore, now, determinedly to cultivating Cyril.

It was then that Billy made a strange and fearsome discovery: there were some things about Cyril that she did–not–like!

Billy was inexpressibly shocked. Heretofore he had been so high, so irreproachable, so god-like!–but heretofore he had been a friend. Now he was appearing in a new role–though unconsciously, she knew. Heretofore she had looked at him with eyes that saw only the delightful and marvelous unfolding of a coldly reserved nature under the warmth of her own encouraging smile. Now she looked at him with eyes that saw only the possibilities of that same nature when it should have been unfolded in a lifelong companionship. And what she saw frightened her. There was still the music–she acknowledged that; but it had come to Billy with overwhelming force that music, after all, was not everything. The man counted, as well. Very frankly then Billy stated the case to herself.

“What passes for ‘fascinating mystery’ in him now will be plain moroseness–sometime. He is ‘taciturn’ now; he’ll be–cross, then. It is ‘erratic’ when he won’t play the piano to-day; but a few years from now, when he refuses some simple request of mine, it will be–stubbornness. All this it will be–if I don’t love him; and I don’t. I know I don’t. Besides, we aren’t really congenial. I like people around; he doesn’t. I like to go to plays; he doesn’t. He likes rainy days; I abhor them. There is no doubt of it–life with him would not be one grand harmony; it would be one jangling discord. I simply cannot marry him. I shall have to break the engagement!

Billy spoke with regretful sorrow. It was evident that she grieved to bring pain to Cyril. Then suddenly the gloom left her face: she had remembered that the “engagement” was just three weeks old–and was a profound secret, not only to the bridegroom elect, but to all the world as well–save herself!

Billy was very happy after that. She sang about the house all day, and she danced sometimes from room to room, so light were her feet and her heart. She made no more puddings with Marie’s supervision, but she was particularly careful to have the little music teacher or Aunt Hannah with her when Cyril called. She made up her mind, it is true, that she had been mistaken, and that Cyril did not love her; still she wished to be on the safe side, and she became more and more averse to being left alone with him for any length of time.

CHAPTER XXXII

CYRIL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY

Long before spring Billy was forced to own to herself that her fancied security from lovemaking on the part of Cyril no longer existed. She began to suspect that there was reason for her fears. Cyril certainly was “different.” He was more approachable, less reserved, even with Marie and Aunt Hannah. He was not nearly so taciturn, either, and he was much more gracious about his playing. Even Marie dared to ask him frequently for music, and he never refused her request. Three times he had taken Billy to some play that she wanted to see, and he had invited Marie, too, besides Aunt Hannah, which had pleased Billy very much. He had been at the same time so genial and so gallant that Billy had declared to Marie afterward that he did not seem like himself at all, but like some one else.

Marie had disagreed with her, it is true, and had said stiffly:

“I’m sure I thought he seemed very much like himself.” But that had not changed Billy’s opinion at all.

To Billy’s mind, nothing but love could so have softened the stern Cyril she had known. She was, therefore, all the more careful these days to avoid a tete-a-tete with him, though she was not always successful, particularly owing to Marie’s unaccountable perverseness in so often having letters to write or work to do, just when Billy most wanted her to make a safe third with herself and Cyril. It was upon such an occasion, after Marie had abruptly left them alone together, that Cyril had observed, a little sharply:

“Billy, I wish you wouldn’t say again what you said ten minutes ago when Miss Marie was here.”

“What was that?”

A very silly reference to that old notion that you and every one else seem to have that I am a ‘woman-hater.'”

Billy’s heart skipped a beat. One thought, pounded through her brain and dinned itself into her ears–at all costs Cyril must not be allowed to say that which she so feared; he must be saved from himself.

“Woman-hater? Why, of course you’re a woman-hater,” she cried merrily. “I’m sure, I–I think it’s lovely to be a woman-hater.”

The man opened wide his eyes; then he frowned angrily.

“Nonsense, Billy, I know better. Besides, I’m in earnest, and I’m not a woman-hater.”

“Oh, but every one says you are,” chattered Billy. “And, after all, you know it IS distinguishing!”

With a disdainful exclamation the man sprang to his feet. For a time he paced the room in silence, watched by Billy’s fearful eyes; then he came back and dropped into the low chair at Billy’s side. His whole manner had undergone a complete change. He was almost shamefaced as he said:

“Billy, I suppose I might as well own up. I don’t think I did think much of women until I saw–you.”

Billy swallowed and wet her lips. She tried to speak; but before she could form the words the man went on with his remarks; and Billy did not know whether to be the more relieved or frightened thereat.

“But you see now it’s different. That’s why I don’t like to sail any longer under false colors. There’s been a change–a great and wonderful change that I hardly understand myself.”

“That’s it! You don’t understand it, I’m sure,” interposed Billy, feverishly. “It may not be such a change, after all. You may be deceiving yourself,” she finished hopefully.

The man sighed.

“I can’t wonder you think so, of course,” he almost groaned. “I was afraid it would be like that. When one’s been painted black all one’s life, it’s not easy to change one’s color, of course.”

“Oh, but I didn’t say that black wasn’t a very nice color,” stammered Billy, a little wildly.

“Thank you.” Cyril’s heavy brows rose and fell the fraction of an inch. “Still, I must confess that just now I should prefer another shade.”

He paused, and Billy cast distractedly about in her mind for a simple, natural change of subject. She had just decided to ask him what he thought of the condition of the Brittany peasants, when he questioned abruptly, and in a voice that was not quite steady:

“Billy, what should you say if I should tell you that the avowed woman-hater had strayed so far from the prescribed path as to–to like one woman well enough as to want to–marry her?”

The word was like a match to the gunpowder of Billy’s fears. Her self-control was shattered instantly into bits.

“Marry? No, no, you wouldn’t–you couldn’t really be thinking of that,” she babbled, growing red and white by turns. “Only think how a wife would–would b-bother you!”

“Bother me? When I loved her?”

“But just think–remember! She’d want cushions and rugs and curtains, and you don’t like them; and she’d always be talking and laughing when you wanted quiet; and she–she’d want to drag you out to plays and parties and–and everywhere. Indeed, Cyril, I’m sure you’d never like a wife–long!” Billy stopped only because she had no breath with which to continue.

Cyril laughed a little grimly.

“You don’t draw a very attractive picture, Billy. Still, I’m not afraid. I don’t think this particular–wife would do any of those things–to trouble me.”

“Oh, but you don’t know, you can’t tell,” argued the girl. “Besides, you have had so little experience with women that you’d just be sure to make a mistake at first. You want to look around very carefully–very carefully, before you decide.”

“I have looked around, and very carefully, Billy. I know that in all the world there is just one woman for me.”

Billy struggled to her feet. Mingled pain and terror looked from her eyes. She began to speak wildly, incoherently. She wondered afterward just what she would have said if Aunt Hannah had not come into the room at that moment and announced that Bertram was at the door to take her for a sleigh-ride if she cared to go.

“Of course she’ll go,” declared Cyril, promptly, answering for her. “It is time I was off anyhow.” To Billy, he said in a low voice: “You haven’t been very encouraging, little girl–in fact, you’ve been mighty discouraging. But some day–some other day, I’ll try to make clear to you–many things.”

Billy greeted Bertram very cordially. It was such a relief–his cheery, genial companionship! The air, too, was bracing, and all the world lay under a snow-white blanket of sparkling purity. Everything was so beautiful, so restful!

It was not surprising, perhaps, that the very frankness of Billy’s joy misled Bertram a little. His blood tingled at her nearness, and his eyes grew deep and tender as he looked down at her happy face. But of all the eager words that were so near his lips, not one reached the girl’s ears until the good-byes were said; then wistfully Bertram hazarded:

“Billy, don’t you think, sometimes, that I’m gaining–just a little on that rival of mine–that music?”

Billy’s face clouded. She shook her head gently.

“Bertram, please don’t–when we’ve had such a beautiful hour together,” she begged. “It troubles me. If you do, I can’t go– again.”

“But you shall go again,” cried Bertram, bravely smiling straight into her eyes. “And there sha’n’t ever anything in the world trouble you, either–that I can help!”

CHAPTER XXXIII

WILLIAM IS WORRIED

Billy’s sleigh-ride had been due to the kindness of a belated winter storm that had surprised every one the last of March. After that, March, as if ashamed of her untoward behavior, donned her sweetest smiles and “went out” like the proverbial lamb. With the coming of April, and the stirring of life in the trees, Billy, too, began to be restless; and at the earliest possible moment she made her plans for her long anticipated “digging in the dirt.”

Just here, much to her surprise, she met with wonderful assistance from Bertram. He seemed to know just when and where and how to dig, and he displayed suddenly a remarkable knowledge of landscape gardening. (That this knowledge was as recent in its acquirement as it was sudden in its display, Billy did not know.) Very learnedly he talked of perennials and annuals; and without hesitation he made out a list of flowering shrubs and plants that would give her a “succession of bloom throughout the season.” His words and phrases smacked loudly of the very newest florists’ catalogues, but Billy did not notice that. She only wondered at the seemingly exhaustless source of his wisdom.

“I suspect ‘twould have been better if we’d begun things last fall,” he told her frowningly one day. “But there’s plenty we can do now anyway; and we’ll put in some quick-growing things, just for this season, until we can get the more permanent things established.”

And so they worked together, studying, scheming, ordering plants and seeds, their two heads close together above the gaily colored catalogues. Later there was the work itself to be done, and though strong men did the heavier part, there was yet plenty left for Billy’s eager fingers–and for Bertram’s. And if sometimes in the intimacy of seed-sowing and plant-setting, the touch of the slenderer fingers sent a thrill through the browner ones, Bertram made no sign. He was careful always to be the cheerful, helpful assistant–and that was all.

Billy, it is true, was a little disturbed at being quite so much with Bertram. She dreaded a repetition of some such words as had been uttered at the end of the sleigh-ride. She told herself that she had no right to grieve Bertram, to make it hard for him by being with him; but at the very next breath, she could but question; did she grieve him? Was it hard for him to have her with him? Then she would glance at his eager face and meet his buoyant smile–and answer “no.” After that, for a time, at least, her fears would be less.

Systematically Billy avoided Cyril these days. She could not forget his promise to make many things clear to her some day. She thought she knew what he meant–that he would try to convince her (as she had tried to convince herself) that she would make a good wife for him.

Billy was very sure that if Cyril could be prevented from speaking his mind just now, his mind would change in time; hence her determination to give his mind that opportunity.

Billy’s avoidance of Cyril was the more easily accomplished because she was for a time taking a complete rest from her music. The new songs had been finished and sent to the publishers. There was no excuse, therefore, for Cyril’s coming to the house on that score; and, indeed, he seemed of his own accord to be making only infrequent visits now. Billy was pleased, particularly as Marie was not there to play third party. Marie had taken up her teaching again, much to Billy’s distress.

“But I can’t stay here always, like this,” Marie had protested.

“But I should like to keep you!” Billy had responded, with no less decision.

Marie had been firm, however, and had gone, leaving the little house lonely without her.

Aside from her work in the garden Billy as resolutely avoided Bertram as she did Cyril. It was natural, therefore, that at this crisis she should turn to William with a peculiar feeling of restfulness. He, at least, would be safe, she told herself. So she frankly welcomed his every appearance, sung to him, played to him, and took long walks with him to see some wonderful bracelet or necklace that he had discovered in a dingy little curio-shop.

William was delighted. He was very fond of his namesake, and he had secretly chafed a little at the way his younger brothers had monopolized her attention. He was rejoiced now that she seemed to be turning to him for companionship; and very eagerly he accepted all the time she could give him.

William had, in truth, been growing more and more lonely ever since Billy’s brief stay beneath his roof years before. Those few short weeks of her merry presence had shown him how very forlorn the