Miss Billy

E >> Eleanor H. Porter >> Miss Billy


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 nervously.

"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: