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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”