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Miss Billy Married
E >> Eleanor H. Porter >> Miss Billy Married Pages: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 Scanned by Charles Keller with
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MISS BILLY--
MARRIED
BY
ELEANOR H. PORTER
AUTHOR OF
POLLYANNA, Etc.
TO
My Cousin Maud
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. SOME OPINIONS AND A WEDDING
II. FOR WILLIAM--A HOME
III. BILLY SPEAKS HER MIND
IV. JUST LIKE BILLY
V. TIGER SKINS
VI. ``THE PAINTING LOOK''
VII. THE BIG BAD QUARREL
VIII. BILLY CULTIVATES A COMFORTABLE INDIFFERENCE''
IX. THE DINNER BILLY TRIED TO GET
X. THE DINNER BILLY GOT
XI. CALDERWELL DOES SOME QUESTIONING
XII. FOR BILLY--SOME ADVICE
XIII. PETE
XIV. WHEN BERTRAM CAME HOME
XV. AFTER THE STORM
XVI. INTO TRAINING FOR MARY ELLEN
XVII. THE EFFICIENCY STAR--AND BILLY
XVIII. BILLY TRIES HER HAND AT ``MANAGING''
XIX. A TOUGH NUT TO CRACK FOR CYRIL
XX. ARKWRIGHT'S EYES ARE OPENED
XXI. BILLY TAKES HER TURN AT QUESTIONING
XXII. A DOT AND A DIMPLE
XXIII. BILLY AND THE ENORMOUS RESPONSIBILITY
XXIV. A NIGHT OFF
XXV. ``SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT''
XXVI. GHOSTS THAT WALKED FOR BERTRAM
XXVII. THE MOTHER--THE WIFE
XXVIII. CONSPIRATORS
XXIX. CHESS
XXX. BY A BABY'S HAND
Miss Billy--Married
----
CHAPTER I
SOME OPINIONS AND A WEDDING
``I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,'' chanted the
white-robed clergyman.
`` `I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,' '' echoed the
tall young bridegroom, his eyes gravely tender.
``To my wedded wife.''
`` `To my wedded wife.' '' The bridegroom's
voice shook a little.
``To have and to hold from this day forward.''
`` `To have and to hold from this day
forward.' '' Now the young voice rang with
triumph. It had grown strong and steady.
``For better for worse.''
`` `For better for worse.' ''
``For richer for poorer,'' droned the clergyman,
with the weariness of uncounted repetitions.
`` `For richer for poorer,' '' avowed the
bridegroom, with the decisive emphasis of one to
whom the words are new and significant.
``In sickness and in health.''
`` `In sickness and in health.' ''
``To love and to cherish.''
`` `To love and to cherish.' '' The younger
voice carried infinite tenderness now.
``Till death us do part.''
`` `Till death us do part,' '' repeated the
bridegroom's lips; but everybody knew that what his
heart said was: ``Now, and through all eternity.''
``According to God's holy ordinance.''
`` `According to God's holy ordinance.' ''
``And thereto I plight thee my troth.''
`` `And thereto I plight thee my troth.' ''
There was a faint stir in the room. In one
corner a white-haired woman blinked tear-wet
eyes and pulled a fleecy white shawl more closely
about her shoulders. Then the minister's voice
sounded again.
``I, Billy, take thee, Bertram.''
`` `I, Billy, take thee, Bertram.' ''
This time the echoing voice was a feminine one,
low and sweet, but clearly distinct, and vibrant
with joyous confidence, on through one after another
of the ever familiar, but ever impressive
phrases of the service that gives into the hands
of one man and of one woman the future happiness,
each of the other.
The wedding was at noon. That evening Mrs.
Kate Hartwell, sister of the bridegroom, wrote
the following letter:
BOSTON, July 15th.
``MY DEAR HUSBAND:--Well, it's all over
with, and they're married. I couldn't do one
thing to prevent it. Much as ever as they would
even listen to what I had to say--and when
they knew how I had hurried East to say it, too,
with only two hours' notice!
``But then, what can you expect? From time
immemorial lovers never did have any sense;
and when those lovers are such irresponsible
flutterbudgets as Billy and Bertram--!
``And such a wedding! I couldn't do anything
with _that_, either, though I tried hard. They had
it in Billy's living-room at noon, with nothing
but the sun for light. There was no maid of honor,
no bridesmaids, no wedding cake, no wedding
veil, no presents (except from the family, and from
that ridiculous Chinese cook of brother William's,
Ding Dong, or whatever his name is. He tore in
just before the wedding ceremony, and insisted
upon seeing Billy to give her a wretched little
green stone idol, which he declared would bring
her `heap plenty velly good luckee' if she
received it before she `got married.' I wouldn't
have the hideous, grinning thing around, but
William says it's real jade, and very valuable, and
of course Billy was crazy over it--or pretended
to be). There was no trousseau, either, and no
reception. There was no anything but the bridegroom;
and when I tell you that Billy actually
declared that was all she wanted, you will understand
how absurdly in love she is--in spite of all
those weeks and weeks of broken engagement
when I, at least, supposed she had come to her
senses, until I got that crazy note from Bertram
a week ago saying they were to be married today.
``I can't say that I've got any really
satisfactory explanation of the matter. Everything has
been in such a hubbub, and those two ridiculous
children have been so afraid they wouldn't be
together every minute possible, that any really
rational conversation with either of them was out
of the question. When Billy broke the engagement
last spring none of us knew why she had done
it, as you know; and I fancy we shall be almost
as much in the dark as to why she has--er--mended
it now, as you might say. As near as I
can make out, however, she thought he didn't
want her, and he thought she didn't want him. I
believe matters were still further complicated by
a girl Bertram was painting, and a young fellow
that used to sing with Billy--a Mr. Arkwright.
``Anyhow, things came to a head last spring,
Billy broke the engagement and fled to parts unknown
with Aunt Hannah, leaving Bertram here
in Boston to alternate between stony despair and
reckless gayety, according to William; and it was
while he was in the latter mood that he had that
awful automobile accident and broke his arm--
and almost his neck. He was wildly delirious,
and called continually for Billy.
``Well, it seems Billy didn't know all this;
but a week ago she came home, and in some way
found out about it, I think through Pete--William's
old butler, you know. Just exactly what
happened I can't say, but I do know that she
dragged poor old Aunt Hannah down to Bertram's
at some unearthly hour, and in the rain;
and Aunt Hannah couldn't do a thing with her.
All Billy would say, was, `Bertram wants me.'
And Aunt Hannah told me that if I could have
seen Billy's face I'd have known that she'd have
gone to Bertram then if he'd been at the top of
the Himalaya Mountains, or at the bottom of the
China Sea. So perhaps it's just as well--for
Aunt Hannah's sake, at least--that he was in
no worse place than on his own couch at home.
Anyhow, she went, and in half an hour they
blandly informed Aunt Hannah that they were
going to be married to-day.
``Aunt Hannah said she tried to stop that, and
get them to put it off till October (the original
date, you know), but Bertram was obdurate.
And when he declared he'd marry her the next
day if it wasn't for the new license law, Aunt
Hannah said she gave up for fear he'd get a special
dispensation, or go to the Governor or the President,
or do some other dreadful thing. (What a
funny old soul Aunt Hannah is!) Bertram told
_me_ that he should never feel safe till Billy was
really his; that she'd read something, or hear
something, or think something, or get a letter
from me (as if anything _I_ could say would do
any good-or harm!), and so break the engagement
again.
``Well, she's his now, so I suppose he's
satisfied; though, for my part, I haven't changed my
mind at all. I still say that they are not one bit
suited to each other, and that matrimony will
simply ruin his career. Bertram never has loved
and never will love any girl long--except to
paint. But if he simply _would_ get married, why
couldn't he have taken a nice, sensible domestic
girl that would have kept him fed and
mended?
``Not but that I'm very fond of Billy, as you
know, dear; but imagine Billy as a wife--worse
yet, a mother! Billy's a dear girl, but she knows
about as much of real life and its problems as--
as our little Kate. A more impulsive, irresponsible,
regardless-of-consequences young woman I
never saw. She can play divinely, and write
delightful songs, I'll acknowledge; but what is that
when a man is hungry, or has lost a button?
``Billy has had her own way, and had everything
she wanted for years now--a rather dangerous
preparation for marriage, especially marriage
to a fellow like Bertram who has had _his_
own way and everything _he's_ wanted for years.
Pray, what's going to happen when those ways
conflict, and neither one gets the thing wanted?
``And think of her ignorance of cooking--but,
there! What's the use? They're married now,
and it can't be helped.
``Mercy, what a letter I've written! But I,
had to talk to some one; besides, I'd promised I
to let you know how matters stood as soon as I
could. As you see, though, my trip East has been
practically useless. I saw the wedding, to be
sure, but I didn't prevent it, or even postpone
it--though I meant to do one or the other, else
I should never have made that tiresome journey
half across the continent at two hours' notice.
``However, we shall see what we shall see. As
for me, I'm dead tired. Good night.
``Affectionately yours,
``KATE.''
Quite naturally, Mrs. Kate Hartwell was not
the only one who was thinking that evening of
the wedding. In the home of Bertram's brother
Cyril, Cyril himself was at the piano, but where
his thoughts were was plain to be seen--or
rather, heard; for from under his fingers there
came the Lohengrin wedding march until all the
room seemed filled with the scent of orange
blossoms, the mistiness of floating veils, and the
echoing peals of far-away organs heralding the
``Fair Bride and Groom.''
Over by the table in the glowing circle of the
shaded lamp, sat Marie, Cyril's wife, a dainty
sewing-basket by her side. Her hands, however,
lay idly across the stocking in her lap.
As the music ceased, she drew a long sigh.
What a perfectly beautiful wedding that
was! she breathed.
Cyril whirled about on the piano stool.
``It was a very sensible wedding,'' he said with
emphasis.
``They looked so happy--both of them,''
went on Marie, dreamily; ``so--so sort of above
and beyond everything about them, as if nothing
ever, ever could trouble them--_now_.''
Cyril lifted his eyebrows.
``Humph! Well, as I said before, it was a very
_sensible_ wedding,'' he declared.
This time Marie noticed the emphasis. She
laughed, though her eyes looked a little troubled.
``I know, dear, of course, what you mean. _I_
thought our wedding was beautiful; but I would
have made it simpler if I'd realized in time how
you--you--''
``How I abhorred pink teas and purple
pageants,'' he finished for her, with a frowning
smile. ``Oh, well, I stood it--for the sake of
what it brought me.'' His face showed now only
the smile; the frown had vanished. For a man
known for years to his friends as a ``hater of
women and all other confusion,'' Cyril Henshaw
was looking remarkably well-pleased with himself.
His wife of less than a year colored as she
met his gaze. Hurriedly she picked up her
needle.
The man laughed happily at her confusion.
``What are you doing? Is that my stocking?''
he demanded.
A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her
face.
``Why, Cyril, of course not! You--you told
me not to, long ago. You said my darns made--
bunches.
``Ho! I meant I didn't want to _wear_ them,''
retorted the man, upon whom the tragic wretchedness
of that half-sobbed ``bunches'' had been
quite lost. ``I love to see you _mending_ them,''
he finished, with an approving glance at the
pretty little picture of domesticity before him.
A peculiar expression came to Marie's eyes.
Why, Cyril, you mean you _like_ to have me
mend them just for--for the sake of seeing me
do it, when you _know_ you won't ever wear
them?''
``Sure!'' nodded the man, imperturbably.
Then, with a sudden laugh, he asked: ``I wonder
now, does Billy love to mend socks?''
Marie smiled, but she sighed, too, and shook
her head.
``I'm afraid not, Cyril.''
``Nor cook?''
Marie laughed outright this time. The vaguely
troubled look had fled from her eyes
``Oh, Billy's helped me beat eggs and butter
sometimes, but I never knew her to cook a thing
or want to cook a thing, but once; then she
spent nearly two weeks trying to learn to make
puddings--for you.''
``For _me!_''
Marie puckered her lips queerly.
``Well, I supposed they were for you at the
time. At all events she was trying to make them
for some one of you boys; probably it was really
for Bertram, though.''
``Humph!'' grunted Cyril. Then, after a
minute, he observed: ``I judge Kate thinks
Billy'll never make them--for anybody. I'm
afraid Sister Kate isn't pleased.''
``Oh, but Mrs. Hartwell was--was disappointed
in the wedding,'' apologized Marie,
quickly. ``You know she wanted it put off
anyway, and she didn't like such a simple one.
``Hm-m; as usual Sister Kate forgot it wasn't
her funeral--I mean, her wedding,'' retorted
Cyril, dryly. ``Kate is never happy, you know,
unless she's managing things.''
``Yes, I know,'' nodded Marie, with a frowning
smile of recollection at certain features of her own
wedding.
``She doesn't approve of Billy's taste in guests,
either,'' remarked Cyril, after a moment's silence.
``I thought her guests were lovely,'' spoke up
Marie, in quick defense. ``Of course, most of
her social friends are away--in July; but Billy
is never a society girl, you know, in spite of the
way Society is always trying to lionize her and
Bertram.''
``Oh, of course Kate knows that; but she says
it seems as if Billy needn't have gone out and
gathered in the lame and the halt and the blind.''
``Nonsense!'' cried Marie, with unusual sharpness
for her. ``I suppose she said that just because
of Mrs. Greggory's and Tommy Dunn's
crutches.''
``Well, they didn't make a real festive-looking
wedding party, you must admit,'' laughed Cyril;
``what with the bridegroom's own arm in a sling,
too! But who were they all, anyway?''
``Why, you knew Mrs. Greggory and Alice, of
course--and Pete,'' smiled Marie. ``And wasn't
Pete happy? Billy says she'd have had Pete if
she had no one else; that there wouldn't have
been any wedding, anyway, if it hadn't been for
his telephoning Aunt Hannah that night.''
``Yes; Will told me.''
``As for Tommy and the others--most of
them were those people that Billy had at her
home last summer for a two weeks' vacation--
people, you know, too poor to give themselves
one, and too proud to accept one from ordinary
charity. Billy's been following them up and
doing little things for them ever since--sugarplums
and frosting on their cake, she calls it; and they
adore her, of course. I think it was lovely of her
to have them, and they did have such a good
time! You should have seen Tommy when you
played that wedding march for Billy to enter the
room. His poor little face was so transfigured
with joy that I almost cried, just to look at him.
Billy says he loves music--poor little fellow!''
``Well, I hope they'll be happy, in spite of
Kate's doleful prophecies. Certainly they looked
happy enough to-day,'' declared Cyril, patting a
yawn as he rose to his feet. ``I fancy Will and
Aunt Hannah are lonesome, though, about now,''
he added.
``Yes,'' smiled Marie, mistily, as she gathered
up her work. ``I know what Aunt Hannah's
doing. She's helping Rosa put the house to
rights, and she's stopping to cry over every slipper
and handkerchief of Billy's she finds. And she'll
do that until that funny clock of hers strikes
twelve, then she'll say `Oh, my grief and
conscience--midnight!' But the next minute she'll
remember that it's only half-past eleven, after
all, and she'll send Rosa to bed and sit patting
Billy's slipper in her lap till it really is midnight
by all the other clocks.''
Cyril laughed appreciatively.
``Well, I know what Will is doing,'' he declared.
``Will is in Bertram's den dozing before the
fireplace with Spunkie curled up in his lap.''
As it happened, both these surmises were not
far from right. In the Strata, the Henshaws' old
Beacon Street home, William was sitting before
the fireplace with the cat in his lap, but he was
not dozing. He was talking.
``Spunkie,'' he was saying, ``your master,
Bertram, got married to-day--and to Miss
Billy. He'll be bringing her home one of these
days--your new mistress. And such a mistress!
Never did cat or house have a better!
``Just think; for the first time in years this old
place is to know the touch of a woman's hand
--and that's what it hasn't known for almost
twenty years, except for those few short months
six years ago when a dark-eyed girl and a little
gray kitten (that was Spunk, your predecessor,
you know) blew in and blew out again before we
scarcely knew they were here. That girl was
Miss Billy, and she was a dear then, just as she is
now, only now she's coming here to stay. She's
coming home, Spunkie; and she'll make it a
home for you, for me, and for all of us. Up to
now, you know, it hasn't really been a home, for
years--just us men, so. It'll be very different,
Spunkie, as you'll soon find out. Now mind,
madam! We must show that we appreciate all
this: no tempers, no tantrums, no showing of
claws, no leaving our coats--either yours or
mine--on the drawing-room chairs, no tracking
in of mud on clean rugs and floors! For we're
going to have a home, Spunkie--a home!''
At Hillside, Aunt Hannah was, indeed, helping
Rosa to put the house to rights, as Marie had
said. She was crying, too, over a glove she had
found on Billy's piano; but she was crying over
something else, also. Not only had she lost Billy,
but she had lost her home.
To be sure, nothing had been said during that
nightmare of a week of hurry and confusion about
Aunt Hannah's future; but Aunt Hannah knew
very well how it must be. This dear little house
on the side of Corey Hill was Billy's home, and
Billy would not need it any longer. It would be
sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go
back to a ``second-story front'' and loneliness in
some Back Bay boarding-house; and a second
story front and loneliness would not be easy now,
after these years of home--and Billy.
No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat
crying and patting the little white glove in her
hand. No wonder, too, that--being Aunt Hannah--
she reached for the shawl near by and
put it on, shiveringly. Even July, to-night, was
cold--to Aunt Hannah.
In yet another home that evening was the
wedding of Billy Neilson and Bertram Henshaw
uppermost in thought and speech. In a certain
little South-End flat where, in two rented rooms,
lived Alice Greggory and her crippled mother,
Alice was talking to Mr. M. J. Arkwright,
commonly known to his friends as ``Mary Jane,''
owing to the mystery in which he had for so long
shrouded his name.
Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill
at ease.
``You're not listening. You're not listening at
all,'' complained Alice Greggory at last, reproachfully.
With a visible effort the man roused himself.
``Indeed I am,'' he maintained.
``I thought you'd be interested in the
wedding. You used to be friends--you and Billy.''
The girl's voice still vibrated with reproach.
There was a moment's silence; then, a little
harshly, the man said:
``Perhaps--because I wanted to be more
than--a friend--is why you're not satisfied with
my interest now.''
A look that was almost terror came to Alice
Greggory's eyes. She flushed painfully, then
grew very white.
``You mean--''
``Yes,'' he nodded dully, without looking up.
``I cared too much for her. I supposed Henshaw
was just a friend--till too late.''
There was a breathless hush before, a little
unsteadily, the girl stammered:
``Oh, I'm so sorry--so very sorry! I--I
didn't know.''
``No, of course you didn't. I've almost told
you, though, lots of times; you've been so good
to me all these weeks.'' He raised his head now,
and looked at her, frank comradeship in his
eyes.
The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes swerved
a little under his level gaze.
``Oh, but I've done nothing--n-nothing,'' she
stammered. Then, at the light tap of crutches
on a bare floor she turned in obvious relief.
``Oh, here's mother. She's been in visiting with
Mrs. Delano, our landlady. Mother, Mr. Arkwright
is here.''
Meanwhile, speeding north as fast as steam
could carry them, were the bride and groom.
The wondrousness of the first hour of their journey
side by side had become a joyous certitude
that always it was to be like this now.
``Bertram,'' began the bride, after a long
minute of eloquent silence.
``Yes, love.''
``You know our wedding was very different
from most weddings.''
``Of course it was!''
``Yes, but _really_ it was. Now listen.'' The
bride's voice grew tenderly earnest. ``I think
our marriage is going to be different, too.''
``Different?''
``Yes.'' Billy's tone was emphatic. ``There
are so many common, everyday marriages where
--where-- Why, Bertram, as if you could ever
be to me like--like Mr. Carleton is, for instance!''
``Like Mr. Carleton is--to you?'' Bertram's
voice was frankly puzzled.
``No, no! As Mr. Carleton is to Mrs. Carleton,
I mean.''
``Oh!'' Bertram subsided in relief.
``And the Grahams and Whartons, and the
Freddie Agnews, and--and a lot of others.
Why, Bertram, I've seen the Grahams and the
Whartons not even speak to each other a whole
evening, when they've been at a dinner, or
something; and I've seen Mrs. Carleton not even
seem to know her husband came into the room.
I don't mean quarrel, dear. Of course we'd never
_quarrel!_ But I mean I'm sure we shall never
get used to--to you being you, and I being I.''
``Indeed we sha'n't,'' agreed Bertram, rapturously.
``Ours is going to be such a beautiful marriage!''
``Of course it will be.''
``And we'll be so happy!''
``I shall be, and I shall try to make you so.''
``As if I could be anything else,'' sighed Billy,
blissfully. ``And now we _can't_ have any
misunderstandings, you see.''
``Of course not. Er--what's that?''
``Why, I mean that--that we can't ever repeat
hose miserable weeks of misunderstanding.
Everything is all explained up. I _know_, now,
that you don't love Miss Winthrop, or just girls
--any girl--to paint. You love me. Not the
tilt of my chin, nor the turn of my head; but
_me_.''
``I do--just you.'' Bertram's eyes gave the
caress his lips would have given had it not been
for the presence of the man in the seat across the
aisle of the sleeping-car.
``And you--you know now that I love you
--just you?''
``Not even Arkwright?''
``Not even Arkwright,'' smiled Billy.
There was the briefest of hesitations; then, a
little constrainedly, Bertram asked:
``And you said you--you never _had_ cared for
Arkwright, didn't you?''
For the second time in her life Billy was
thankful that Bertram's question had turned upon _her_
love for Arkwright, not Arkwright's love for her.
In Billy's opinion, a man's unrequited love for a
girl was his secret, not hers, and was certainly
one that the girl had no right to tell. Once
before Bertram had asked her if she had ever
cared for Arkwright, and then she had answered
emphatically, as she did now:
``Never, dear.''
``I thought you said so,'' murmured Bertram,
relaxing a little.
``I did; besides, didn't I tell you?'' she went
on airily, ``I think he'll marry Alice Greggory.
Alice wrote me all the time I was away, and--
oh, she didn't say anything definite, I'll admit,''
confessed Billy, with an arch smile; ``but she
spoke of his being there lots, and they used to
know each other years ago, you see. There was
almost a romance there, I think, before the
Greggorys lost their money and moved away from all
their friends.''
``Well, he may have her. She's a nice girl--
a mighty nice girl,'' answered Bertram, with the
unmistakably satisfied air of the man who knows
he himself possesses the nicest girl of them all.
Billy, reading unerringly the triumph in his
voice, grew suddenly grave. She regarded her
husband with a thoughtful frown; then she drew
a profound sigh.
``Whew!'' laughed Bertram, whimsically. ``So
soon as this?''
``Bertram!'' Billy's voice was tragic.
``Yes, my love.'' The bridegroom pulled his
face into sobriety; then Billy spoke, with solemn
impressiveness.
``Bertram, I don't know a thing about--
cooking--except what I've been learning in
Rosa's cook-book this last week.''
Bertram laughed so loud that the man across
the aisle glanced over the top of his paper
surreptitiously.
``Rosa's cook-book! Is that what you were
doing all this week?''
``Yes; that is--I tried so hard to learn
something,'' stammered Billy. ``But I'm
afraid I didn't--much; there were so many
things for me to think of, you know, with
only a week. I believe I _could_ make peach
fritters, though. They were the last thing I
studied.''
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