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
Billy told herself, virtuously, however, that
not only for Arkwright did she desire this marriage
to take place, but for Alice Greggory. In
the very nature of things Alice would one day be
left alone. She was poor, and not very strong.
She sorely needed the shielding love and care of a
good husband. What more natural than that her
old-time friend and almost-sweetheart, M. J.
Arkwright, should be that good husband?
That really it was more Arkwright and less
Alice that was being considered, however, was
proved when the devotion of Calderwell began to
be first suspected, then known for a fact. Billy's
distress at this turn of affairs indicated very
plainly that it was not just a husband, but a
certain one particular husband that she desired
for Alice Greggory. All the more disturbed was
she, therefore, when to-day, seeing her three
friends together again for the first time for some
weeks, she discovered increased evidence that her
worst fears were to be realized. It was to be
Alice and Calderwell, not Alice and Arkwright.
Arkwright was again to be disappointed in his
dearest hopes.
Telling herself indignantly that it could not
be, it _should_ not be, Billy determined to remain
after the men had gone, and speak to Alice. Just
what she would say she did not know. Even
what she could say, she was not sure. But
certainly there must be something, some little thing
that she could say, which would open Alice's eyes
to what she was doing, and what she ought to
do.
It was in this frame of mind, therefore, that
Billy, after Arkwright and Calderwell had gone,
spoke to Alice. She began warily, with assumed
nonchalance.
``I believe Mr. Arkwright sings better every
time I hear him.''
There was no answer. Alice was sorting music
at the piano.
``Don't you think so?'' Billy raised her voice
a little.
Alice turned almost with a start.
``What's that? Oh, yes. Well, I don't know;
maybe I do.''
``You would--if you didn't hear him any
oftener than I do,'' laughed Billy. ``But then,
of course you do hear him oftener.''
``I? Oh, no, indeed. Not so very much
oftener.'' Alice had turned back to her music.
There was a slight embarrassment in her manner.
``I wonder--where--that new song--is,'' she
murmured.
Billy, who knew very well where the song lay,
was not to be diverted.
``Nonsense! As if Mr. Arkwright wasn't
always telling how Alice liked this song, and didn't
like that one, and thought the other the best yet!
I don't believe he sings a thing that he doesn't
first sing to you. For that matter, I fancy he
asks your opinion of everything, anyway.''
``Why, Billy, he doesn't!'' exclaimed Alice, a
deep red flaming into her cheeks. ``You know he
doesn't.''
Billy laughed gleefully. She had not been slow
to note the color in her friend's face, or to ascribe
to it the one meaning she wished to ascribe to it.
So sure, indeed, was she now that her fears had
been groundless, that she flung caution to the
winds.
``Ho! My dear Alice, you can't expect us all
to be blind,'' she teased. ``Besides, we all think
it's such a lovely arrangement that we're just
glad to see it. He's such a fine fellow, and we like
him so much! We couldn't ask for a better husband
for you than Mr. Arkwright, and--'' From
sheer amazement at the sudden white horror
in Alice Greggory's face, Billy stopped short.
``Why, Alice!'' she faltered then.
With a visible effort Alice forced her trembling
lips to speak.
``My husband--_Mr. Arkwright!_ Why, Billy,
you couldn't have seen--you haven't seen--
there's nothing you _could_ see! He isn't--he
wasn't--he can't be! We--we're nothing but
friends, Billy, just good friends!''
Billy, though dismayed, was still not quite
convinced.
``Friends! Nonsense! When--''
But Alice interrupted feverishly. Alice, in an
agony of fear lest the true state of affairs should
be suspected, was hiding behind a bulwark of
pride.
``Now, Billy, please! Say no more. You're
quite wrong, entirely. You'll never, never hear of
my marrying Mr. Arkwright. As I said before,
we're friends--the best of friends; that is all.
We couldn't be anything else, possibly!''
Billy, plainly discomfited, fell back; but she
threw a sharp glance into her friend's flushed
countenance.
``You mean--because of--Hugh Calderwell?''
she demanded. Then, for the second time
that afternoon throwing discretion to the winds,
she went on plaintively: ``You won't listen, of
course. Girls in love never do. Hugh is all right,
and I like him; but there's more real solid worth
in Mr. Arkwright's little finger than there is in
Hugh's whole self. And--'' But a merry peal
of laughter from Alice Greggory interrupted.
``And, pray, do you think I'm in love with
Hugh Calderwell?'' she demanded. There was
a curious note of something very like relief in her
voice.
``Well, I didn't know,'' began Billy, uncertainly.
``Then I'll tell you now,'' smiled Alice. ``I'm
not. Furthermore, perhaps it's just as well that
you should know right now that I don't intend
to marry--ever.''
``Oh, Alice!''
``No.'' There was determination, and there
was still that curious note of relief in the girl's
voice. It was as if, somewhere, a great danger
had been avoided. ``I have my music. That is
enough. I'm not intending to marry.''
``Oh, but Alice, while I will own up I'm glad it
isn't Hugh Calderwell, there _is_ Mr. Arkwright,
and I did hope--'' But Alice shook her head
and turned resolutely away. At that moment,
too, Aunt Hannah came in from the street, so
Billy could say no more.
Aunt Hannah dropped herself a little wearily
into a chair.
``I've just come from Marie's,'' she said.
``How is she?'' asked Billy.
Aunt Hannah smiled, and raised her eyebrows.
``Well, just now she's quite exercised over
another rattle--from her cousin out West, this
time. There were four little silver bells on it,
and she hasn't got any janitor's wife now to give
it to.''
Billy laughed softly, but Aunt Hannah had
more to say.
``You know she isn't going to allow any toys
but Teddy bears and woolly lambs, of which, I
believe, she has already bought quite an assortment.
She says they don't rattle or squeak. I
declare, when I see the woolen pads and rubber
hushers that that child has put everywhere all
over the house, I don't know whether to laugh
or cry. And she's so worried! It seems Cyril
must needs take just this time to start composing
a new opera or symphony, or something; and
never before has she allowed him to be interrupted
by anything on such an occasion. But what he'll
do when the baby comes she says she doesn't
know, for she says she can't--she just can't keep
it from bothering him some, she's afraid. As if
any opera or symphony that ever lived was of
more consequence than a man's own child!''
finished Aunt Hannah, with an indignant sniff, as
she reached for her shawl.
CHAPTER XIX
A TOUGH NUT TO CRACK FOR CYRIL
It was early in the forenoon of the first day of
July that Eliza told her mistress that Mrs.
Stetson was asking for her at the telephone. Eliza's
face was not a little troubled.
``I'm afraid, maybe, it isn't good news,'' she
stammered, as her mistress hurriedly arose.
``She's at Mr. Cyril Henshaw's--Mrs. Stetson
is--and she seemed so terribly upset about something
that there was no making real sense out of
what she said. But she asked for you, and said
to have you come quick.''
Billy, her own face paling, was already at the
telephone.
``Yes, Aunt Hannah. What is it?''
``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, if you
_can_, come up here, please. You must come!
_Can't_ you come?''
``Why, yes, of course. But--but--_Marie!_
The--the _baby!_''
A faint groan came across the wires.
``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! It isn't
_the_ baby. It's _babies!_ It's twins--boys. Cyril
has them now--the nurse hasn't got here yet.''
``Twins! _Cyril_ has them!'' broke in Billy,
hysterically.
``Yes, and they're crying something terrible.
We've sent for a second nurse to come, too, of
course, but she hasn't got here yet, either. And
those babies--if you could hear them! That's
what we want you for, to--''
But Billy was almost laughing now.
``All right, I'll come out--and hear them,''
she called a bit wildly, as she hung up the receiver.
Some little time later, a palpably nervous maid
admitted Billy to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Cyril
Henshaw. Even as the door was opened, Billy
heard faintly, but unmistakably, the moaning
wails of two infants.
``Mrs. Stetson says if you will please to help
Mr. Henshaw with the babies,'' stammered the
maid, after the preliminary questions and
answers. ``I've been in when I could, and they're
all right, only they're crying. They're in his den.
We had to put them as far away as possible--
their crying worried Mrs. Henshaw so.''
``Yes, I see,'' murmured Billy. ``I'll go to
them at once. No, don't trouble to come. I
know the way. Just tell Mrs. Stetson I'm here,
please,'' she finished, as she tossed her hat and
gloves on to the hall table, and turned to go upstairs.
Billy's feet made no sound on the soft rugs.
The crying, however, grew louder and louder as
she approached the den. Softly she turned the
knob and pushed open the door. She stopped
short, then, at what she saw.
Cyril had not heard her, nor seen her. His
back was partly toward the door. His coat was
off, and his hair stood fiercely on end as if a
nervous hand had ruffled it. His usually pale face
was very red, and his forehead showed great drops
of perspiration. He was on his feet, hovering
over the couch, at each end of which lay a rumpled
roll of linen, lace, and flannel, from which emerged
a prodigiously puckered little face, two uncertainly
waving rose-leaf fists, and a wail of protesting
rage that was not uncertain in the least.
In one hand Cyril held a Teddy bear, in the
other his watch, dangling from its fob chain.
Both of these he shook feebly, one after the other,
above the tiny faces.
``Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby,
hush, hush,'' he begged agitatedly.
In the doorway Billy clapped her hands to her
lips and stifled a laugh. Billy knew, of course,
that what she should do was to go forward at
once, and help this poor, distracted man; but
Billy, just then, was not doing what she knew
she ought to do.
With a muttered ejaculation (which Billy, to
her sorrow, could not catch) Cyril laid down the
watch and flung the Teddy bear aside. Then, in
very evident despair, he gingerly picked up one
of the rumpled rolls of flannel, lace, and linen,
and held it straight out before him. After a
moment's indecision he began awkwardly to jounce
it, teeter it, rock it back and forth, and to pat it
jerkily.
``Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby,
hush, hush,'' he begged again, frantically.
Perhaps it was the change of position; perhaps
it was the novelty of the motion, perhaps it was
only utter weariness, or lack of breath. Whatever
the cause, the wailing sobs from the bundle
in his arms dwindled suddenly to a gentle whisper,
then ceased altogether.
With a ray of hope illuminating his drawn
countenance, Cyril carefully laid the baby down and
picked up the other. Almost confidently now he
began the jouncing and teetering and rocking
as before.
``There, there! Oh, come, come, pretty baby,
good baby, hush, hush,'' he chanted again.
This time he was not so successful. Perhaps
he had lost his skill. Perhaps it was merely the
world-old difference in babies. At all events, this
infant did not care for jerks and jounces, and
showed it plainly by emitting loud and yet louder
wails of rage--wails in which his brother on the
couch speedily joined.
``Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby,
hush, hush--_confound it_, HUSH, I say!'' exploded
the frightened, weary, baffled, distracted man,
picking up the other baby, and trying to hold
both his sons at once.
Billy hurried forward then, tearfully, remorsefully,
her face all sympathy, her arms all tenderness.
``Here, Cyril, let me help you,'' she cried.
Cyril turned abruptly.
``Thank God, _some_ one's come,'' he groaned,
holding out both the babies, with an exuberance
of generosity. ``Billy, you've saved my life!''
Billy laughed tremulously.
``Yes, I've come, Cyril, and I'll help every bit
I can; but I don't know a thing--not a single
thing about them myself. Dear me, aren't they
cunning? But, Cyril, do they always cry so?''
The father-of-an-hour drew himself stiffly erect.
``Cry? What do you mean? Why shouldn't
they cry?'' he demanded indignantly. ``I want
you to understand that Doctor Brown said those
were A number I fine boys! Anyhow, I guess
there's no doubt they've got lungs all right,'' he
added, with a grim smile, as he pulled out his
handkerchief and drew it across his perspiring
brow.
Billy did not have an opportunity to show Cyril
how much or how little she knew about babies,
for in another minute the maid had appeared
with the extra nurse; and that young woman,
with trained celerity and easy confidence,
assumed instant command, and speedily had peace
and order restored.
Cyril, freed from responsibility, cast longing
eyes, for a moment, upon his work; but the next
minute, with a despairing glance about him, he
turned and fled precipitately.
Billy, following the direction of his eyes,
suppressed a smile. On the top of Cyril's manuscript
music on the table lay a hot-water bottle. Draped
over the back of his favorite chair was a pink-
bordered baby blanket. On the piano-stool rested
a beribboned and beruffled baby's toilet basket.
From behind the sofa pillow leered ridiculously
the Teddy bear, just as it had left Cyril's
desperate hand.
No wonder, indeed, that Billy smiled. Billy
was thinking of what Marie had said not a week
before:
``I shall keep the baby, of course, in the nursery.
I've been in homes where they've had baby
things strewn from one end of the house to the
other; but it won't be that way here. In the first
place, I don't believe in it; but, even if I did, I'd
have to be careful on account of Cyril. Imagine
Cyril's trying to write his music with a baby in
the room! No! I shall keep the baby in the
nursery, if possible; but wherever it is, it won't
be anywhere near Cyril's den, anyway.''
Billy suppressed many a smile during the days
that immediately followed the coming of the
twins. Some of the smiles, however, refused to
be suppressed. They became, indeed, shamelessly
audible chuckles.
Billy was to sail the tenth, and, naturally,
during those early July days, her time was pretty
much occupied with her preparations for departure;
but nothing could keep her from frequent,
though short, visits to the home of her brother-
in-law.
The twins were proving themselves to be fine,
healthy boys. Two trained maids, and two
trained nurses ruled the household with a rod of
iron. As to Cyril--Billy declared that Cyril
was learning something every day of his life now.
``Oh, yes, he's learning things,'' she said to
Aunt Hannah, one morning; ``lots of things.
For instance: he has his breakfast now, not when
he wants it, but when the maid wants to give it
to him--which is precisely at eight o'clock every
morning. So he's learning punctuality. And for
the first time in his life he has discovered the
astounding fact that there are several things
more important in the world than is the special
piece of music he happens to be composing--
chiefly the twins' bath, the twins' nap, the twins'
airing, and the twins' colic.''
Aunt Hannah laughed, though she frowned,
too.
``But, surely, Billy, with two nurses and the
maids, Cyril doesn't have to--to--'' She
came to a helpless pause.
``Oh, no,'' laughed Billy; ``Cyril doesn't have
to really attend to any of those things--though
I have seen each of the nurses, at different times,
unhesitatingly thrust a twin into his arms and
bid him hold the child till she comes back. But
it's this way. You see, Marie must be kept quiet,
and the nursery is very near her room. It worries
her terribly when either of the children cries.
Besides, the little rascals have apparently fixed up
some sort of labor-union compact with each other,
so that if one cries for something or nothing, the
other promptly joins in and helps. So the nurses
have got into the habit of picking up the first
disturber of the peace, and hurrying him to
quarters remote; and Cyril's den being the most
remote of all, they usually fetch up there.''
``You mean--they take those babies into
Cyril's den--_now_?'' Even Aunt Hannah was
plainly aghast.
``Yes,'' twinkled Billy. ``I fancy their
Hygienic Immaculacies approved of Cyril's bare
floors, undraped windows, and generally knick-
knackless condition. Anyhow, they've made his
den a sort of--of annex to the nursery.''
``But--but Cyril! What does he say?''
stammered the dumfounded Aunt Hannah. ``Think
of Cyril's standing a thing like that! Doesn't he
do anything--or say anything?''
Billy smiled, and lifted her brows quizzically.
``My dear Aunt Hannah, did you ever know
_many_ people to have the courage to `say things'
to one of those becapped, beaproned, bespotless
creatures of loftily superb superiority known as
trained nurses? Besides, you wouldn't recognize
Cyril now. Nobody would. He's as meek as
Moses, and has been ever since his two young sons
were laid in his reluctant, trembling arms. He
breaks into a cold sweat at nothing, and moves
about his own home as if he were a stranger and
an interloper, endured merely on sufferance in
this abode of strange women and strange babies.''
``Nonsense!'' scoffed Aunt Hannah.
``But it's so,'' maintained Billy, merrily.
``Now, for instance. You know Cyril always
has been in the habit of venting his moods on the
piano (just as I do, only more so) by playing
exactly as he feels. Well, as near as I can gather,
he was at his usual trick the next day after the
twins arrived; and you can imagine about what
sort of music it would be, after what he had been
through the preceding forty-eight hours.
``Of course I don't know exactly what
happened, but Julia--Marie's second maid, you
know--tells the story. She's been with them
long enough to know something of the way the
whole household always turns on the pivot of
the master's whims; so she fully appreciated the
situation. She says she heard him begin to play,
and that she never heard such queer, creepy,
shivery music in her life; but that he hadn't been
playing five minutes before one of the nurses
came into the living-room where Julia was dusting,
and told her to tell whoever was playing to
stop that dreadful noise, as they wanted to take
the twins in there for their nap.
`` `But I didn't do it, ma'am,' Julia says. `I
wa'n't lookin' for losin' my place, an' I let the
young woman do the job herself. An' she done
it, pert as you please. An' jest as I was seekin'
a hidin'-place for the explosion, if Mr. Henshaw
didn't come out lookin' a little wild, but as meek
as a lamb; an' when he sees me he asked wouldn't
I please get him a cup of coffee, good an' strong.
An' I got it.'
``So you see,'' finished Billy, ``Cyril is
learning things--lots of things.''
``Oh, my grief and conscience! I should say
he was,'' half-shivered Aunt Hannah. ``_Cyril_
looking meek as a lamb, indeed!''
Billy laughed merrily.
``Well, it must be a new experience--for
Cyril. For a man whose daily existence for years
has been rubber-heeled and woolen-padded, and
whose family from boyhood has stood at attention
and saluted if he so much as looked at them,
it must be quite a change, as things are now.
However, it'll be different, of course, when Marie
is on her feet again.''
``Does she know at all how things are going?''
``Not very much, as yet, though I believe she
has begun to worry some. She confided to me
one day that she was glad, of course, that she
had two darling babies, instead of one; but
that she was afraid it might be hard, just at first,
to teach them both at once to be quiet; for
she was afraid that while she was teaching one,
the other would be sure to cry, or do something
noisy.''
``Do something noisy, indeed!'' ejaculated
Aunt Hannah.
``As for the real state of affairs, Marie doesn't
dream that Cyril's sacred den is given over to
Teddy bears and baby blankets. All is, I hope
she'll be measurably strong before she does find
it out,'' laughed Billy, as she rose to go.
CHAPTER XX
ARKWRIGHT'S EYES ARE OPENED
William came back from his business trip the
eighth of July, and on the ninth Billy and Bertram
went to New York. Eliza's mother was so
well now that Eliza had taken up her old quarters
in the Strata, and the household affairs were
once more running like clockwork. Later in the
season William would go away for a month's
fishing trip, and the house would be closed.
Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw were not
expected to return until the first of October; but
with Eliza to look after the comfort of William,
the mistress of the house did no worrying. Ever
since Pete's going, Eliza had said that she
preferred to be the only maid, with a charwoman to
come in for the heavier work; and to this arrangement
her mistress had willingly consented, for the
present.
Marie and the babies were doing finely, and
Aunt Hannah's health, and affairs at the Annex,
were all that could be desired. As Billy, indeed,
saw it, there was only one flaw to mar her perfect
content on this holiday trip with Bertram, and
that was her disappointment over the very evident
disaster that had come to her cherished
matrimonial plans for Arkwright and Alice
Greggory. She could not forget Arkwright's face that
day at the Annex, when she had so foolishly called
his attention to Calderwell's devotion; and she
could not forget, either, Alice Greggory's very
obvious perturbation a little later, and her
suspiciously emphatic assertion that she had no
intention of marrying any one, certainly not
Arkwright. As Billy thought of all this now, she
could not but admit that it did look dark for
Arkwright--poor Arkwright, whom she, more
than any one else in the world, perhaps, had a
special reason for wishing to see happily married.
There was, then, this one cloud on Billy's
horizon as the big boat that was to bear her across
the water steamed down the harbor that beautiful
July day.
As it chanced, naturally, perhaps, not only was
Billy thinking of Arkwright that morning, but
Arkwright was thinking of Billy.
Arkwright had thought frequently of Billy
during the last few days, particularly since that
afternoon meeting at the Annex when the four
had renewed their old good times together. Up
to that day Arkwright had been trying not to
think of Billy. He had been ``fighting his tiger
skin.'' Sternly he had been forcing himself to
meet her, to see her, to talk with her, to sing with
her, or to pass her by--all with the indifference
properly expected to be shown in association with
Mrs. Bertram Henshaw, another man's wife. He
had known, of course, that deep down in his heart
he loved her, always had loved her, and always
would love her. Hopelessly and drearily he
accepted this as a fact even while with all his might
fighting that tiger skin. So sure was he, indeed,
of this, so implicitly had he accepted it as an
unalterable certainty, that in time even his efforts
to fight it became almost mechanical and unconscious
in their stern round of forced indifference.
Then came that day at the Annex--and the
discovery: the discovery which he had made
when Billy called his attention to Calderwell and
Alice Greggory across the room in the corner;
the discovery which had come with so blinding a
force, and which even now he was tempted to
question as to its reality; the discovery that not
Billy Neilson, nor Mrs. Bertram Henshaw, nor
even the tender ghost of a lost love held the
center of his heart--but Alice Greggory.
The first intimation of all this had come with
his curious feeling of unreasoning hatred and
blind indignation toward Calderwell as, through
Billy's eyes, he had seen the two together. Then
had come the overwhelming longing to pick up
Alice Greggory and run off with her--somewhere,
anywhere, so that Calderwell could not follow.
At once, however, he had pulled himself up
short with the mental cry of ``Absurd!'' What
was it to him if Calderwell did care for Alice
Greggory? Surely he himself was not in love
with the girl. He was in love with Billy; that
is--
It was all confusion then, in his mind, and he
was glad indeed when he could leave the house.
He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think.
He must, in some way, thrash out this astounding
thing that had come to him.
Arkwright did not visit the Annex again for
some days. Until he was more nearly sure of
himself and of his feelings, he did not wish to see
Alice Greggory. It was then that he began to
think of Billy, deliberately, purposefully, for it
must be, of course, that he had made a mistake,
he told himself. It must be that he did, really,
still care for Billy--though of course he ought
not to.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18