Miss Billy Married

E >> Eleanor H. Porter >> Miss Billy Married

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Arkwright made another discovery then. He
learned that, however deliberately he started in
to think of Billy, he ended every time in thinking
of Alice. He thought of how good she had been
to him, and of how faithful she had been in helping
him to fight his love for Billy. Just here he
decided, for a moment, that probably, after all,
his feeling of anger against Calderwell was merely
the fear of losing this helpful comradeship that
he so needed. Even with himself, however, Arkwright
could not keep up this farce long, and very
soon he admitted miserably that it was not the
comradeship of Alice Greggory that he wanted or
needed, but the love.

He knew it now. No longer was there any use
in beating about the bush. He did love Alice
Greggory; but so curiously and unbelievably
stupid had he been that he had not found it out
until now. And now it was too late. Had not
even Billy called his attention to the fact of
Calderwell's devotion? Besides, had not he himself,
at the very first, told Calderwell that he
might have a clear field?

Fool that he had been to let another thus lightly
step in and win from under his very nose what
might have been his if he had but known his own
mind before it was too late!

But was it, after all, quite too late? He and
Alice were old friends. Away back in their young
days in their native town they had been, indeed,
almost sweethearts, in a boy-and-girl fashion.
It would not have taken much in those days, he
believed, to have made the relationship more
interesting. But changes had come. Alice had
left town, and for years they had drifted apart.
Then had come Billy, and Billy had found Alice,
thus bringing about the odd circumstance of their
renewing of acquaintanceship. Perhaps, at that
time, if he had not already thought he cared for
Billy, there would have been something more
than acquaintanceship.

But he _had_ thought he cared for Billy all these
years; and now, at this late day, to wake up and
find that he cared for Alice! A pretty mess he
had made of things! Was he so inconstant then,
so fickle? Did he not know his own mind five
minutes at a time? What would Alice Greggory
think, even if he found the courage to tell her?
What could she think? What could anybody
think?

Arkwright fairly ground his teeth in impotent
wrath--and he did not know whether he were
the most angry that he did not love Billy, or that
he had loved Billy, or that he loved somebody else
now.

It was while he was in this unenviable frame of
mind that he went to see Alice. Not that he had
planned definitely to speak to her of his discovery,
nor yet that he had planned not to. He had,
indeed, planned nothing. For a man usually so
decided as to purpose and energetic as to action,
he was in a most unhappy state of uncertainty
and changeableness. One thing only was unmistakably
clear to him, and that was that he must
see Alice.

For months, now, he had taken to Alice all his
hopes and griefs, perplexities and problems; and
never had he failed to find comfort in the shape
of sympathetic understanding and wise counsel.
To Alice, therefore, now he turned as a matter of
course, telling himself vaguely that, perhaps,
after he had seen Alice, he would feel better.

Just how intimately this particular problem of
his concerned Alice herself, he did not stop to
realize. He did not, indeed, think of it at all from
Alice's standpoint--until he came face to face
with the girl in the living-room at the Annex.
Then, suddenly, he did. His manner became at
once, consequently, full of embarrassment and
quite devoid of its usual frank friendliness.

As it happened, this was perhaps the most
unfortunate thing that could have occurred, so far
as it concerned the attitude of Alice Greggory,
for thereby innumerable tiny sparks of suspicion
that had been tormenting the girl for days were
instantly fanned into consuming flames of conviction.

Alice had not been slow to note Arkwright's
prolonged absence from the Annex. Coming as
it did so soon after her most disconcerting talk
with Billy in regard to her own relations with
him, it had filled her with frightened questionings.

If Billy had seen things to make her think of
linking their names together, perhaps Arkwright
himself had heard some such idea put forth
somewhere, and that was why he was staying
away--to show the world that there was no
foundation for such rumors. Perhaps he was
even doing it to show _her_ that--

Even in her thoughts Alice could scarcely
bring herself to finish the sentence. That Arkwright
should ever suspect for a moment that
she cared for him was intolerable. Painfully
conscious as she was that she did care for him,
it was easy to fear that others must be conscious
of it, too. Had she not already proof that Billy
suspected it? Why, then, might not it be quite
possible, even probable, that Arkwright suspected
it, also; and, because he did suspect it, had
decided that it would be just as well, perhaps, if
he did not call so often.

In spite of Alice's angry insistence to herself
that, after all, this could not be the case--
that the man _knew_ she understood he still loved
Billy--she could not help fearing, in the face
of Arkwright's unusual absence, that it might
yet be true. When, therefore, he finally did
appear, only to become at once obviously embarrassed
in her presence, her fears instantly became
convictions. It was true, then. The man
did believe she cared for him, and he had been
trying to teach her--to save her.

To teach her! To save her, indeed! Very
well, he should see! And forthwith, from that
moment, Alice Greggory's chief reason for living
became to prove to Mr. M. J. Arkwright that
he needed not to teach her, to save her, nor yet
to sympathize with her.

``How do you do?'' she greeted him, with a
particularly bright smile. ``I'm sure I _hope_ you
are well, such a beautiful day as this.''

``Oh, yes, I'm well, I suppose. Still, I have
felt better in my life,'' smiled Arkwright, with
some constraint.

``Oh, I'm sorry,'' murmured the girl, striving
so hard to speak with impersonal unconcern that
she did not notice the inaptness of her reply.

``Eh? Sorry I've felt better, are you?''
retorted Arkwright, with nervous humor. Then,
because he was embarrassed, he said the one
thing he had meant not to say: ``Don't you think
I'm quite a stranger? It's been some time since
I've been here.''

Alice, smarting under the sting of what she
judged to be the only possible cause for his
embarrassment, leaped to this new opportunity to
show her lack of interest.

``Oh, has it?'' she murmured carelessly.
``Well, I don't know but it has, now that I come
to think of it.''

Arkwright frowned gloomily. A week ago he
would have tossed back a laughingly aggrieved
remark as to her unflattering indifference to his
presence. Now he was in no mood for such
joking. It was too serious a matter with him.

``You've been busy, no doubt, with--other
matters,'' he presumed forlornly, thinking of
Calderwell.

``Yes, I have been busy,'' assented the girl.
``One is always happier, I think, to be busy.
Not that I meant that I needed the work to _be_
happy,'' she added hastily, in a panic lest he
think she had a consuming sorrow to kill.

``No, of course not,'' he murmured abstractedly,
rising to his feet and crossing the room to
the piano. Then, with an elaborate air of trying
to appear very natural, he asked jovially:
``Anything new to play to me?''

Alice arose at once.

``Yes. I have a little nocturne that I was
playing to Mr. Calderwell last night.''

``Oh, to Calderwell!'' Arkwright had stiffened
perceptibly.

``Yes. _He_ didn't like it. I'll play it to you
and see what you say,'' she smiled, seating herself
at the piano.

``Well, if he had liked it, it's safe to say I
shouldn't,'' shrugged Arkwright.

``Nonsense!'' laughed the girl, beginning to
appear more like her natural self. ``I should
think you were Mr. Cyril Henshaw! Mr. Calderwell
_is_ partial to ragtime, I'll admit. But there
are some good things he likes.''

``There are, indeed, _some_ good things he likes,''
returned Arkwright, with grim emphasis, his
somber eyes fixed on what he believed to be the
one especial object of Calderwell's affections at
the moment.

Alice, unaware both of the melancholy gaze
bent upon herself and of the cause thereof,
laughed again merrily.

``Poor Mr. Calderwell,'' she cried, as she let her
fingers slide into soft, introductory chords. ``He
isn't to blame for not liking what he calls our lost
spirits that wail. It's just the way he's made.''

Arkwright vouchsafed no reply. With an
abrupt gesture he turned and began to pace the
room moodily. At the piano Alice slipped from
the chords into the nocturne. She played it
straight through, then, with a charm and skill
that brought Arkwright's feet to a pause before
it was half finished.

``By George, that's great!'' he breathed, when
the last tone had quivered into silence.

``Yes, isn't it--beautiful?'' she murmured.

The room was very quiet, and in semi-darkness.
The last rays of a late June sunset had been filling
the room with golden light, but it was gone now.
Even at the piano by the window, Alice had barely
been able to see clearly enough to read the notes
of her nocturne.

To Arkwright the air still trembled with the
exquisite melody that had but just left her fingers.
A quick fire came to his eyes. He forgot everything
but that it was Alice there in the half-light
by the window--Alice, whom he loved. With a
low cry he took a swift step toward her.

``Alice!''

Instantly the girl was on her feet. But it was
not toward him that she turned. It was away--
resolutely, and with a haste that was strangely
like terror.

Alice, too, had forgotten, for just a moment.
She had let herself drift into a dream world where
there was nothing but the music she was playing
and the man she loved. Then the music had
stopped, and the man had spoken her name.

Alice remembered then. She remembered Billy,
whom this man loved. She remembered the long
days just passed when this man had stayed away,
presumably to teach _her_--to save _her_. And
now, at the sound of his voice speaking her name,
she had almost bared her heart to him.

No wonder that Alice, with a haste that looked
like terror, crossed the floor and flooded the room
with light.

``Dear me!'' she shivered, carefully avoiding
Arkwright's eyes. ``If Mr. Calderwell were here
now he'd have some excuse to talk about our lost
spirits that wail. That _is_ a creepy piece of music
when you play it in the dark!'' And, for fear
that he should suspect how her heart was aching,
she gave a particularly brilliant and joyous smile.

Once again at the mention of Calderwell's name
Arkwright stiffened perceptibly. The fire left
his eyes. For a moment he did not speak; then,
gravely, he said:

``Calderwell? Yes, perhaps he would; and--
you ought to be a judge, I should think. You see
him quite frequently, don't you?''

``Why, yes, of course. He often comes out
here, you know.''

``Yes; I had heard that he did--since _you_
came.''

His meaning was unmistakable. Alice looked
up quickly. A prompt denial of his implication
was on her lips when the thought came to her
that perhaps just here lay a sure way to prove to
this man before her that there was, indeed, no
need for him to teach her, to save her, or yet to
sympathize with her. She could not affirm, of
course; but she need not deny--yet.

``Nonsense!'' she laughed lightly, pleased that
she could feel what she hoped would pass for a
telltale color burning her cheeks. ``Come, let
us try some duets,'' she proposed, leading the
way to the piano. And Arkwright, interpreting
the apparently embarrassed change of subject
exactly as she had hoped that he would interpret
it, followed her, sick at heart.

`` `O wert thou in the cauld blast,' '' sang
Arkwright's lips a few moments later.

``I can't tell her now--when I _know_ she cares
for Calderwell,'' gloomily ran his thoughts, the
while. ``It would do no possible good, and would
only make her unhappy to grieve me.''

`` `O wert thou in the cauld blast,' '' chimed
in Alice's alto, low and sweet.

``I reckon now he won't be staying away from
here any more just to _save_ me!'' ran Alice's
thoughts, palpitatingly triumphant.

CHAPTER XXI

BILLY TAKES HER TURN AT QUESTIONING

Arkwright did not call to see Alice Greggory
for some days. He did not want to see Alice now.
He told himself wearily that she could not help
him fight this tiger skin that lay across his path,
The very fact of her presence by his side would,
indeed, incapacitate himself for fighting. So he
deliberately stayed away from the Annex until
the day before he sailed for Germany. Then he
went out to say good-by.

Chagrined as he was at what he termed his
imbecile stupidity in not knowing his own heart all
these past months, and convinced, as he also was,
that Alice and Calderwell cared for each other,
he could see no way for him but to play the part
of a man of kindliness and honor, leaving a clear
field for his preferred rival, and bringing no
shadow of regret to mar the happiness of the girl
he loved.

As for being his old easy, frank self on this last
call, however, that was impossible; so Alice found
plenty of fuel for her still burning fires of
suspicion--fires which had, indeed, blazed up anew
at this second long period of absence on the part
of Arkwright. Naturally, therefore, the call was
anything but a joy and comfort to either one.
Arkwright was nervous, gloomy, and abnormally
gay by turns. Alice was nervous and abnormally
gay all the time. Then they said good-by and
Arkwright went away. He sailed the next day,
and Alice settled down to the summer of study
and hard work she had laid out for herself.

On the tenth of September Billy came home.
She was brown, plump-cheeked, and smiling. She
declared that she had had a perfectly beautiful
time, and that there couldn't be anything in the
world nicer than the trip she and Bertram had
taken--just they two together. In answer to
Aunt Hannah's solicitous inquiries, she asserted
that she was all well and rested now. But there
was a vaguely troubled questioning in her eyes
that Aunt Hannah did not quite like. Aunt
Hannah, however, said nothing even to Billy
herself about this.

One of the first friends Billy saw after her return
was Hugh Calderwell. As it happened Bertram
was out when he came, so Billy had the first half-
hour of the call to herself. She was not sorry for
this, as it gave her a chance to question Calderwell
a little concerning Alice Greggory--something
she had long ago determined to do at the
first opportunity.

``Now tell me everything--everything about
everybody,'' she began diplomatically, settling
herself comfortably for a good visit.

``Thank you, I'm well, and have had a
passably agreeable summer, barring the heat, sundry
persistent mosquitoes, several grievous disappointments,
and a felon on my thumb,'' he began, with
shameless imperturbability. ``I have been to
Revere once, to the circus once, to Nantasket
three times, and to Keith's and the `movies' ten
times, perhaps--to be accurate. I have also--
But perhaps there was some one else you desired
to inquire for,'' he broke off, turning upon
his hostess a bland but unsmiling countenance.

``Oh, no, how could there be?'' twinkled Billy.
``Really, Hugh, I always knew you had a pretty
good opinion of yourself, but I didn't credit you
with thinking you were _everybody_. Go on. I'm
so interested!''

Hugh chuckled softly; but there was a plaintive
tone in his voice as he answered.

``Thanks, no. I've rather lost my interest
now. Lack of appreciation always did discourage
me. We'll talk of something else, please. You
enjoyed your trip?''

``Very much. It just couldn't have been
nicer!''

``You were lucky. The heat here has been
something fierce!''

``What made you stay?''

``Reasons too numerous, and one too heart-
breaking, to mention. Besides, you forget,'' with
dignity. ``There is my profession. I have joined
the workers of the world now, you know.''

``Oh, fudge, Hugh!'' laughed Billy. ``You
know very well you're as likely as not to start
for the ends of the earth to-morrow morning!''

Hugh drew himself up.

``I don't seem to succeed in making people
understand that I'm serious,'' he began aggrievedly.
``I--'' With an expressive flourish
of his hands he relaxed suddenly, and fell back
in his chair. A slow smile came to his lips.
``Well, Billy, I'll give up. You've hit it,'' he
confessed. ``I _have_ thought seriously of starting to-
morrow morning for _half-way_ to the ends of the
earth--Panama.''

``Hugh!''

``Well, I have. Even this call was to be a
good-by--if I went.''

``Oh, Hugh! But I really thought--in spite
of my teasing--that you had settled down, this
time.''

``Yes, so did I,'' sighed the man, a little soberly.
``But I guess it's no use, Billy. Oh, I'm coming
back, of course, and link arms again with their
worthy Highnesses, John Doe and Richard Roe;
but just now I've got a restless fit on me. I want
to see the wheels go 'round. Of course, if I had
my bread and butter and cigars to earn, 'twould
be different. But I haven't, and I know I haven't;
and I suspect that's where the trouble lies. If it
wasn't for those natal silver spoons of mine that
Bertram is always talking about, things might be
different. But the spoons are there, and always
have been; and I know they're all ready to dish
out mountains to climb and lakes to paddle in,
any time I've a mind to say the word. So--I
just say the word. That's all.''

``And you've said it now?''

``Yes, I think so; for a while.''

``And--those reasons that _have_ kept you here
all summer,'' ventured Billy, ``they aren't in--
er--commission any longer?''

``No.''

Billy hesitated, regarding her companion
meditatively. Then, with the feeling that she had
followed a blind alley to its termination, she
retreated and made a fresh start.

``Well, you haven't yet told me everything
about everybody, you know,'' she hinted
smilingly. ``You might begin that--I mean the
less important everybodies, of course, now that
I've heard about you.''

``Meaning--''

``Oh, Aunt Hannah, and the Greggorys, and
Cyril and Marie, and the twins, and Mr. Arkwright,
and all the rest.''

``But you've had letters, surely.''

``Yes, I've had letters from some of them, and
I've seen most of them since I came back. It's
just that I wanted to know _your_ viewpoint of
what's happened through the summer.''

``Very well. Aunt Hannah is as dear as ever,
wears just as many shawls, and still keeps her
clock striking twelve when it's half-past eleven.
Mrs. Greggory is just as sweet as ever--and a
little more frail, I fear,--bless her heart! Mr.
Arkwright is still abroad, as I presume you know.
I hear he is doing great stunts over there, and
will sing in Berlin and Paris this winter. I'm
thinking of going across from Panama later. If
I do I shall look him up. Mr. and Mrs. Cyril
are as well as could be expected when you realize
that they haven't yet settled on a pair of names
for the twins.''

``I know it--and the poor little things three
months old, too! I think it's a shame. You've
heard the reason, I suppose. Cyril declares that
naming babies is one of the most serious and
delicate operations in the world, and that, for his
part, he thinks people ought to select their own
names when they've arrived at years of discretion.
He wants to wait till the twins are eighteen,
and then make each of them a birthday present
of the name of their own choosing.''

``Well, if that isn't the limit!'' laughed
Calderwell. ``I'd heard some such thing before, but
I hadn't supposed it was really so.''

``Well, it is. He says he knows more tomboys
and enormous fat women named `Grace' and
`Lily,' and sweet little mouse-like ladies staggering
along under a sonorous `Jerusha Theodosia'
or `Zenobia Jane'; and that if he should name
the boys `Franz' and `Felix' after Schubert
and Mendelssohn as Marie wants to, they'd as
likely as not turn out to be men who hated the
sound of music and doted on stocks and dry
goods.''

``Humph!'' grunted Calderwell. ``I saw Cyril
last week, and he said he hadn't named the twins
yet, but he didn't tell me why. I offered him
two perfectly good names myself, but he didn't
seem interested.''

``What were they?''

``Eldad and Bildad.''

``Hugh!'' protested Billy.

``Well, why not?'' bridled the man. ``I'm
sure those are new and unique, and really musical,
too--'way ahead of your Franz and Felix.''

``But those aren't really names!''

``Indeed they are.''

``Where did you get them?''

``Off our family tree, though they're Bible
names, Belle says. Perhaps you didn't know, but
Sister Belle has been making the dirt fly quite
lively of late around that family tree of ours, and
she wrote me some of her discoveries. It seems
two of the roots, or branches--say, are ancestors
roots, or branches?--were called Eldad and
Bildad. Now I thought those names were good
enough to pass along, but, as I said before, Cyril
wasn't interested.''

``I should say not,'' laughed Billy. ``But,
honestly, Hugh, it's really serious. Marie wants
them named _something_, but she doesn't say much
to Cyril. Marie wouldn't really breathe, you
know, if she thought Cyril disapproved of breathing.
And in this case Cyril does not hesitate to
declare that the boys shall name themselves.''

``What a situation!'' laughed Calderwell.

``Isn't it? But, do you know, I can
sympathize with it, in a way, for I've always mourned
so over _my_ name. `Billy' was always such a
trial to me! Poor Uncle William wasn't the only
one that prepared guns and fishing rods to entertain
the expected boy. I don't know, though,
I'm afraid if I'd been allowed to select my name
I should have been a `Helen Clarabella' all my
days, for that was the name I gave all my dolls,
with `first,' `second,' `third,' and so on, added
to them for distinction. Evidently I thought that
`Helen Clarabella' was the most feminine
appellation possible, and the most foreign to the
despised `Billy.' So you see I can sympathize
with Cyril to a certain extent.''

``But they must call the little chaps _something_,
now,'' argued Hugh.

Billy gave a sudden merry laugh.

``They do,'' she gurgled, ``and that's the funniest
part of it. Oh, Cyril doesn't. He always calls
them impersonally `they' or `it.' He doesn't
see much of them anyway, now, I understand.
Marie was horrified when she realized how the
nurses had been using his den as a nursery annex
and she changed all that instanter, when she took
charge of things again. The twins stay in the
nursery now, I'm told. But about the names--
the nurses, it seems, have got into the way of
calling them `Dot' and `Dimple.' One has a
dimple in his cheek, and the other is a little smaller
of the two. Marie is no end distressed, particularly
as she finds that she herself calls them that;
and she says the idea of boys being `Dot' and
`Dimple'!''

``I should say so,'' laughed Calderwell. ``Not
I regard that as worse than my `Eldad' and
`Bildad.' ''

``I know it, and Alice says-- By the way,
you haven't mentioned Alice, but I suppose you
see her occasionally.''

Billy paused in evident expectation of a reply.
Billy was, in fact, quite pluming herself on the
adroit casualness with which she had introduced
the subject nearest her heart.

Calderwell raised his eyebrows.

``Oh, yes, I see her.''

``But you hadn't mentioned her.''

There was the briefest of pauses; then with a
half-quizzical dejection, there came the remark:

``You seem to forget. I told you that I stayed
here this summer for reasons too numerous, and
one too heart-breaking, to mention. She was
the _one_.''

``You mean--''

``Yes. The usual thing. She turned me down.
Oh, I haven't asked her yet as many times as I
did you, but--''

``_Hugh!_''

Hugh tossed her a grim smile and went on
imperturbably.

``I'm older now, of course, and know more,
perhaps. Besides, the finality of her remarks was
not to be mistaken.''

Billy, in spite of her sympathy for Calderwell,
was conscious of a throb of relief that at least one
stumbling-block was removed from Arkwright's
possible pathway to Alice's heart.

``Did she give any special reason?'' hazarded
Billy, a shade too anxiously.

``Oh, yes. She said she wasn't going to marry
anybody--only her music.''

``Nonsense!'' ejaculated Billy, falling back in
her chair a little.

``Yes, I said that, too,'' gloomed the man;
``but it didn't do any good. You see, I had
known another girl who'd said the same thing
once.'' (He did not look up, but a vivid red
flamed suddenly into Billy's cheeks.) ``And she
--when the right one came--forgot all about
the music, and married the man. So I naturally
suspected that Alice would do the same thing.
In fact, I said so to her. I was bold enough to
even call the man by name--I hadn't been
jealous of Arkwright for nothing, you see--but
she denied it, and flew into such an indignant
allegation that there wasn't a word of truth in it,
that I had to sue for pardon before I got
anything like peace.''

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