Miss Billy Married
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Eleanor H. Porter >> Miss Billy Married
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But Billy had not even heard. With a glad little
cry she had darted to the side of the humped-up
figure of a man alone on a park bench just ahead
of them.
``Uncle William! Oh, Uncle William, how
could you?'' she cried, dropping herself on to
one end of the seat and catching the man's arm
in both her hands.
``Yes, how could you?'' demanded Bertram,
with just a touch of irritation, dropping himself
on to the other end of the seat, and catching
the man's other arm in his one usable
hand.
The bent shoulders and bowed head straightened
up with a jerk.
``Well, well, bless my soul! If it isn't our little
bride,'' cried Uncle William, fondly. ``And the
happy bridegroom, too. When did you get
home?''
``We haven't got home,'' retorted Bertram,
promptly, before his wife could speak. ``Oh, we
looked in at the door an hour or so back; but we
didn't stay. We've been hunting for you ever
since.''
``Nonsense, children!'' Uncle William spoke
with gay cheeriness; but he refused to meet
either Billy's or Bertram's eyes.
``Uncle William, how could you do it?''
reproached Billy, again.
``Do what?'' Uncle William was plainly
fencing for time.
``Leave the house like that?''
``Ho! I wanted a change.''
``As if we'd believe that!'' scoffed Billy.
``All right; let's call it you've had the change,
then,'' laughed Bertram, ``and we'll send over
for your things to-morrow. Come--now let's
go home to dinner.''
William shook his head. He essayed a gay
smile.
``Why, I've only just begun. I'm going to
stay--oh, I don't know how long I'm going to
stay,'' he finished blithely.
Billy lifted her chin a little.
``Uncle William, you aren't playing square.
Pete told us what you said when you left.''
``Eh? What?'' William looked up with
startled eyes.
``About--about our not _needing_ you. So we
know, now, why you left; and we _sha'n't stand_
it.''
``Pete? That? Oh, that--that's nonsense
I--I'll settle with Pete.''
Billy laughed softly.
``Poor Pete! Don't. We simply dragged it
out of him. And now we're here to tell you that
we _do_ want you, and that you _must_ come back.''
Again William shook his head. A swift shadow
crossed his face.
``Thank you, no, children,'' he said dully.
You're very kind, but you don't need me. I
should be just an interfering elder brother. I
should spoil your young married life.'' (William's
voice now sounded as if he were reciting a well-
learned lesson.)'' If I went away and stayed two
months, you'd never forget the utter freedom and
joy of those two whole months with the house all
to yourselves.''
``Uncle William,'' gasped Billy, ``what _are_
you talking about?''
``About--about my not going back, of course.''
``But you are coming back,'' cut in Bertram,
almost angrily. ``Oh, come, Will, this is utter
nonsense, and you know it! Come, let's go home
to dinner.''
A stern look came to the corners of William's
mouth--a look that Bertram understood well.
``All right, I'll go to dinner, of course; but
I sha'n't stay,'' said William, firmly. ``I've
thought it all out. I know I'm right. Come,
we'll go to dinner now, and say no more about
it,'' he finished with a cheery smile, as he rose to
his feet. Then, to the bride, he added: ``Did
you have a nice trip, little girl?''
Billy, too, had risen, now, but she did not
seem to have heard his question. In the fast
falling twilight her face looked a little white.
``Uncle William,'' she began very quietly, ``do
you think for a minute that just because I married
your brother I am going to live in that house
and turn you out of the home you've lived in all
your life?''
``Nonsense, dear! I'm not turned out. I just
go,'' corrected Uncle William, gayly.
With superb disdain Billy brushed this aside.
``Oh, no, you won't,'' she declared; ``but--
_I shall_.''
``Billy!'' gasped Bertram.
``My--my dear!'' expostulated William,
faintly.
``Uncle William! Bertram! Listen,'' panted
Billy. ``I never told you much before, but I'm
going to, now. Long ago, when I went away with
Aunt Hannah, your sister Kate showed me how
dear the old home was to you--how much you
thought of it. And she said--she said that I had
upset everything.'' (Bertram interjected a sharp
word, but Billy paid no attention.) ``That's
why I went; and _I shall go again_--if you don't
come home to-morrow to stay, Uncle William.
Come, now let's go to dinner, please. Bertram's
hungry,'' she finished, with a bright smile.
There was a tense moment of silence. William
glanced at Bertram; Bertram returned the glance
--with interest.
``Er--ah--yes; well, we might go to dinner,''
stammered William, after a minute.
``Er--yes,'' agreed Bertram. And the three
fell into step together.
CHAPTER IV
``JUST LIKE BILLY''
Billy did not leave the Strata this time.
Before twenty-four hours had passed, the last
cherished fragment of Mr. William Henshaw's
possessions had been carefully carried down the
imposing steps of the Beacon Hill boarding-house
under the disapproving eyes of its bugle-adorned
mistress, who found herself now with a month's
advance rent and two vacant ``parlors'' on her
hands. Before another twenty-four hours had
passed her quondam boarder, with a tired sigh,
sank into his favorite morris chair in his old
familiar rooms, and looked about him with contented
eyes. Every treasure was in place, from
the traditional four small stones of his babyhood
days to the Batterseas Billy had just brought him.
Pete, as of yore, was hovering near with a dust-
cloth. Bertram's gay whistle sounded from the
floor below. William Henshaw was at home again.
This much accomplished, Billy went to see
Aunt Hannah.
Aunt Hannah greeted her affectionately, though
with tearfully troubled eyes. She was wearing
a gray shawl to-day topped with a black one--
sure sign of unrest, either physical or mental, as
all her friends knew.
``I'd begun to think you'd forgotten--me,''
she faltered, with a poor attempt at gayety.
``You've been home three whole days.''
``I know, dearie,'' smiled Billy; ``and 'twas
a shame. But I have been so busy! My trunks
came at last, and I've been helping Uncle William
get settled, too.''
Aunt Hannah looked puzzled.
``Uncle William get settled? You mean--
he's changed his room?''
Billy laughed oddly, and threw a swift glance
into Aunt Hannah's face.
``Well, yes, he did change,'' she murmured;
``but he's moved back now into the old quarters.
Er--you haven't heard from Uncle William
then, lately, I take it.''
``No.'' Aunt Hannah shook her head
abstractedly. ``I did see him once, several weeks
ago; but I haven't, since. We had quite a talk,
then; and, Billy, I've been wanting to speak to
you,'' she hurried on, a little feverishly. ``I
didn't like to leave, of course, till you did come
home, as long as you'd said nothing about your
plans; but--''
``Leave!'' interposed Billy, dazedly. ``Leave
where? What do you mean?''
``Why, leave here, of course, dear. I mean.
I didn't like to get my room while you were
away; but I shall now, of course, at once.''
``Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! As if I'd let you
do that,'' laughed Billy.
Aunt Hannah stiffened perceptibly. Her lips
looked suddenly thin and determined. Even the
soft little curls above her ears seemed actually
to bristle with resolution.
``Billy,'' she began firmly, ``we might as well
understand each other at once. I know your
good heart, and I appreciate your kindness. But
I can not come to live with you. I shall not. It
wouldn't be best. I should be like an interfering
elder brother in your home. I should spoil your
young married life; and if I went away for two
months you'd never forget the utter joy and
freedom of those two months with the whole
house ali to yourselves.''
At the beginning of this speech Billy's eyes
had still carried their dancing smile, but as the
peroration progressed on to the end, a dawning
surprise, which soon became a puzzled questioning,
drove the smile away. Then Billy sat suddenly erect.
``Why, Aunt Hannah, that's exactly what
Uncle William--'' Billy stopped, and regarded
Aunt Hannah with quick suspicion. The next
moment she burst into gleeful laughter.
Aunt Hannah looked grieved, and not a little
surprised; but Billy did not seem to notice
this.
``Oh, oh, Aunt Hannah--you, too! How
perfectly funny!'' she gurgled. ``To think you
two old blesseds should get your heads together
like this!''
Aunt Hannah stirred restively, and pulled the
black shawl more closely about her.
``Indeed, Billy, I don't know what you mean
by that,'' she sighed, with a visible effort at self-
control; ``but I do know that I can not go to live
with you.''
``Bless your heart, dear, I don't want you to,''
soothed Billy, with gay promptness.
``Oh! O-h-h,'' stammered Aunt Hannah, surprise,
mortification, dismay, and a grieved hurt
bringing a flood of color to her face. It is one
thing to refuse a home, and quite another to have
a home refused you.
``Oh! O-h-h, Aunt Hannah,'' cried Billy,
turning very red in her turn. ``Please, _please_ don't
look like that. I didn't mean it that way. I do
want you, dear, only--I want you somewhere
else more. I want you--here.''
``Here!'' Aunt Hannah looked relieved, but
unconvinced.
``Yes. Don't you like it here?''
``Like it! Why, I love it, dear. You know I
do. But you don't need this house now, Billy.''
``Oh, yes, I do,'' retorted Billy, airily. ``I'm
going to keep it up, and I want you here.
``Fiddlededee, Billy! As if I'd let you keep up
this house just for me,'' scorned Aunt Hannah.
`` 'Tisn't just for you. It's for--for lots of
folks.''
``My grief and conscience, Billy! What are
you talking about?''
Billy laughed, and settled herself more
comfortably on the hassock at Aunt Hannah's feet.
``Well, I'll tell you. Just now I want it for
Tommy Dunn, and the Greggorys if I can get
them, and maybe one or two others. There'll
always be somebody. You see, I had thought
I'd have them at the Strata.''
``Tommy Dunn--at the Strata!''
Billy laughed again ruefully.
``O dear! You sound just like Bertram,'' she
pouted. ``He didn't want Tommy, either, nor
any of the rest of them.''
``The rest of them!''
``Well, I could have had a lot more, you know,
the Strata is so big, especially now that Cyril
has gone, and left all those empty rooms. _I_ got
real enthusiastic, but Bertram didn't. He just
laughed and said `nonsense!' until he found I
was really in earnest; then he--well, he said
`nonsense,' then, too--only he didn't laugh,''
finished Billy, with a sigh.
Aunt Hannah regarded her with fond, though
slightly exasperated eyes.
``Billy, you are, indeed, a most extraordinary
young woman--at times. Surely, with you, a
body never knows what to expect--except the
unexpected.''
``Why, Aunt Hannah!--and from you, too!''
reproached Billy, mischievously; but Aunt Hannah
had yet more to say.
``Of course Bertram thought it was nonsense.
The idea of you, a bride, filling up your house
with--with people like that! Tommy Dunn,
indeed!''
``Oh, Bertram said he liked Tommy all right,''
sighed Billy; ``but he said that that didn't mean
he wanted him for three meals a day. One would
think poor Tommy was a breakfast food! So
that is when I thought of keeping up this house,
you see, and that's why I want you here--to
take charge of it. And you'll do that--for me,
won't you?''
Aunt Hannah fell back in her chair.
Why, y-yes, Billy, of course, if--if you want
it. But what an extraordinary idea, child!''
Billy shook her head. A deeper color came to
her cheeks, and a softer glow to her eyes.
``I don't think so, Aunt Hannah. It's only
that I'm so happy that some of it has just got to
overflow somewhere, and this is going to be the
overflow house--a sort of safety valve for me,
you see. I'm going to call it the Annex--it will
be an annex to our home. And I want to keep it
full, always, of people who--who can make the
best use of all that extra happiness that I can't
possibly use myself,'' she finished a little
tremulously. ``Don't you see?''
``Oh, yes, I _see_,'' replied Aunt Hannah, with a
fond shake of the head.
``But, really, listen--it's sensible,'' urged
Billy. ``First, there's Tommy. His mother died
last month. He's at a neighbor's now, but they're
going to send him to a Home for Crippled Children;
and he's grieving his heart out over it.
I'm going to bring him here to a real home--
the kind that doesn't begin with a capital letter.
He adores music, and he's got real talent, I think.
Then there's the Greggorys.''
Aunt Hannah looked dubious.
``You can't get the Greggorys to--to use any
of that happiness, Billy. They're too proud.''
Billy smiled radiantly.
``I know I can't get them to _use_ it, Aunt
Hannah, but I believe I can get them to _give_ it,''
she declared triumphantly. ``I shall ask Alice
Greggory to teach Tommy music, and I shall
ask Mrs. Greggory to teach him books; and I
shall tell them both that I positively need them
to keep you company.''
``Oh, but Billy,'' bridled Aunt Hannah, with
prompt objection.
``Tut, tut!--I know you'll be willing to be
thrown as a little bit of a sop to the Greggorys'
pride,'' coaxed Billy. ``You just wait till I get
the Overflow Annex in running order. Why,
Aunt Hannah, you don't know how busy you're
going to be handing out all that extra happiness
that I can't use!''
``You dear child!'' Aunt Hannah smiled
mistily. The black shawl had fallen unheeded
to the floor now. ``As if anybody ever had any
more happiness than one's self could use!''
``I have,'' avowed Billy, promptly, ``and it's
going to keep growing and growing, I know.''
``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, don't!''
exclaimed Aunt Hannah, lifting shocked hands of
remonstrance. ``Rap on wood--do! How can
you boast like that?''
Billy dimpled roguishly and sprang to her feet{.??}
``Why, Aunt Hannah, I'm ashamed of you!
To be superstitious like that--you, a good
Presbyterian!''
Aunt Hannah subsided shamefacedly.
``Yes, I know, Billy, it is silly; but I just can't
help it.''
``Oh, but it's worse than silly, Aunt Hannah,''
teased Billy, with a remorseless chuckle. ``It's
really _heathen!_ Bertram told me once that it
dates 'way back to the time of the Druids--
appealing to the god of trees, or something like that
--when you rap on wood, you know.''
``Ugh!'' shuddered Aunt Hannah. ``As if
I would, Billy! How is Bertram, by the by?''
A swift shadow crossed Billy's bright face.
``He's lovely--only his arm.''
``His arm! But I thought that was better.''
``Oh, it is,'' drooped Billy, ``but it gets along
so slowly, and it frets him dreadfully. You know
he never can do anything with his left hand, he
says, and he just hates to have things done for
him--though Pete and Dong Ling are quarreling
with each other all the time to do things for
him, and I'm quarreling with both of them to do
them for him myself! By the way, Dong Ling
is going to leave us next week. Did you know
it?''
``Dong Ling--leave!''
``Yes. Oh, he told Bertram long ago he
should go when we were married; that he had
plenty much money, and was going back to China,
and not be Melican man any longer. But I don't
think Bertram thought he'd do it. William says
Dong Ling went to Pete, however, after we left,
and told him he wanted to go; that he liked the
little Missee plenty well, but that there'd be too
much hen-talk when she got back, and--''
``Why, the impudent creature!''
Billy laughed merrily.
``Yes; Pete was furious, William says, but
Dong Ling didn't mean any disrespect, I'm sure.
He just wasn't used to having petticoats around,
and didn't want to take orders from them; that's
all.''
``But, Billy, what will you do?''
``Oh, Pete's fixed all that lovely,'' returned
Billy, nonchalantly. ``You know his niece lives
over in South Boston, and it seems she's got a
daughter who's a fine cook and will be glad to
come. Mercy! Look at the time,'' she broke off,
glancing at the clock. ``I shall be late to dinner,
and Dong Ling loathes anybody who's late to his
meals--as I found out to my sorrow the night
we got home. Good-by, dear. I'll be out soon
again and fix it all up--about the Annex, you
know.'' And with a bright smile she was gone.
``Dear me,'' sighed Aunt Hannah, stooping to
pick up the black shawl; ``dear me! Of course
everything will be all right--there's a girl coming,
even if Dong Ling is going. But--but--
Oh, my grief and conscience, what an extraordinary
child Billy is, to be sure--but what a dear
one!'' she added, wiping a quick tear from her
eye. ``An Overflow Annex, indeed, for her `extra
happiness'! Now isn't that just like Billy?''
CHAPTER V
TIGER SKINS
September passed and October came, bringing
with it cool days and clear, crisp evenings royally
ruled over by a gorgeous harvest moon. According
to Billy everything was just perfect--except,
of course, poor Bertram's arm; and even the
fact that that gained so slowly was not without
its advantage (again according to Billy), for it
gave Bertram more time to be with her.
``You see, dear, as long as you _can't_ paint,'' she
told him earnestly, one day, ``why, I'm not
really hindering you by keeping you with me so
much.''
``You certainly are not,'' he retorted, with a
smile.
``Then I may be just as happy as I like over
it,'' settled Billy, comfortably.
``As if you ever could hinder me,'' he ridiculed.
``Oh, yes, I could,'' nodded Billy, emphatically.
``You forget, sir. That was what worried
me so. Everybody, even the newspapers and
magazines, said I _would_ do it, too. They said I'd
slay your Art, stifle your Ambition, destroy your
Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally. And
Kate said--''
``Yes. Well, never mind what Kate said,''
interrupted the man, savagely.
Billy laughed, and gave his ear a playful
tweak.
``All right; but I'm not going to do it, you
know--spoil your career, sir. You just wait,''
she continued dramatically. ``The minute your
arm gets so you can paint, I myself shall conduct
you to your studio, thrust the brushes into your
hand, fill your palette with all the colors of the
rainbow, and order you to paint, my lord, paint!
But--until then I'm going to have you all I
like,'' she finished, with a complete change of
manner, nestling into the ready curve of his good
left arm.
``You witch!'' laughed the man, fondly.
``Why, Billy, you couldn't hinder me. You'll _be_
my inspiration, dear, instead of slaying it. You'll
see. _This_ time Marguerite Winthrop's portrait
is going to be a success.''
Billy turned quickly.
``Then you are--that is, you haven't--I
mean, you're going to--paint it?''
``I just am,'' avowed the artist. ``And this
time it'll be a success, too, with you to help.''
Billy drew in her breath tremulously.
``I didn't know but you'd already started it,''
she faltered.
He shook his head.
``No. After the other one failed, and Mr.
Winthrop asked me to try again, I couldn't _then_.
I was so troubled over you. That's the time you
did hinder me,'' he smiled. ``Then came your
note breaking the engagement. Of course I knew
too much to attempt a thing like that portrait
then. But now--_now_--!'' The pause and the
emphasis were eloquent.
``Of course, _now_,'' nodded Billy, brightly, but
a little feverishly. ``And when do you begin?''
``Not till January. Miss Winthrop won't be
back till then. I saw J. G. last week, and I told
him I'd accept his offer to try again.''
``What did he say?''
``He gave my left hand a big grip and said:
`Good!--and you'll win out this time.' ''
``Of course you will,'' nodded Billy, again,
though still a little feverishly. ``And this time
I sha'n't mind a bit if you do stay to luncheon,
and break engagements with me, sir,'' she went
on, tilting her chin archly, ``for I shall know it's
the portrait and not the sitter that's really
keeping you. Oh, you'll see what a fine artist's wife
I'll make!''
``The very best,'' declared Bertram so ardently
that Billy blushed, and shook her head in reproof.
``Nonsense! I wasn't fishing. I didn't mean it
that way,'' she protested. Then, as he tried to
catch her, she laughed and danced teasingly out
of his reach.
Because Bertram could not paint, therefore,
Billy had him quite to herself these October days;
nor did she hesitate to appropriate him. Neither,
on his part, was Bertram loath to be appropriated.
Like two lovers they read and walked and talked
together, and like two children, sometimes, they
romped through the stately old rooms with
Spunkie, or with Tommy Dunn, who was a frequent
guest. Spunkie, be it known, was renewing
her kittenhood, so potent was the influence of
the dangling strings and rolling balls that she
encountered everywhere; and Tommy Dunn, with
Billy's help, was learning that not even a pair
of crutches need keep a lonely little lad from a
frolic. Even William, roused from his after-
dinner doze by peals of laughter, was sometimes
inveigled into activities that left him breathless,
but curiously aglow. While Pete, polishing silver
in the dining-room down-stairs, smiled indulgently
at the merry clatter above--and forgot
the teasing pain in his side.
But it was not all nonsense with Billy, nor gay
laughter. More often it was a tender glow in the
eyes, a softness in the voice, a radiant something
like an aura of joy all about her, that told how
happy indeed were these days for her. There
was proof by word of mouth, too--long talks
with Bertram in the dancing firelight when they
laid dear plans for the future, and when she tried
so hard to make her husband understand what a
good, good wife she intended to be, and how she
meant never to let anything come between them.
It was so earnest and serious a Billy by this
time that Bertram would turn startled, dismayed
eyes on his young wife; whereupon, with a very
Billy-like change of mood, she would give him
one of her rare caresses, and perhaps sigh:
``Goosey--it's only because I'm so happy,
happy, happy! Why, Bertram, if it weren't for
that Overflow Annex I believe I--I just couldn't
live!
It was Bertram who sighed then, and who
prayed fervently in his heart that never might he
see a real shadow cloud that dear face.
Thus far, certainly, the cares of matrimony
had rested anything but heavily upon the shapely
young shoulders of the new wife. Domestic affairs
at the Strata moved like a piece of well-oiled
machinery. Dong Ling, to be sure, was not there;
but in his place reigned Pete's grandniece, a fresh-
faced, capable young woman who (Bertram
declared) cooked like an angel and minded her own
business like a man. Pete, as of yore, had full
charge of the house; and a casual eye would see
few changes. Even the brothers themselves saw
few, for that matter.
True, at the very first, Billy had donned a
ruffled apron and a bewitching dust-cap, and had
traversed the house from cellar to garret with a
prettily important air of ``managing things,'' as
she suggested changes right and left. She had
summoned Pete, too, for three mornings in
succession, and with great dignity had ordered the
meals for the day. But when Bertram was
discovered one evening tugging back his favorite
chair, and when William had asked if Billy were
through using his pipe-tray, the young wife had
concluded to let things remain about as they
were. And when William ate no breakfast one
morning, and Bertram aggrievedly refused dessert
that night at dinner, Billy--learning through an
apologetic Pete that Master William always had
to have eggs for breakfast no matter what else
there was, and that Master Bertram never ate
boiled rice--gave up planning the meals. True,
for three more mornings she summoned Pete for
``orders,'' but the orders were nothing more nor
less than a blithe ``Well, Pete, what are we going
to have for dinner to-day?'' By the end of a
week even this ceremony was given up, and before
a month had passed, Billy was little more
than a guest in her own home, so far as
responsibility was concerned.
Billy was not idle, however; far from it. First,
there were the delightful hours with Bertram.
Then there was her music: Billy was writing a
new song--the best she had ever written, Billy
declared.
``Why, Bertram, it can't help being that,'' she
said to her husband, one day. ``The words just
sang themselves to me right out of my heart;
and the melody just dropped down from the sky.
And now, everywhere, I'm hearing the most
wonderful harmonies. The whole universe is
singing to me. If only now I can put it on paper
what I hear! Then I can make the whole
universe sing to some one else!''
Even music, however, had to step one side for
the wedding calls which were beginning to be
received, and which must be returned, in spite
of the occasional rebellion of the young husband.
There were the more intimate friends to be seen,
also, and Cyril and Marie to be visited. And
always there was the Annex.
The Annex was in fine running order now, and
was a source of infinite satisfaction to its founder
and great happiness to its beneficiaries. Tommy
Dunn was there, learning wonderful things from
books and still more wonderful things from the
piano in the living-room. Alice Greggory and
her mother were there, too--the result of much
persuasion. Indeed, according to Bertram, Billy
had been able to fill the Annex only by telling
each prospective resident that he or she was
absolutely necessary to the welfare and happiness
of every other resident. Not that the house was
full, either. There were still two unoccupied
rooms.
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