Calderwell had met Mr. M. J. Arkwright in London through a common friend; since then they had tramped half over Europe together in a comradeship that was as delightful as it was unusual. As Calderwell put it in a letter to his sister, Belle:
“We smoke the same cigar and drink the same tea (he's just as much of an old woman on that subject as I am!), and we agree beautifully on all necessary points of living, from tipping to late sleeping in the morning; while as for politics and religion—we disagree in those just enough to lend spice to an otherwise tame existence.”
Farther along in this same letter Calderwell touched upon his new friend again.
“I admit, however, I would like to know his name. To find out what that mysterious 'M. J.' stands for has got to be pretty nearly an obsession with me. I am about ready to pick his pocket or rifle his trunk in search of some lurking 'Martin' or 'John' that will set me at peace. As it is, I confess that I have ogled his incoming mail and his outgoing baggage shamelessly, only to be slapped in the face always and everlastingly by that bland 'M. J.' I've got my revenge, now, though. To myself I call him 'Mary Jane'—and his broad-shouldered, brown-bearded six feet of muscular manhood would so like to be called 'Mary Jane'! By the way, Belle, if you ever hear of murder and sudden death in my direction, better set the sleuths on the trail of Arkwright. Six to one you'll find I called him 'Mary Jane' to his face!”
Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as he sat at a small table in a Paris café. Opposite him was the six feet of muscular manhood, broad shoulders, pointed brown beard, and all—and he had just addressed it, inadvertently, as “Mary Jane.”
During the brief, sickening moment of silence after the name had left his lips, Calderwell was conscious of a whimsical realization of the lights, music, and laughter all about him.
“Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!” he was thinking. Then Arkwright spoke.
“How long since you've been in correspondence with members of my family?”
“Eh?”
Arkwright laughed grimly.
“Perhaps you thought of it yourself, then—I'll admit you're capable of it,” he nodded, reaching for a cigar. “But it so happens you hit upon my family's favorite name for me.”
“Mary Jane! You mean they actually call you that?”
“Yes,” bowed the big fellow, calmly, as he struck a light. “Appropriate!—don't you think?”
Calderwell did not answer. He thought he could not.
“Well, silence gives consent, they say,” laughed the other. “Anyhow, you must have had some reason for calling me that.”
“Arkwright, what does 'M. J.' stand for?” demanded Calderwell.
“Oh, is that it?” smiled the man opposite. “Well, I'll own those initials have been something of a puzzle to people. One man declares they're 'Merely Jokes'; but another, not so friendly, says they stand for 'Mostly Jealousy' of more fortunate chaps who have real names for a handle. My small brothers and sisters, discovering, with the usual perspicacity of one's family on such matters, that I never signed, or called myself anything but 'M. J.,' dubbed me 'Mary Jane.' And there you have it.”
“Mary Jane! You!”
Arkwright smiled oddly.
“Oh, well, what's the difference? Would you deprive them of their innocent amusement? And they do so love that 'Mary Jane'! Besides, what's in a name, anyway?” he went on, eyeing the glowing tip of the cigar between his fingers. “'A rose by any other name—'—you've heard that, probably. Names don't always signify, my dear fellow. For instance, I know a 'Billy'—but he's a girl.”
Calderwell gave a sudden start.
“You don't mean Billy—Neilson?”
The other turned sharply.
“Do you know Billy Neilson?”
Calderwell gave his friend a glance from scornful eyes.
“Do I know Billy Neilson?” he cried. “Does a fellow usually know the girl he's proposed to regularly once in three months? Oh, I know I'm telling tales out of school, of course,” he went on, in response to the look that had come into the brown eyes opposite. “But what's the use? Everybody knows it—that knows us. Billy herself got so she took it as a matter of course—and refused as a matter of course, too; just as she would refuse a serving of apple pie at dinner, if she hadn't wanted it.”
“Apple pie!” scouted Arkwright.
Calderwell shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear fellow, you don't seem to realize it, but for the last six months you have been assisting at the obsequies of a dead romance.”
“Indeed! And is it—buried, yet?”
“Oh, no,” sighed Calderwell, cheerfully. “I shall go back one of these days, I'll warrant, and begin the same old game again; though I will acknowledge that the last refusal was so very decided that it's been a year, almost, since I received it. I think I was really convinced, for a while, that—that she didn't want that apple pie,” he finished with a whimsical lightness that did not quite coincide with the stern lines that had come to his mouth.
For a moment there was silence, then Calderwell spoke again.
“Where did you know—Miss Billy?”
“Oh, I don't know her at all. I know of her—through Aunt Hannah.”
Calderwell sat suddenly erect.
“Aunt Hannah! Is she your aunt, too? Jove! This is a little old world, after all; isn't it?”
“She isn't my aunt. She's my mother's third cousin. None of us have seen her for years, but she writes to mother occasionally; and, of course, for some time now, her letters have been running over full of Billy. She lives with her, I believe; doesn't she?”
“She does,” rejoined Calderwell, with an unexpected chuckle. “I wonder if you know how she happened to live with her, at first.”
“Why, no, I reckon not. What do you mean?”
Calderwell chuckled again.
“Well, I'll tell you. You, being a 'Mary Jane,' ought to appreciate it. You see, Billy was named for one William Henshaw, her father's chum, who promptly forgot all about her. At eighteen, Billy, being left quite alone in the world, wrote to 'Uncle William' and asked to come and live with him.”
“Well?”
“But it wasn't well. William was a forty-year-old widower who lived with two younger brothers, an old butler, and a Chinese cook in one of those funny old Beacon Street houses in Boston. 'The Strata,' Bertram called it. Bright boy—Bertram!”
“The Strata!”
“Yes. I wish you could see that house, Arkwright. It's a regular layer cake. Cyril—he's the second brother; must be thirty-four or five now—lives on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless, music-mad existence—just a plain crank. Below him comes William. William collects things—everything from tenpenny nails to teapots, I should say, and they're all there in his rooms. Farther down somewhere comes Bertram. He's the Bertram Henshaw, you understand; the artist.”
“Not the 'Face-of-a-Girl' Henshaw?”
“The same; only of course four years ago he wasn't quite so well known as he is now. Well, to resume and go on. It was into this house, this masculine paradise ruled over by Pete and Dong Ling in the kitchen, that Billy's naïve request for a home came.”
“Great Scott!” breathed Arkwright, appreciatively.
“Yes. Well, the letter was signed 'Billy.' They took her for a boy, naturally, and after something of a struggle they agreed to let 'him' come. For his particular delectation they fixed up a room next to Bertram with guns and fishing rods, and such ladylike specialties; and William went to the station to meet the boy.”
“With never a suspicion?”
“With never a suspicion.”
“Gorry!”
“Well, 'he' came, and 'she' conquered. I guess things were lively for a while, though. Oh, there was a kitten, too, I believe, 'Spunk,' who added to the gayety of nations.”
“But what did the Henshaws do?”
“Well, I wasn't there, of course; but Bertram says they spun around like tops gone mad for a time, but finally quieted down enough to summon a married sister for immediate propriety, and to establish Aunt Hannah for permanency the next day.”
“So that's how it happened! Well, by George!” cried Arkwright.
“Yes,” nodded the other. “So you see there are untold possibilities just in a name. Remember that. Just suppose you, as Mary Jane, should beg a home in a feminine household—say in Miss Billy's, for instance!”
“I'd like to,” retorted Arkwright, with sudden warmth.
Calderwell stared a little.
The other laughed shamefacedly.
“Oh, it's only that I happen to have a devouring curiosity to meet that special young lady. I sing her songs (you know she's written some dandies!), I've heard a lot about her, and I've seen her picture.” (He did not add that he had also purloined that same picture from his mother's bureau—the picture being a gift from Aunt Hannah.) “So you see I would, indeed, like to occupy a corner in the fair Miss Billy's household. I could write to Aunt Hannah and beg a home with her, you know; eh?”
“Of course! Why don't you—'Mary Jane'?” laughed Calderwell. “Billy'd take you all right. She's had a little Miss Hawthorn, a music teacher, there for months. She's always doing stunts of that sort. Belle writes me that she's had a dozen forlornites there all this last summer, two or three at a time-tired widows, lonesome old maids, and crippled kids—just to give them a royal good time. So you see she'd take you, without a doubt. Jove! what a pair you'd make: Miss Billy and Mr. Mary Jane! You'd drive the suffragettes into conniption fits—just by the sound of you!”
Arkwright laughed quietly; then he frowned.
“But how about it?” he asked. “I thought she was keeping house with Aunt Hannah. Didn't she stay at all with the Henshaws?”
“Oh, yes, a few months. I never knew just why she did leave, but I fancied, from something Billy herself said once, that she discovered she was creating rather too much of an upheaval in the Strata. So she took herself off. She went to school, and travelled considerably. She was over here when I met her first. After that she was with us all one summer on the yacht. A couple of years ago, or so, she went back to Boston, bought a house and settled down with Aunt Hannah.”
“And she's not married—or even engaged?”
“Wasn't the last I heard. I haven't seen her since December, and I've heard from her only indirectly. She corresponds with my sister, and so do I—intermittently. I heard a month ago from Belle, and she had a letter from Billy in August. But I heard nothing of any engagement.”
“How about the Henshaws? I should think there might be a chance there for a romance—a charming girl, and three unattached men.”
Calderwell gave a slow shake of the head.
“I don't think so. William is—let me see—nearly forty-five, I guess, by this time; and he isn't a marrying man. He buried his heart with his wife and baby years ago. Cyril, according to Bertram, 'hates women and all other confusion,' so that ought to let him out. As for Bertram himself—Bertram is 'only Bertram.' He's always been that. Bertram loves girls—to paint; but I can't imagine him making serious love to any one. It would always be the tilt of a chin or the turn of a cheek that he was admiring—to paint. No, there's no chance for a romance there, I'll warrant.”
“But there's—yourself.”
Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch.
“Oh, of course. I presume January or February will find me back there,” he admitted with a sigh and a shrug. Then, a little bitterly, he added: “No, Arkwright. I shall keep away if I can. I know there's no chance for me—now.”
“Then you'll leave me a clear field?” bantered the other.
“Of course—'Mary Jane,'” retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, you needn't,” laughed Calderwell. “My giving you the right of way doesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself—there are others, you know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man who wins it—for the man who wins that, wins her.”
There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throng outside the window near them. Perhaps he had not heard. At all events, when he spoke some time later, it was of a matter far removed from Miss Billy Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentioned between them again that day.
Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said:
“Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that trip to the lakes with you. I—I'm going home next week.”
“Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather sudden?”
“Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly enough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing and boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you know, really.”
“Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know it.”
“Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook.”
“You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time,” grinned Calderwell.
“Thanks. You know well enough what I mean,” shrugged the other.
There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried:
“Arkwright, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?”
“Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be supplemented now, I reckon.”
“What are you going to do?”
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, came the answer:
“Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably—in vaudeville.”
Calderwell smiled appreciatively.
“You can sing like the devil,” he admitted.
“Thanks,” returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. “Do you mind calling it 'an angel'—just for this occasion?”
“Oh, the matinée-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?”
“Let 'em alone.”
“Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be 'Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be 'Señor Martini Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J.' really did stand for,” hinted Calderwell, shamelessly.
“'Merely Jokes'—in your estimation, evidently,” shrugged the other. “But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going to work.”
“But—how shall you manage?”
“Time will tell.”
Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair.
“But, honestly, now, to—to follow that trail of yours will take money. And—er—” a faint red stole to his forehead—“don't they have—er—patrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why can't I have a hand in this trail, too—or maybe you'd call it a foot, eh? I'd be no end glad to, Arkwright.”
“Thanks, old man.” The red was duplicated this time above the brown silky beard. “That was mighty kind of you, and I appreciate it; but it won't be necessary. A generous, but perhaps misguided bachelor uncle left me a few thousands a year or so ago; and I'm going to put them all down my throat—or rather, into it—before I give up.”
“Where you going to study? New York?”
Again there was an almost imperceptible hesitation before the answer came.
“I'm not quite prepared to say.”
“Why not try it here?”
Arkwright shook his head.
“I did plan to, when I came over but I've changed my mind. I believe I'd rather work while longer in America.”
“Hm-m,” murmured Calderwell.
There was a brief silence, followed by other questions and other answers; after which the friends said good night.
In his own room, as he was dropping off to sleep, Calderwell muttered drowsily:
“By George! I haven't found out yet what that blamed 'M. J.' stands for!”
In the cozy living-room at Hillside, Billy Neilson's pretty home on Corey Hill, Billy herself sat writing at the desk. Her pen had just traced the date, “October twenty-fifth,” when Mrs. Stetson entered with a letter in her hand.
“Writing, my dear? Then don't let me disturb you.” She turned as if to go.
Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew to the little woman's side and whirled her half across the room.
“There!” she exclaimed, as she plumped the breathless and scandalized Aunt Hannah into the biggest easy chair. “I feel better. I just had to let off steam some way. It's so lovely you came in just when you did!”
“Indeed! I—I'm not so sure of that,” stammered the lady, dropping the letter into her lap, and patting with agitated fingers her cap, her curls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the lace at her throat. “My grief and conscience, Billy! Wors't you ever grow up?”
“Hope not,” purred Billy cheerfully, dropping herself on to a low hassock at Aunt Hannah's feet.
“But, my dear, you—you're engaged!”
Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh.
“As if I didn't know that, when I've just written a dozen notes to announce it! And, oh, Aunt Hannah, such a time as I've had, telling what a dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, love him, and what beautiful eyes he has, and such a nose, and—”
“Billy!” Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in pale horror.
“Eh?” Billy's eyes were roguish.
“You didn't write that in those notes!”
“Write it? Oh, no! That's only what I wanted to write,” chuckled Billy. “What I really did write was as staid and proper as—here, let me show you,” she broke off, springing to her feet and running over to her desk. “There! this is about what I wrote to them all,” she finished, whipping a note out of one of the unsealed envelopes on the desk and spreading it open before Aunt Hannah's suspicious eyes.
“Hm-m; that is very good—for you,” admitted the lady.
“Well, I like that!—after all my stern self-control and self-sacrifice to keep out all those things I wanted to write,” bridled Billy. “Besides, they'd have been ever so much more interesting reading than these will be,” she pouted, as she took the note from her companion's hand.
“I don't doubt it,” observed Aunt Hannah, dryly.
Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the desk.
“I'm writing to Belle Calderwell, now,” she announced musingly, dropping herself again on the hassock. “I suppose she'll tell Hugh.”
“Poor boy! He'll be disappointed.”
Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little.
“He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, that—that I couldn't.”
“I know, dear; but—they don't always understand.” Aunt Hannah sighed in sympathy with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked down at the bright young face near her.
There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh.
“He will be surprised,” she said. “He told me once that Bertram wouldn't ever care for any girl except to paint. To paint, indeed! As if Bertram didn't love me—just me!—if he never saw another tube of paint!”
“I think he does, my dear.”
Again there was silence; then, from Billy's lips there came softly:
“Just think; we've been engaged almost four weeks—and to-morrow it'll be announced. I'm so glad I didn't ever announce the other two!”
“The other two!” cried Aunt Hannah.
Billy laughed.
“Oh, I forgot. You didn't know about Cyril.”
“Cyril!”
“Oh, there didn't anybody know it, either not even Cyril himself,” dimpled Billy, mischievously. “I just engaged myself to him in imagination, you know, to see how I'd like it. I didn't like it. But it didn't last, anyhow, very long—just three weeks, I believe. Then I broke it off,” she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing eyes.
“Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah, feebly.
“But I am glad only the family knew about my engagement to Uncle William—oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it does seem to call him 'Uncle' again. It was always slipping out, anyhow, all the time we were engaged; and of course it was awful then.”
“That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, from the start.”
A bright color flooded Billy's face.
“I know; but if a girl will think a man is asking for a wife when all he wants is a daughter, and if she blandly says 'Yes, thank you, I'll marry you,' I don't know what you can expect!”
“You can expect just what you got—misery, and almost a tragedy,” retorted Aunt Hannah, severely.
A tender light came into Billy's eyes.
“Dear Uncle William! What a jewel he was, all the way through! And he'd have marched straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an eyelid, I know—self-sacrificing martyr that he was!”
“Martyr!” bristled Aunt Hannah, with extraordinary violence for her. “I'm thinking that term belonged somewhere else. A month ago, Billy Neilson, you did not look as if you'd live out half your days. But I suppose you'd have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an eyelid!”
“But I thought I had to,” protested Billy. “I couldn't grieve Uncle William so, after Mrs. Hartwell had said how he—he wanted me.”
Aunt Hannah's lips grew stern at the corners.
“There are times when—when I think it would be wiser if Mrs. Kate Hartwell would attend to her own affairs!” Aunt Hannah's voice fairly shook with wrath.
“Why-Aunt Hannah!” reproved Billy in mischievous horror. “I'm shocked at you!”
Aunt Hannah flushed miserably.
“There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, of course,” she murmured agitatedly.
Billy laughed.
“You should have heard what Uncle William said! But never mind. We all found out the mistake before it was too late, and everything is lovely now, even to Cyril and Marie. Did you ever see anything so beatifically happy as that couple are? Bertram says he hasn't heard a dirge from Cyril's rooms for three weeks; and that if anybody else played the kind of music he's been playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!”
“Music! Oh, my grief and conscience! That makes me think, Billy. If I'm not actually forgetting what I came in here for,” cried Aunt Hannah, fumbling in the folds of her dress for the letter that had slipped from her lap. “I've had word from a young niece. She's going to study music in Boston.”
“A niece?”
“Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt,' just as you and the Henshaw boys do. But I really am related to her, for her mother and I are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to the Henshaw family.”
“What's her name?”
“'Mary Jane Arkwright.' Where is that letter?”
“Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy. “Were you going to read it to me?” she asked, as she picked it up.
“Yes—if you don't mind.”
“I'd love to hear it.”
“Then I'll read it. It—it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought the whole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer—that I was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago. But this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it—at least, as if this girl didn't.”
“How old is she?”
“I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to study music, alone—singing, I think she said.”
“You don't remember her, then?”
Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its envelope.
“No—but that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of them for years. I know there are several children—and I suppose I've been told their names. I know there's a boy—the eldest, I think—who is quite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't seem to remember a 'Mary Jane.'”
“Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself,” suggested Billy, dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling herself to listen.
“Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began to read.
“Grand Opera! Oh, how perfectly lovely,” cried Billy.
“Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting me to invite her to make her home with me? I shall have to write and explain that I can't—if she does, of course.”
Billy frowned and hesitated.
“Why, it sounded—a little—that way; but—” Suddenly her face cleared. “Aunt Hannah, I've thought of the very thing. We will take her!”
“Oh, Billy, I couldn't think of letting you do that,” demurred Aunt Hannah. “You're very kind—but, oh, no; not that!”
“Why not? I think it would be lovely; and we can just as well as not. After Marie is married in December, she can have that room. Until then she can have the little blue room next to me.”
“But—but—we don't know anything about her.”
“We know she's your niece, and she's lonesome; and we know she's musical. I shall love her for every one of those things. Of course we'll take her!”
“But—I don't know anything about her age.”
“All the more reason why she should be looked out for, then,” retorted Billy, promptly. “Why, Aunt Hannah, just as if you didn't want to give this lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!”
“Oh, I do, of course; but—”
“Then it's all settled,” interposed Billy, springing to her feet.
“But what if we—we shouldn't like her?”
“Nonsense! What if she shouldn't like us?” laughed Billy. “However, if you'd feel better, just ask her to come and stay with us a month. We shall keep her all right, afterwards. See if we don't!”
Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet.
“Very well, dear. I'll write, of course, as you tell me to; and it's lovely of you to do it. Now I'll leave you to your letters. I've hindered you far too long, as it is.”
“You've rested me,” declared Billy, flinging wide her arms.
Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl impelled by those same young arms, drew her shawls about her shoulders and backed hastily toward the hall door.
Billy laughed.
“Oh, I won't again—to-day,” she promised merrily. Then, as the lady reached the arched doorway: “Tell Mary Jane to let us know the day and train and we'll meet her. Oh, and Aunt Hannah, tell her to wear a pink—a white pink; and tell her we will, too,” she finished gayly.
Bertram called that evening. Before the open fire in the living-room he found a pensive Billy awaiting him—a Billy who let herself be kissed, it is true, and who even kissed back, shyly, adorably; but a Billy who looked at him with wide, almost frightened eyes.
“Why, darling, what's the matter?” he demanded, his own eyes growing wide and frightened.
“Bertram, it's—done!”
“What's done? What do you mean?”
“Our engagement. It's—announced. I wrote stacks of notes to-day, and even now there are some left for to-morrow. And then there's—the newspapers. Bertram, right away, now, everybody will know it.” Her voice was tragic.
Bertram relaxed visibly. A tender light came to his eyes.
“Well, didn't you expect everybody would know it, my dear?”
“Y-yes; but—”
At her hesitation, the tender light changed to a quick fear.
“Billy, you aren't—sorry?”
The pink glory that suffused her face answered him before her words did.
“Sorry! Oh, never, Bertram! It's only that it won't be ours any longer—that is, it won't belong to just our two selves. Everybody will know it. And they'll bow and smile and say 'How lovely!' to our faces, and 'Did you ever?' to our backs. Oh, no, I'm not sorry, Bertram; but I am—afraid.”
“Afraid—Billy!”
“Yes.”
Billy sighed, and gazed with pensive eyes into the fire.
Across Bertram's face swept surprise, consternation, and dismay. Bertram had thought he knew Billy in all her moods and fancies; but he did not know her in this one.
“Why, Billy!” he breathed.
Billy drew another sigh. It seemed to come from the very bottoms of her small, satin-slippered feet.
“Well, I am. You're the Bertram Henshaw. You know lots and lots of people that I never even saw. And they'll come and stand around and stare and lift their lorgnettes and say: 'Is that the one? Dear me!'”
Bertram gave a relieved laugh.
“Nonsense, sweetheart! I should think you were a picture I'd painted and hung on a wall.”
“I shall feel as if I were—with all those friends of yours. Bertram, what if they don't like it?” Her voice had grown tragic again.
“Like it!”
“Yes. The picture—me, I mean.”
“They can't help liking it,” he retorted, with the prompt certainty of an adoring lover.
Billy shook her head. Her eyes had gone back to the fire.
“Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. 'What, she—Bertram Henshaw's wife?—a frivolous, inconsequential “Billy” like that?' Bertram!”—Billy turned fiercely despairing eyes on her lover—“Bertram, sometimes I wish my name were 'Clarissa Cordelia,' or 'Arabella Maud,' or 'Hannah Jane'—anything that's feminine and proper!”
Bertram's ringing laugh brought a faint smile to Billy's lips. But the words that followed the laugh, and the caressing touch of the man's hands sent a flood of shy color to her face.
“'Hannah Jane,' indeed! As if I'd exchange my Billy for her or any Clarissa or Arabella that ever grew! I adore Billy—flame, nature, and—”
“And naughtiness?” put in Billy herself.
“Yes—if there be any,” laughed Bertram, fondly. “But, see,” he added, taking a tiny box from his pocket, “see what I've brought for this same Billy to wear. She'd have had it long ago if she hadn't insisted on waiting for this announcement business.”
“Oh, Bertram, what a beauty!” dimpled Billy, as the flawless diamond in Bertram's fingers caught the light and sent it back in a flash of flame and crimson.
“Now you are mine—really mine, sweetheart!” The man's voice and hand shook as he slipped the ring on Billy's outstretched finger.
Billy caught her breath with almost a sob.
“And I'm so glad to be—yours, dear,” she murmured brokenly. “And—and I'll make you proud that I am yours, even if I am just 'Billy,'” she choked. “Oh, I know I'll write such beautiful, beautiful songs now.”
The man drew her into a close embrace.
“As if I cared for that,” he scoffed lovingly.
Billy looked up in quick horror.
“Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't—care?”
He laughed lightly, and took the dismayed little face between his two hands.
“Care, darling? of course I care! You know how I love your music. I care about everything that concerns you. I meant that I'm proud of you now—just you. I love you, you know.”
There was a moment's pause. Billy's eyes, as they looked at him, carried a curious intentness in their dark depths.
“You mean, you like—the turn of my head and the tilt of my chin?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“I adore them!” came the prompt answer.
To Bertram's utter amazement, Billy drew back with a sharp cry.
“No, no—not that!”
“Why, Billy!”
Billy laughed unexpectedly; then she sighed.
“Oh, it's all right, of course,” she assured him hastily. “It's only—” Billy stopped and blushed. Billy was thinking of what Hugh Calderwell had once said to her: that Bertram Henshaw would never love any girl seriously; that it would always be the turn of her head or the tilt of her chin that he loved—to paint.
“Well; only what?” demanded Bertram.
Billy blushed the more deeply, but she gave a light laugh.
“Nothing, only something Hugh Calderwell said to me once. You see, Bertram, I don't think Hugh ever thought you would—marry.”
“Oh, didn't he?” bridled Bertram. “Well, that only goes to show how much he knows about it. Er—did you announce it—to him?” Bertram's voice was almost savage now.
Billy smiled.
“No; but I did to his sister, and she'll tell him. Oh, Bertram, such a time as I had over those notes,” went on Billy, with a chuckle. Her eyes were dancing, and she was seeming more like her usual self, Bertram thought. “You see there were such a lot of things I wanted to say, about what a dear you were, and how much I—I liked you, and that you had such lovely eyes, and a nose—”
“Billy!” This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror.
Billy threw him a roguish glance.
“Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I wanted to say. What I really said was—quite another matter,” she finished with a saucy uptilting of her chin.
Bertram relaxed with a laugh.
“You witch!” His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. “Billy, I'm going to paint you sometime in just that pose. You're adorable!”
“Pooh! Just another face of a girl,” teased the adorable one.
Bertram gave a sudden exclamation.
“There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is.”
“To paint a portrait?”
“Yes.”
“Can't. Who is it?”
“J. G. Winthrop's daughter.”
“Not the J. G. Winthrop?”
“The same.”
“Oh, Bertram, how splendid!”
“Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Boston for years until now.”
“No, I haven't seen her. Is she so very beautiful?” Billy spoke a little soberly.
“Yes—and no.” The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called his “painting look” came to his face. “It isn't that her features are so regular—though her mouth and chin are perfect. But her face has so much character, and there's an elusive something about her eyes—Jove! If I can only catch it, it'll be the best thing yet that I've ever done, Billy.”
“Will it? I'm so glad—and you'll get it, I know you will,” claimed Billy, clearing her throat a little nervously.
“I wish I felt so sure,” sighed Bertram. “But it'll be a great thing if I do get it—J. G. Winthrop's daughter, you know, besides the merit of the likeness itself.”
“Yes; yes, indeed!” Billy cleared her throat again. “You've seen her, of course, lately?”
“Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details—sittings and costume, and deciding on the pose.”
“Did you find one—to suit?”
“Find one!” The artist made a despairing gesture. “I found a dozen that I wanted. The trouble was to tell which I wanted the most.”
Billy gave a nervous little laugh.
“Isn't that—unusual?” she asked.
Bertram lifted his eyebrows with a quizzical smile.
“Well, they aren't all Marguerite Winthrops,” he reminded her.
“Marguerite!” cried Billy. “Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do think Marguerite is the dearest name!” Billy's eyes and voice were wistful.
“I don't—not the dearest. Oh, it's all well enough, of course, but it can't be compared for a moment to—well, say, 'Billy'!”
Billy smiled, but she shook her head.
“I'm afraid you're not a good judge of names,” she objected.
“Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matter what it was.”
“Even if 'twas 'Mary Jane,' eh?” bantered Billy. “Well, you'll have a chance to find out how you like that name pretty quick, sir. We're going to have one here.”
“You're going to have a Mary Jane here? Do you mean that Rosa's going away?”
“Mercy! I hope not,” shuddered Billy. “You don't find a Rosa in every kitchen—and never in employment agencies! My Mary Jane is a niece of Aunt Hannah's,—or rather, a cousin. She's coming to Boston to study music, and I've invited her here. We've asked her for a month, though I presume we shall keep her right along.”
Bertram frowned.
“Well, of course, that's very nice for—Mary Jane,” he sighed with meaning emphasis.
Billy laughed.
“Don't worry, dear. She won't bother us any.”
“Oh, yes, she will,” sighed Bertram. “She'll be 'round—lots; you see if she isn't. Billy, I think sometimes you're almost too kind—to other folks.”
“Never!” laughed Billy. “Besides, what would you have me do when a lonesome young girl was coming to Boston? Anyhow, you're not the one to talk, young man. I've known you to take in a lonesome girl and give her a home,” she flashed merrily.
Bertram chuckled.
“Jove! What a time that was!” he exclaimed, regarding his companion with fond eyes. “And Spunk, too! Is she going to bring a Spunk?”
“Not that I've heard,” smiled Billy; “but she is going to wear a pink.”
“Not really, Billy?”
“Of course she is! I told her to. How do you suppose we could know her when we saw her, if she didn't?” demanded the girl, indignantly. “And what is more, sir, there will be two pinks worn this time. I sha'n't do as Uncle William did, and leave off my pink. Only think what long minutes—that seemed hours of misery—I spent waiting there in that train-shed, just because I didn't know which man was my Uncle William!”
Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, your Mary Jane won't probably turn out to be quite such a bombshell as our Billy did—unless she should prove to be a boy,” he added whimsically. “Oh, but Billy, she can't turn out to be such a dear treasure,” finished the man. And at the adoring look in his eyes Billy blushed deeply—and promptly forgot all about Mary Jane and her pink.
“I have a letter here from Mary Jane, my dear,” announced Aunt Hannah at the luncheon table one day.
“Have you?” Billy raised interested eyes from her own letters. “What does she say?”
“She will be here Thursday. Her train is due at the South Station at four-thirty. She seems to be very grateful to you for your offer to let her come right here for a month; but she says she's afraid you don't realize, perhaps, just what you are doing—to take her in like that, with her singing, and all.”
“Nonsense! She doesn't refuse, does she?”
“Oh, no; she doesn't refuse—but she doesn't accept either, exactly, as I can see. I've read the letter over twice, too. I'll let you judge for yourself by and by, when you have time to read it.”
Billy laughed.
“Never mind. I don't want to read it. She's just a little shy about coming, that's all. She'll stay all right, when we come to meet her. What time did you say it was, Thursday?”
“Half past four, South Station.”