BILLY, THE MYTH
To all appearances it came about very naturally that Billy did
not return to America for some time. During the summer she wrote
occasionally to William, and gave glowing accounts of their travels.
Then in September came the letter telling him that they had concluded to
stay through the winter in Paris. Billy wrote that she had decided not
to go to college. She would take up some studies there in Paris, she
said, but she would devote herself more particularly to her music.
When the next summer came there was still something other than America
to claim her attention: the Calderwells had invited her to cruise with
them for three months. Their yacht was a little floating palace of
delight, Billy declared, not to mention the charm of the unknown lands
and waters that she and Aunt Hannah would see.
Of all this Billy wrote to William--at occasional intervals--but she did
not come home. Even when the next autumn came, there was still Paris to
detain her for another long winter of study.
In the Henshaw house on Beacon Street, William mourned not a little as
each recurring season brought no Billy.
“The idea! It's just as if one didn't have a namesake!” he fumed.
“Well, did you have one?” Bertram demanded one day. “Really, Will, I'm
beginning to think she's a myth. Long years ago, from the first of
April till June we did have two frolicsome sprites here that announced
themselves as 'Billy' and 'Spunk,' I'll own. And a year later, by ways
devious and secret, we three managed to see the one called 'Billy' off
on a great steamship. Since then, what? A word--a message--a scrap of
paper. Billy's a myth, I say!”
William sighed.
“Sometimes I don't know but you are right,” he admitted. “Why, it'll
be three years next June since Billy was here. She must be nearly
twenty-one--and we know almost nothing about her.”
“That's so. I wonder--” Bertram paused, and laughed a little, “I wonder
if NOW she'd play guardian angel to me through the streets of Boston.”
William threw a keen glance into his brother's face.
“I don't believe it would be quite necessary, NOW, Bert,” he said
quietly.
The other flushed a little, but his eyes softened.
“Maybe not, Will; still--one can always find some use for--a guardian
angel, you know,” he finished, almost under his breath.
To Cyril Bertram had occasionally spoken, during the last two years,
of their first suspicions concerning Billy's absence. They speculated
vaguely, too, as to why she had gone, and if she would ever come back;
and they wondered if anything could have wounded her and sent her away.
To William they said nothing of all this, however; though they agreed
that they would have asked Kate for her opinion, had she been there.
But Kate was not there. As it chanced, a good business opportunity had
called Kate's husband to a Western town very soon after Billy herself
had gone to Hampden Falls; and since the family's removal to the West,
Mrs. Hartwell had not once returned to Boston.
It was in April, three years since Billy's first appearance in the
Beacon Street house, that Bertram met his friend, Hugh Calderwell, on
the street one afternoon, and brought him home to dinner.
Hugh Calderwell was a youth who, Bertram said, had been born with a
whole dozen silver spoons in his mouth. And, indeed, it would seem so,
if present prosperity were any indication. He was a good-looking young
fellow with a frank manliness that appealed to men, and a deferential
chivalry that appealed to women; a combination that brought him many
friends--and some enemies. With plenty of money to indulge a passion
for traveling, young Calderwell had spent the most of his time since
graduation in daring trips into the heart of almost impenetrable
forests, or to the top of almost inaccessible mountains, with an
occasional more ordinary trip to give variety. He had now come to the
point, however, where he was determined to “settle down to something
that meant something,” he told the Henshaws, as the four men smoked in
Bertram's den after dinner.
“Yes, sir, I have,” he iterated. “And, by the way, the little girl
that has set me to thinking in such good earnest is a friend of yours,
too,--Miss Neilson. I met her in Paris. She was on our yacht all last
summer.”
Three men sat suddenly erect in their chairs.
“Billy?” cried three voices. “Do you know Billy?”
“To be sure! And you do, too, she says.”
“Oh, no, we don't,” disputed Bertram, emphatically. “But we WISH we
did!”
His guest laughed.
“Well, I fancy you DO know her, or you wouldn't have answered like
that,” he retorted. “For you just begin to know Miss Billy when you find
out that you DON'T know her. She is a charming girl--a very charming
girl.”
“She is my namesake,” announced William, in what Bertram called his
“finest ever” voice that he used only for the choicest bits in his
collections.
“Yes, she told me,” smiled Calderwell. “'Billy' for 'William.' Odd
idea, too, but clever. It helps to distinguish her even more--though she
doesn't need it, for that matter.”
“'Doesn't need it,'” echoed William in a puzzled voice.
“No. Perhaps you don't know, Mr. Henshaw, but Miss Billy is a very
popular young woman. You have reason to be proud of your namesake.”
“I have always been that,” declared William, with just a touch of
hauteur.
“Tell us about her,” begged Bertram. “You remember I said that we wished
we did know her.”
Calderwell smiled.
“I don't believe, after all, that you do know much about her,” he began
musingly. “Billy is not one who talks much of herself, I fancy, in her
letters.”
William frowned. This time there was more than a touch of hauteur in his
voice.
“MISS NEILSON is not one to show vanity anywhere,” he said, with
suggestive emphasis on the name.
“Indeed she isn't,” agreed Calderwell, heartily. “She is a fine
girl--quite one of the finest I know, in fact.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Over in the corner Cyril puffed at
his cigar with an air almost of boredom. He had not spoken since his
first surprised questioning with the others, “Do you know Billy?”
William was still frowning. Even Bertram wore a look that was not quite
satisfied.
“Miss Neilson has spent two winters in Paris now, you know,” resumed
Calderwell, after a moment; “and she is very popular both with
the American colony, and with the other students. As for her 'Aunt
Hannah'--they all make a pet of her; but that is, perhaps, because Billy
herself is so devoted.”
Again William frowned at the familiar “Billy”; but Calderwell talked on
unheeding.
“After all, I'm not sure but some of us regard 'Aunt Hannah' with scant
favor, occasionally,” he laughed; “something as if she were the dragon
that guarded the princess, you know. Miss Billy IS popular with the men,
and she has suitors enough to turn any girl's head--but her own.”
“Suitors!” cried William, plainly aghast. “Why, Billy's nothing but a
child!”
Calderwell gave an odd smile.
“How long is it since you've seen--Miss Neilson?” he asked.
“Two years.”
“And then only for a few minutes just before she sailed,” amended
Bertram. “We haven't really seen much of her since three years ago.”
“Hm-m; well, you'll see for yourself soon. You know she's coming home
next month.”
Not one of the brothers did know it--but not one of them intended that
Calderwell should find out that they did not.
“Yes, she's coming home,” said William, lifting his chin a little.
“Oh, yes, next month,” added Bertram, nonchalantly.
Even Cyril across the room was not to be outdone.
“Yes. Miss Neilson comes home next month,” he said.