BILLY, THE REALITY
Very early in May came the cheery letter from Billy herself announcing
the news of her intended return.
“And I shall be so glad to see you all,” she wrote in closing. “It seems
so long since I left America.” Then she signed her name with “kindest
regards to all”--Billy did not send “love to all” any more.
William at once began to make plans for his namesake's comfort.
“But, Will, she didn't say she was coming here,” Bertram reminded him.
“She didn't need to,” smiled William, confidently. “She just took it for
granted, of course. This is her home.”
“But it hasn't been--for years. She's called Hampden Falls 'home.'”
“I know, but that was before,” demurred William, his eyes a little
anxious. “Besides, they've sold the house now, you know. There's nowhere
for her to go but here, Bertram.”
“All right,” acquiesced the younger man, still doubtingly. “Maybe that's
so; maybe! But--” he did not finish his sentence, and his eyes were
troubled as he watched his brother begin to rearrange Billy's rooms.
In time, however, so sure was William of Billy's return to the Beacon
Street house, that Bertram ceased to question; and, with almost as much
confidence as William himself displayed, he devoted his energies to the
preparations for Billy's arrival.
And what preparations they were! Even Cyril helped this time to the
extent of placing on Billy's piano a copy of his latest book, and a pile
of new music. Nor were the melodies that floated down from the upper
floor akin to funeral marches; they were perilously near to being allied
to “ragtime.”
At last everything was ready. There was not one more bit of dust to
catch Pete's eye, nor one more adornment that demanded William's careful
hand to adjust. In Billy's rooms new curtains graced the windows and new
rugs the floors. In Mrs. Stetson's, too, similar changes had been made.
The latest and best “Face of a Girl” smiled at one from above
Billy's piano, and the very rarest of William's treasures adorned the
mantelpiece. No guns nor knives nor fishing-rods met the eyes now.
Instead, at every turn, there was a hint of feminine tastes: a mirror, a
workbasket, a low sewing-chair, a stand with a tea tray. And everywhere
were roses, up-stairs and down-stairs, until the air was heavy with
their perfume. In the dining-room Pete was again “swinging back and
forth like a pendulum,” it is true; but it was a cheerful pendulum
to-day, anxious only that no time should be lost. In the kitchen alone
was there unhappiness, and there because Dong Ling had already spoiled
a whole cake of chocolate in a vain attempt to make Billy's favorite
fudge. Even Spunkie, grown now to be sleek, lazy, and majestically
indifferent, was in holiday attire, for a brand-new pink bow of huge
dimensions adorned his fat neck--for the first time in many months.
“You see,” William had explained to Bertram, “I put on that ribbon again
because I thought it would make Spunkie seem more homelike, and more
like Spunk. You know there wasn't anything Billy missed so much as that
kitten when she went abroad. Aunt Hannah said so.”
“Yes, I know,” Bertram had laughed; “but still, Spunkie isn't Spunk, you
understand!” he had finished, with a vision in his eyes of Billy as she
had looked that first night when she had triumphantly lifted from the
green basket the little gray kitten with its enormous pink bow. This
time there was no circuitous journeying, no secrecy in the trip to New
York. Quite as a matter of course the three brother made their plans to
meet Billy, and quite as a matter of course they met her. Perhaps
the only cloud in the horizon of their happiness was the presence
of Calderwell. He, too, had come to meet Billy--and all the Henshaw
brothers were vaguely conscious of a growing feeling of dislike toward
Calderwell.
Billy was unmistakably glad to see them--and to see Calderwell. It was
while she was talking to Calderwell, indeed, that William and Cyril and
Bertram had an opportunity really to see the girl, and to note what time
had done for her. They knew then, at once, that time had been very kind.
It was a slim Billy that they saw, with a head royally poised, and a
chin that was round and soft, and yet knew well its own mind. The eyes
were still appealing, in a way, yet behind the appeal lay unsounded
depths of--not one of the brothers could quite make up his mind just
what, yet all the brothers determined to find out. The hair still curled
distractingly behind the pretty ears, and fluffed into burnished bronze
where the wind had loosened it. The cheeks were paler now, though the
rose-flush still glowed warmly through the clear, smooth skin. The
mouth--Billy's mouth had always been fascinating, Bertram suddenly
decided, as he watched it now. He wanted to paint it--again. It was not
too large for beauty nor too small for strength. It curved delightfully,
and the lower lip had just the fullness and the color that he liked--to
paint, he said to himself.
William, too, was watching Billy's mouth; in fact--though he did not
know it--one never was long near Billy without noticing her mouth, if
she talked. William thought it pretty, merry, and charmingly kissable;
but just now he wished that it would talk to him, and not to Calderwell
any longer. Cyril--indeed, Cyril was paying little attention to Billy.
He had turned to Aunt Hannah. To tell the truth, it seemed to Cyril
that, after all, Billy was very much like other merry, thoughtless,
rather noisy young women, of whom he knew--and disliked--scores. It had
occurred to him suddenly that perhaps it would not be unalloyed bliss to
take this young namesake of William's home with them.
It was not until an hour later, when Billy, Aunt Hannah, and the
Henshaws had reached the hotel where they were to spend the night, that
the Henshaw brothers began really to get acquainted with Billy. She
seemed then more like their own Billy--the Billy that they had known.
“And I'm so glad to be here,” she cried; “and to see you all. America IS
the best place, after all!”
“And of America, Boston is the Hub, you know,” Bertram reminded her.
“It is,” nodded Billy.
“And it hasn't changed a mite, except to grow better. You'll see
to-morrow.”
“As if I hadn't been counting the days!” she exulted. “And now what have
you been doing--all of you?”
“Just wait till you see,” laughed Bertram. “They're all spread out for
your inspection.”
“A new 'Face of a Girl'?”
“Of course--yards of them!”
“And heaps of 'Old Blues' and 'black basalts'?” she questioned, turning
to William.
“Well, a--few,” hesitated William, modestly.
“And--the music; what of that?” Billy looked now at Cyril.
“You'll see,” he shrugged. “There's very little, after all--of
anything.”
Billy gave a wise shake of her head.
“I know better; and I want to see it all so much. We've talked and
talked of it; haven't we, Aunt Hannah?--of what we would do when we got
to Boston?”
“Yes, my dear; YOU have.”
The girl laughed.
“I accept the amendment,” she retorted with mock submission. “I suppose
it is always I who talk.”
“It was--when I painted you,” teased Bertram. “By the way, I'll LET you
talk if you'll pose again for me,” he finished eagerly.
Billy uptilted her nose.
“Do you think, sir, you deserve it, after that speech?” she demanded.
“But how about YOUR art--your music?” entreated William. “You have said
so little of that in your letters.”
Billy hesitated. For a brief moment she glanced at Cyril. He did not
appear to have heard his brother's question. He was talking with Aunt
Hannah.
“Oh, I play--some,” murmured the girl, almost evasively. “But tell me of
yourself, Uncle William, and of what you are doing.” And William needed
no second bidding.
It was some time later that Billy turned to him with an amazed
exclamation in response to something he had said.
“Home with you! Why, Uncle William, what do you mean? You didn't really
think you'd got to be troubled with ME any longer!” she cried merrily.
William's face paled, then flushed.
“I did not call it 'trouble,' Billy,” he said quietly. His grieved eyes
looked straight into hers and drove the merriment quite away.
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said gently. “And I appreciate your kindness,
indeed I do; but I couldn't--really I couldn't think of such a thing!”
“And you don't have to think of it,” cut in Bertram, who considered that
the situation was becoming much too serious. “All you have to do is to
come.”
Billy shook her head.
“You are so good, all of you! But you didn't--you really didn't think I
WAS--coming!” she protested.
“Indeed we did,” asserted Bertram, promptly; “and we have done
everything to get ready for you, too, even to rigging up Spunkie to
masquerade as Spunk. I'll warrant that Pete's nose is already flattened
against the window-pane, lest we should HAPPEN to come to-night; and
there's no telling how many cakes of chocolate Dong Ling has spoiled by
this time. We left him trying to make fudge, you know.”
Billy laughed--but she cried, too; at least, her eyes grew suddenly
moist. Bertram tried to decide afterward whether she laughed till she
cried, or cried till she laughed.
“No, no,” she demurred tremulously. “I couldn't. I really have never
intended that.”
“But why not? What are you going to do?” questioned William in a voice
that was dazed and hurt.
The first question Billy ignored. The second she answered with a
promptness and a gayety that was meant to turn the thoughts away from
the first.
“We are going to Boston, Aunt Hannah and I. We've got rooms engaged
for just now, but later we're going to take a house and live together.
That's what we're going to do.”