CYRIL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY
Long before spring Billy was forced to own to herself that her fancied
security from lovemaking on the part of Cyril no longer existed. She
began to suspect that there was reason for her fears. Cyril certainly
was “different.” He was more approachable, less reserved, even with
Marie and Aunt Hannah. He was not nearly so taciturn, either, and he
was much more gracious about his playing. Even Marie dared to ask him
frequently for music, and he never refused her request. Three times he
had taken Billy to some play that she wanted to see, and he had invited
Marie, too, besides Aunt Hannah, which had pleased Billy very much.
He had been at the same time so genial and so gallant that Billy had
declared to Marie afterward that he did not seem like himself at all,
but like some one else.
Marie had disagreed with her, it is true, and had said stiffly:
“I'm sure I thought he seemed very much like himself.” But that had not
changed Billy's opinion at all.
To Billy's mind, nothing but love could so have softened the stern Cyril
she had known. She was, therefore, all the more careful these days to
avoid a tete-a-tete with him, though she was not always successful,
particularly owing to Marie's unaccountable perverseness in so often
having letters to write or work to do, just when Billy most wanted
her to make a safe third with herself and Cyril. It was upon such an
occasion, after Marie had abruptly left them alone together, that Cyril
had observed, a little sharply:
“Billy, I wish you wouldn't say again what you said ten minutes ago when
Miss Marie was here.”
“What was that?”
“A very silly reference to that old notion that you and every one else
seem to have that I am a 'woman-hater.'”
Billy's heart skipped a beat. One thought, pounded through her brain and
dinned itself into her ears--at all costs Cyril must not be allowed to
say that which she so feared; he must be saved from himself.
“Woman-hater? Why, of course you're a woman-hater,” she cried merrily.
“I'm sure, I--I think it's lovely to be a woman-hater.”
The man opened wide his eyes; then he frowned angrily.
“Nonsense, Billy, I know better. Besides, I'm in earnest, and I'm not a
woman-hater.”
“Oh, but every one says you are,” chattered Billy. “And, after all, you
know it IS distinguishing!”
With a disdainful exclamation the man sprang to his feet. For a time he
paced the room in silence, watched by Billy's fearful eyes; then he came
back and dropped into the low chair at Billy's side. His whole manner
had undergone a complete change. He was almost shamefaced as he said:
“Billy, I suppose I might as well own up. I don't think I did think much
of women until I saw--you.”
Billy swallowed and wet her lips. She tried to speak; but before she
could form the words the man went on with his remarks; and Billy did not
know whether to be the more relieved or frightened thereat.
“But you see now it's different. That's why I don't like to sail any
longer under false colors. There's been a change--a great and wonderful
change that I hardly understand myself.”
“That's it! You don't understand it, I'm sure,” interposed Billy,
feverishly. “It may not be such a change, after all. You may be
deceiving yourself,” she finished hopefully.
The man sighed.
“I can't wonder you think so, of course,” he almost groaned. “I was
afraid it would be like that. When one's been painted black all one's
life, it's not easy to change one's color, of course.”
“Oh, but I didn't say that black wasn't a very nice color,” stammered
Billy, a little wildly.
“Thank you.” Cyril's heavy brows rose and fell the fraction of an inch.
“Still, I must confess that just now I should prefer another shade.”
He paused, and Billy cast distractedly about in her mind for a simple,
natural change of subject. She had just decided to ask him what he
thought of the condition of the Brittany peasants, when he questioned
abruptly, and in a voice that was not quite steady:
“Billy, what should you say if I should tell you that the avowed
woman-hater had strayed so far from the prescribed path as to--to like
one woman well enough as to want to--marry her?”
The word was like a match to the gunpowder of Billy's fears. Her
self-control was shattered instantly into bits.
“Marry? No, no, you wouldn't--you couldn't really be thinking of that,”
she babbled, growing red and white by turns. “Only think how a wife
would--would b-bother you!”
“Bother me? When I loved her?”
“But just think--remember! She'd want cushions and rugs and curtains,
and you don't like them; and she'd always be talking and laughing when
you wanted quiet; and she--she'd want to drag you out to plays and
parties and--and everywhere. Indeed, Cyril, I'm sure you'd never like a
wife--long!” Billy stopped only because she had no breath with which to
continue.
Cyril laughed a little grimly.
“You don't draw a very attractive picture, Billy. Still, I'm not afraid.
I don't think this particular--wife would do any of those things--to
trouble me.”
“Oh, but you don't know, you can't tell,” argued the girl. “Besides, you
have had so little experience with women that you'd just be sure to
make a mistake at first. You want to look around very carefully--very
carefully, before you decide.”
“I have looked around, and very carefully, Billy. I know that in all the
world there is just one woman for me.”
Billy struggled to her feet. Mingled pain and terror looked from her
eyes. She began to speak wildly, incoherently. She wondered afterward
just what she would have said if Aunt Hannah had not come into the room
at that moment and announced that Bertram was at the door to take her
for a sleigh-ride if she cared to go.
“Of course she'll go,” declared Cyril, promptly, answering for her.
“It is time I was off anyhow.” To Billy, he said in a low voice: “You
haven't been very encouraging, little girl--in fact, you've been mighty
discouraging. But some day--some other day, I'll try to make clear to
you--many things.”
Billy greeted Bertram very cordially. It was such a relief--his cheery,
genial companionship! The air, too, was bracing, and all the world
lay under a snow-white blanket of sparkling purity. Everything was so
beautiful, so restful!
It was not surprising, perhaps, that the very frankness of Billy's joy
misled Bertram a little. His blood tingled at her nearness, and his eyes
grew deep and tender as he looked down at her happy face. But of all the
eager words that were so near his lips, not one reached the girl's ears
until the good-byes were said; then wistfully Bertram hazarded:
“Billy, don't you think, sometimes, that I'm gaining--just a little on
that rival of mine--that music?”
Billy's face clouded. She shook her head gently.
“Bertram, please don't--when we've had such a beautiful hour together,”
she begged. “It troubles me. If you do, I can't go--again.”
“But you shall go again,” cried Bertram, bravely smiling straight into
her eyes. “And there sha'n't ever anything in the world trouble you,
either--that I can help!”