A LITTLE PIECE OF PAPER
Of all Billy's guests, Marie was very plainly the happiest. She was a
permanent guest, it is true, while the others came for only a week or
two at a time; but it was not this, Billy decided, that had brought so
brilliant a sparkle to Marie's eyes, so joyous a laugh to her lips. The
joyousness was all the more noticeable, because heretofore Marie, while
very sweet, had been also sad. Her big blue eyes had always carried a
haunting shadow, and her step had lacked the spring belonging to youth
and happiness. Certainly, Billy had never seen her like this before.
“Verily, Marie,” she teased one day, “have you found an exhaustless
supply of stockings to mend, or a never-done pudding to make--which?”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I was only wondering just what had brought that new light
to your eyes.”
“Is there a new light?”
“There certainly is.”
“It must be because I'm so happy, then,” sighed Marie; “because you're
so good to me.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn't that enough?” Marie's tone was evasive.
“No.” Billy shook her head mischievously. “Marie, what is it?”
“It's nothing--really, it's nothing,” protested Marie, hurrying out of
the room with a nervous laugh.
Billy frowned. She was suspicious before; she was sure now. In less than
twelve hours' time came her opportunity. She was alone again with Marie.
“Marie, who is he?” she asked abruptly.
“He? Who?”
“The man who is to wear the stockings and eat the pudding.”
The little music teacher flushed very red, but she managed to display
something that might pass for surprise.
“BILLY!”
“Come, dear,” coaxed Billy, winningly. “Tell me about it. I'm so
interested!”
“But there isn't anything to tell--really there isn't.”
“Who is he?”
“He isn't anybody--that is, he doesn't know he's anybody,” amended
Marie.
Billy laughed softly.
“Oh, doesn't he! Hasn't he ever shown--that he cared?”
“No; that is--perhaps he has, only I thought then--that it was--another
girl.”
“Another girl! So there's another girl in the case?”
“Yes. I mean, no,” corrected Marie, suddenly beginning to realize what
she was saying. “Really, it wasn't anything--it isn't anything!” she
protested.
“Hm-m,” murmured Billy, archly. “Oh, I'm getting on some! He did show,
once, that he cared; but you thought it was another girl, and you
coldly looked the other way. Now, there ISN'T any other girl, you find,
and--Marie, tell me the rest!”
Marie shook her head emphatically, and pulled herself gently away from
Billy's grasp.
“No, no, please!” she begged. “It really isn't anything. I'm sure I'm
imagining it all!” she cried, as she ran away.
During the days that followed, Billy speculated not a little on Marie's
half-told story, and wondered interestedly who the man might be. She
questioned Marie once again, but the girl would tell nothing more; and,
indeed, Billy was so occupied with her own perplexities that she had
little time for those of other people.
To herself Billy was forced to own that she was not “getting used to
things.” She was still self-conscious with William; she could not forget
that she was one day to be his wife. She could not bring back the dear
old freedom of comradeship with him.
Billy was alarmed now. She had begun to ask herself searching questions.
What should she do if never, never should she get used to the idea
of marrying William? How could she marry him if he was still “Uncle
William,” and never her dear lover in her eyes? Why had she not been
wise enough and brave enough to tell him in the first place that she
was not at all sure that she loved him, but that she would try to do so?
Then when she had tried--as she had now--and failed, she could have told
him honestly the truth, and it would not have been so great a shock to
him as it must be now, if she should tell him.
Billy had remorsefully come to the conclusion that she could never love
any man well enough to marry him, when one day so small a thing as a
piece of paper fluttered into her vision, and showed her the fallacy of
that idea.
It was a half-sheet of note paper, and it blew from Marie's balcony to
the lawn below. Billy found it there later, and as she picked it up her
eyes fell on a single name in Marie's handwriting inscribed half a dozen
times as if the writer had musingly accompanied her thoughts with her
pen; and the name was, “Marie Henshaw.”
For a moment Billy stared at the name perplexedly--then in a flash came
the remembrance of Marie's words; and Billy breathed: “Henshaw!--the
man--BERTRAM!”
Billy dropped the paper then and fled. In her own room, behind locked
doors, she sat down to think.
Bertram! It was he for whom Marie cared--HER Bertram! And then it came
to Billy with staggering force that he was not HER Bertram at all. He
never could be her Bertram now. He was--Marie's.
Billy was frightened then, so fierce was this strange new something that
rose within her--this overpowering something that seemed to blot out all
the world, and leave only--Bertram. She knew then, that it had always
been Bertram to whom she had turned, though she had been blind to the
cause of that turning. Always her plans had included him. Always she had
been the happiest in his presence; never had she pictured him anywhere
else but at her side. Certainly never had she pictured him as the
devoted lover of another woman!... And she had not known what it all
meant--poor blind child that she was!
Very resolutely now Billy set herself to looking matters squarely in
the face. She understood it quite well. All summer Marie and Bertram had
been thrown together. No wonder Marie had fallen in love with Bertram,
and that he--Billy thought she comprehended now why Bertram had found it
so easy for the last few weeks to be William's brother. She, of course,
had been the “other girl” whom Marie had once feared that the man loved.
It was all so clear--so woefully clear!
With an aching heart Billy asked herself what now was to be done.
For herself, turn whichever way she could, she could see nothing but
unhappiness. She determined, therefore, with Spartan fortitude, that
to no one else would she bring equal unhappiness. She would be silent.
Bertram and Marie loved each other. That matter was settled. As to
William--Billy thought of the story William had told her of his lonely
life,--of the plea he had made to her; and her heart ached. Whatever
happened, William must be made happy. William must not be told. Her
promise to William must be kept.