After a week of beautiful autumn weather, Thursday dawned raw and cold.
By noon an east wind had made the temperature still more uncomfortable.
At two o'clock Aunt Hannah tapped at Billy's chamber door. She showed a
troubled face to the girl who answered her knock.
“Billy, _would_ you mind very much if I asked you to go alone to the
Carletons' and to meet Mary Jane?” she inquired anxiously.
“Why, no--that is, of course I should _mind_, dear, because I always
like to have you go to places with me. But it isn't necessary. You
aren't sick; are you?”
“N-no, not exactly; but I have been sneezing all the morning, and taking
camphor and sugar to break it up--if it is a cold. But it is so raw and
Novemberish out, that--”
“Why, of course you sha'n't go, you poor dear! Mercy! don't get one
of those dreadful colds on to you before the wedding! Have you felt
a draft? Where's another shawl?” Billy turned and cast searching eyes
about the room--Billy always kept shawls everywhere for Aunt Hannah's
shoulders and feet. Bertram had been known to say, indeed, that a room,
according to Aunt Hannah, was not fully furnished unless it contained
from one to four shawls, assorted as to size and warmth. Shawls,
certainly, did seem to be a necessity with Aunt Hannah, as she usually
wore from one to three at the same time--which again caused Bertram to
declare that he always counted Aunt Hannah's shawls when he wished to
know what the thermometer was.
“No, I'm not cold, and I haven't felt a draft,” said Aunt Hannah now. “I
put on my thickest gray shawl this morning with the little pink one for
down-stairs, and the blue one for breakfast; so you see I've been very
careful. But I _have_ sneezed six times, so I think 'twould be safer not
to go out in this east wind. You were going to stop for Mrs. Granger,
anyway, weren't you? So you'll have her with you for the tea.”
“Yes, dear, don't worry. I'll take your cards and explain to Mrs.
Carleton and her daughters.”
“And, of course, as far as Mary Jane is concerned, I don't know her any
more than you do; so I couldn't be any help there,” sighed Aunt Hannah.
“Not a bit,” smiled Billy, cheerily. “Don't give it another thought, my
dear. I sha'n't have a bit of trouble. All I'll have to do is to look
for a girl alone with a pink. Of course I'll have mine on, too, and
she'll be watching for me. So just run along and take your nap, dear,
and be all rested and ready to welcome her when she comes,” finished
Billy, stooping to give the soft, faintly pink cheek a warm kiss.
“Well, thank you, my dear; perhaps I will,” sighed Aunt Hannah, drawing
the gray shawl about her as she turned away contentedly.
Mrs. Carleton's tea that afternoon was, for Billy, not an occasion of
unalloyed joy. It was the first time she had appeared at a gathering of
any size since the announcement of her engagement; and, as she dolefully
told Bertram afterwards, she had very much the feeling of the picture
hung on the wall.
“And they _did_ put up their lorgnettes and say, 'Is _that_ the one?'”
she declared; “and I know some of them finished with 'Did you ever?'
too,” she sighed.
But Billy did not stay long in Mrs. Carleton's softly-lighted,
flower-perfumed rooms. At ten minutes past four she was saying good-by
to a group of friends who were vainly urging her to remain longer.
“I can't--I really can't,” she declared. “I'm due at the South Station
at half past four to meet a Miss Arkwright, a young cousin of Aunt
Hannah's, whom I've never seen before. We're to meet at the sign of
the pink,” she explained smilingly, just touching the single flower she
wore.
Her hostess gave a sudden laugh.
“Let me see, my dear; if I remember rightly, you've had experience
before, meeting at this sign of the pink. At least, I have a very vivid
recollection of Mr. William Henshaw's going once to meet a _boy_ with
a pink, who turned out to be a girl. Now, to even things up, your girl
should turn out to be a boy!”
Billy smiled and reddened.
“Perhaps--but I don't think to-day will strike the balance,” she
retorted, backing toward the door. “This young lady's name is 'Mary
Jane'; and I'll leave it to you to find anything very masculine in
that!”
It was a short drive from Mrs. Carleton's Commonwealth Avenue home to
the South Station, and Peggy made as quick work of it as the narrow,
congested cross streets would allow. In ample time Billy found herself
in the great waiting-room, with John saying respectfully in her ear:
“The man says the train comes in on Track Fourteen, Miss, an' it's on
time.”
At twenty-nine minutes past four Billy left her seat and walked down the
train-shed platform to Track Number Fourteen. She had pinned the pink
now to the outside of her long coat, and it made an attractive dash
of white against the dark-blue velvet. Billy was looking particularly
lovely to-day. Framing her face was the big dark-blue velvet picture hat
with its becoming white plumes.
During the brief minutes' wait before the clanging locomotive puffed
into view far down the long track, Billy's thoughts involuntarily went
back to that other watcher beside a train gate not quite five years
before.
“Dear Uncle William!” she murmured tenderly. Then suddenly she
laughed--so nearly aloud that a man behind her gave her a covert glance
from curious eyes. “My! but what a jolt I must have been to Uncle
William!” Billy was thinking.
The next minute she drew nearer the gate and regarded with absorbed
attention the long line of passengers already sweeping up the narrow
aisle between the cars.
Hurrying men came first, with long strides, and eyes that looked
straight ahead. These Billy let pass with a mere glance. The next group
showed a sprinkling of women--women whose trig hats and linen collars
spelled promptness as well as certainty of aim and accomplishment. To
these, also, Billy paid scant attention. Couples came next--the men
anxious-eyed, and usually walking two steps ahead of their companions;
the women plainly flustered and hurried, and invariably buttoning gloves
or gathering up trailing ends of scarfs or boas.
The crowd was thickening fast, now, and Billy's eyes were alert.
Children were appearing, and young women walking alone. One of these
wore a bunch of violets. Billy gave her a second glance. Then she saw a
pink--but it was on the coat lapel of a tall young fellow with a brown
beard; so with a slight frown she looked beyond down the line.
Old men came now, and old women; fleshy women, and women with small
children and babies. Couples came, too--dawdling couples, plainly newly
married: the men were not two steps ahead, and the women's gloves were
buttoned and their furs in place.
Gradually the line thinned, and soon there were left only an old man
with a cane, and a young woman with three children. Yet nowhere had
Billy seen a girl wearing a white carnation, and walking alone.
With a deeper frown on her face Billy turned and looked about her. She
thought that somewhere in the crowd she had missed Mary Jane, and that
she would find her now, standing near. But there was no one standing
near except the good-looking young fellow with the little pointed
brown beard, who, as Billy noticed a second time, was wearing a white
carnation.
As she glanced toward him, their eyes met. Then, to Billy's unbounded
amazement, the man advanced with uplifted hat.
“I beg your pardon, but is not this--Miss Neilson?”
Billy drew back with just a touch of hauteur.
“Y-yes,” she murmured.
“I thought so--yet I was expecting to see you with Aunt Hannah. I am M.
J. Arkwright, Miss Neilson.”
For a brief instant Billy stared dazedly.
“You don't mean--Mary Jane?” she gasped.
“I'm afraid I do.” His lips twitched.
“But I thought--we were expecting--” She stopped helplessly. For one
more brief instant she stared; then, suddenly, a swift change came to
her face. Her eyes danced.
“Oh--oh!” she chuckled. “How perfectly funny! You _have_ evened things
up, after all. To think that Mary Jane should be a--” She paused and
flashed almost angrily suspicious eyes into his face. “But mine _was_
'Billy,'” she cried. “Your name isn't really--Mary Jane'?”
“I am often called that.” His brown eyes twinkled, but they did not
swerve from their direct gaze into her own.
“But--” Billy hesitated, and turned her eyes away. She saw then that
many curious glances were already being flung in her direction. The
color in her cheeks deepened. With an odd little gesture she seemed to
toss something aside. “Never mind,” she laughed a little hysterically.
“If you'll pick up your bag, please, Mr. Mary Jane, and come with me.
John and Peggy are waiting. Or--I forgot--you have a trunk, of course?”
The man raised a protesting hand.
“Thank you; but, Miss Neilson, really--I couldn't think of trespassing
on your hospitality--now, you know.”
“But we--we invited you,” stammered Billy.
He shook his head.
“You invited _Miss_ Mary Jane.”
Billy bubbled into low laughter.
“I beg your pardon, but it _is_ funny,” she sighed. “You see _I_ came
once just the same way, and now to have the tables turned like this!
What will Aunt Hannah say--what will everybody say? Come, I want them to
begin--to say it,” she chuckled irrepressibly.
“Thank you, but I shall go to a hotel, of course. Later, if you'll be so
good as to let me call, and explain--!”
“But I'm afraid Aunt Hannah will think--” Billy stopped abruptly. Some
distance away she saw John coming toward them. She turned hurriedly to
the man at her side. Her eyes still danced, but her voice was mockingly
serious. “Really, Mr. Mary Jane, I'm afraid you'll have to come to
dinner; then you can settle the rest with Aunt Hannah. John is almost
upon us--and _I_ don't want to make explanations. Do you?”
“John,” she said airily to the somewhat dazed chauffeur (who had been
told he was to meet a young woman), “take Mr. Arkwright's bag, please,
and show him where Peggy is waiting. It will be five minutes, perhaps,
before I can come--if you'll kindly excuse me,” she added to Arkwright,
with a flashing glance from merry eyes. “I have some--telephoning to
do.”
All the way to the telephone booth Billy was trying to bring order out
of the chaos of her mind; but all the way, too, she was chuckling.
“To think that this thing should have happened to _me!_” she
said, almost aloud. “And here I am telephoning just like Uncle
William--Bertram said Uncle William _did_ telephone about _me!_”
In due course Billy had Aunt Hannah at the other end of the wire.
“Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened.
Mary Jane is--a man.”
Billy heard a dismayed gasp and a muttered “Oh, my grief and
conscience!” then a shaking “Wha-at?”
“I say, Mary Jane is a man.” Billy was enjoying herself hugely.
“A _ma-an!_”
“Yes; a great big man with a brown beard. He's waiting now with John and
I must go.”
“But, Billy, I don't understand,” chattered an agitated voice over the
line. “He--he called himself 'Mary Jane.' He hasn't any business to be
a big man with a brown beard! What shall we do? We don't want a big man
with a brown beard--here!”
Billy laughed roguishly.
“I don't know. _You_ asked him! How he will like that little blue
room--Aunt Hannah!” Billy's voice turned suddenly tragic. “For pity's
sake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the work-basket.
I'd _never_ hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just that
kind!”
A half stifled groan came over the wire.
“Billy, he can't stay here.”
Billy laughed again.
“No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. But
I had to bring him home to dinner; there was no other way, under the
circumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But good-by. I must
go. _Remember those curling tongs!_” And the receiver clicked sharply
against the hook.
In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwright
were speeding toward Corey Hill. It was during a slight pause in the
conversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure:
“I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought to
be--warned.”
“You are very kind. What did she say?--if I may ask.”
There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered.
“She said you called yourself 'Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any
business to be a big man with a brown beard.”
Arkwright laughed.
“I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology,” he said. He hesitated,
glanced admiringly at the glowing, half-averted face near him, then went
on decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to his
bridges. “I signed both letters 'M. J. Arkwright,' but in the first one
I quoted a remark of a friend, and in that remark I was addressed as
'Mary Jane.' I did not know but Aunt Hannah knew of the nickname.”
(Arkwright was speaking a little slowly now, as if weighing his words.)
“But when she answered, I saw that she did not; for, from something she
said, I realized that she thought I was a real Mary Jane. For the joke
of the thing I let it pass. But--if she noticed my letter carefully, she
saw that I did not accept your kind invitation to give 'Mary Jane' a
home.”
“Yes, we noticed that,” nodded Billy, merrily. “But we didn't think you
meant it. You see we pictured you as a shy young thing. But, really,”
she went on with a low laugh, “you see your coming as a masculine 'Mary
Jane' was particularly funny--for me; for, though perhaps you didn't
know it, I came once to this very same city, wearing a pink, and was
expected to be Billy, a boy. And only to-day a lady warned me that
your coming might even things up. But I didn't believe it would--a Mary
Jane!”
Arkwright laughed. Again he hesitated, and seemed to be weighing his
words.
“Yes, I heard about that coming of yours. I might almost say--that's why
I--let the mistake pass in Aunt Hannah's letter,” he said.
Billy turned with reproachful eyes.
“Oh, how could--you? But then--it was a temptation!” She laughed
suddenly. “What sinful joy you must have had watching me hunt for 'Mary
Jane.'”
“I didn't,” acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. “I
felt--ashamed. And when I saw you were there alone without Aunt Hannah,
I came very near not speaking at all--until I realized that that would
be even worse, under the circumstances.”
“Of course it would,” smiled Billy, brightly; “so I don't see but I
shall have to forgive you, after all. And here we are at home, Mr. Mary
Jane. By the way, what did you say that 'M. J.' did stand for?” she
asked, as the car came to a stop.
The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He was
helping his hostess to alight. A moment later a plainly agitated Aunt
Hannah--her gray shawl topped with a huge black one--opened the door of
the house.