At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billy
came into the living-room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, as
was frequently the case, were dining at Hillside.
Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier than she did this
afternoon with the bronze sheen of her pretty house gown bringing
out the bronze lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of her
beautiful hair. Her countenance, too, carried a peculiar something that
the artist's eye was quick to detect, and that the artist's fingers
tingled to put on canvas.
“Jove! Billy,” he said low in her ear, as he greeted her, “I wish I had
a brush in my hand this minute. I'd have a 'Face of a Girl' that would
be worth while!”
Billy laughed and dimpled her appreciation; but down in her heart she
was conscious of a vague unrest. Billy wished, sometimes, that she did
not so often seem to Bertram--a picture.
She turned to Cyril with outstretched hand.
“Oh, yes, Marie's coming,” she smiled in answer to the quick shifting
of Cyril's eyes to the hall doorway. “And Aunt Hannah, too. They're
up-stairs.”
“And Mary Jane?” demanded William, a little anxiously
“Will's getting nervous,” volunteered Bertram, airily. “He wants to see
Mary Jane. You see we've told him that we shall expect him to see that
she doesn't bother us four too much, you know. He's expected always to
remove her quietly but effectually, whenever he sees that she is likely
to interrupt a tête-á-tête. Naturally, then, Will wants to see
Mary Jane.”
Billy began to laugh hysterically. She dropped into a chair and raised
both her hands, palms outward.
“Don't, don't--please don't!” she choked, “or I shall die. I've had all
I can stand, already.”
“All you can stand?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is she so--impossible?” This last was from Bertram, spoken softly, and
with a hurried glance toward the hall.
Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulled
her face into sobriety--all but her eyes--and announced:
“Mary Jane is--a man.”
“Wha-at?”
“A _man!_”
“Billy!”
Three masculine forms sat suddenly erect.
“Yes. Oh, Uncle William, I know now just how you felt--I know, I know,”
gurgled Billy, incoherently. “There he stood with his pink just as I
did--only he had a brown beard, and he didn't have Spunk--and I had to
telephone to prepare folks, just as you did. And the room--the room!
I fixed the room, too,” she babbled breathlessly, “only I had curling
tongs and hair pins in it instead of guns and spiders!”
“Child, child! what _are_ you talking about?” William's face was red.
“A _man!_--_Mary Jane!_” Cyril was merely cross.
“Billy, what does this mean?” Bertram had grown a little white.
Billy began to laugh again, yet she was plainly trying to control
herself.
“I'll tell you. I must tell you. Aunt Hannah is keeping him up-stairs
so I can tell you,” she panted. “But it was so funny, when I expected a
girl, you know, to see him with his brown beard, and he was so tall and
big! And, of course, it made me think how _I_ came, and was a girl when
you expected a boy; and Mrs. Carleton had just said to-day that maybe
this girl would even things up. Oh, it was so funny!”
“Billy, my-my dear,” remonstrated Uncle William, mildly.
“But what _is_ his name?” demanded Cyril.
“Did the creature sign himself 'Mary Jane'?” exploded Bertram.
“I don't know his name, except that it's 'M. J.'--and that's how he
signed the letters. But he _is_ called 'Mary Jane' sometimes, and in the
letter he quoted somebody's speech--I've forgotten just how--but in it
he was called 'Mary Jane,' and, of course, Aunt Hannah took him for a
girl,” explained Billy, grown a little more coherent now.
“Didn't he write again?” asked William.
“Yes.”
“Well, why didn't he correct the mistake, then?” demanded Bertram.
Billy chuckled.
“He didn't want to, I guess. He thought it was too good a joke.”
“Joke!” scoffed Cyril.
“But, see here, Billy, he isn't going to live here--now?” Bertram's
voice was almost savage.
“Oh, no, he isn't going to live here--now,” interposed smooth tones from
the doorway.
“Mr.--Arkwright!” breathed Billy, confusedly.
Three crimson-faced men sprang to their feet. The situation, for a
moment, threatened embarrassed misery for all concerned; but Arkwright,
with a cheery smile, advanced straight toward Bertram, and held out a
friendly hand.
“The proverbial fate of listeners,” he said easily; “but I don't blame
you at all. No, 'he' isn't going to live here,” he went on, grasping
each brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; “and
what is more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance his
little joke has caused. He might add that he's heartily-ashamed of
himself, as well; but if any of you--” Arkwright turned to the three
tall men still standing by their chairs--“if any of you had suffered
what he has at the hands of a swarm of youngsters for that name's sake,
you wouldn't blame him for being tempted to get what fun he could out of
Mary Jane--if there ever came a chance!”
Naturally, after this, there could be nothing stiff or embarrassing.
Billy laughed in relief, and motioned Mr. Arkwright to a seat near her.
William said “Of course, of course!” and shook hands again. Bertram and
Cyril laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: “But what does
the 'M. J.' stand for, anyhow?” Nobody answered this, however; perhaps
because Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway.
Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met his
match for wit and satire; and “Mr. Mary Jane,” as he was promptly called
by every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to be a most entertaining guest.
After dinner somebody suggested music.
Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still frowning, he turned to a
bookcase near him and began to take down and examine some of the books.
Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy.
“Which is it, Cyril?” he called with cheerful impertinence; “stool,
piano, or audience that is the matter to-night?”
Only a shrug from Cyril answered.
“You see,” explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes were
slightly puzzled, “Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals and
the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!”
“Nonsense!” scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his
chair. “I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all.”
“You see,” nodded Bertram again.
“I see,” bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement.
“I believe--Mr. Mary Jane--sings,” observed Billy, at this point,
demurely.
“Why, yes, of course,” chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness.
“That's what she--I mean he--was coming to Boston for--to study music.”
Everybody laughed.
“Won't you sing, please?” asked Billy. “Can you--without your notes? I
have lots of songs if you want them.”
For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose and
went to the piano.
With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped to
the keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test the
touch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made every
listener turn in amazed delight, a well-trained tenor began the “Thro'
the leaves the night winds moving,” of Schubert's Serenade.
Cyril's chin had lifted at the first tone. He was listening now with
very obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was showing by his attitude the
keenest appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in their
chairs, were contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie in
her corner was motionless with rapture. As to Billy--Billy was plainly
oblivious of everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcely
to move or to breathe till the song's completion; then there came a low
“Oh, how beautiful!” through her parted lips.
Bertram, looking at her, was conscious of a vague irritation.
“Arkwright, you're a lucky dog,” he declared almost crossly. “I wish I
could sing like that!”
“I wish I could paint a 'Face of a Girl,'” smiled the tenor as he turned
from the piano.
“Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop,” objected Billy, springing to her
feet and going to her music cabinet by the piano. “There's a little song
of Nevin's I want you to sing. There, here it is. Just let me play it
for you.” And she slipped into the place the singer had just left.
It was the beginning of the end. After Nevin came De Koven, and after
De Koven, Gounod. Then came Nevin again, Billy still playing the
accompaniment. Next followed a duet. Billy did not consider herself much
of a singer, but her voice was sweet and true, and not without training.
It blended very prettily with the clear, pure tenor.
William and Aunt Hannah still smiled contentedly in their chairs, though
Aunt Hannah had reached for the pink shawl near her--the music had sent
little shivers down her spine. Cyril, with Marie, had slipped into the
little reception-room across the hall, ostensibly to look at some plans
for a house, although--as everybody knew--they were not intending to
build for a year.
Bertram, still sitting stiffly erect in his chair, was not conscious
of a vague irritation now. He was conscious of a very real, and a very
decided one--an irritation that was directed against himself, against
Billy, and against this man, Arkwright; but chiefly against music,
_per se_. He hated music. He wished he could sing. He wondered how long
it took to teach a man to sing, anyhow; and he wondered if a man could
sing--who never had sung.
At this point the duet came to an end, and Billy and her guest left
the piano. Almost at once, after this, Arkwright made his very graceful
adieus, and went off with his suit-case to the hotel where, as he had
informed Aunt Hannah, his room was already engaged.
William went home then, and Aunt Hannah went up-stairs. Cyril and Marie
withdrew into a still more secluded corner to look at their plans, and
Bertram found himself at last alone with Billy. He forgot, then, in
the blissful hour he spent with her before the open fire, how he hated
music; though he did say, just before he went home that night:
“Billy, how long does it take--to learn to sing?”
“Why, I don't know, I'm sure,” replied Billy, abstractedly; then, with
sudden fervor: “Oh, Bertram, hasn't Mr. Mary Jane a beautiful voice?”
Bertram wished then he had not asked the question; but all he said was:
“'Mr. Mary Jane,' indeed! What an absurd name!”
“But doesn't he sing beautifully?”
“Eh? Oh, yes, he sings all right,” said Bertram's tongue. Bertram's
manner said: “Oh, yes, anybody can sing.”