On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy sat
sewing with Aunt Hannah in the little sitting-room at the end of the
hall upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning,--which
meant that she was feeling unusually well.
“Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,” remarked Billy, as she
critically examined a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched across
the darning-egg in her hand; “only she'd want a bigger hole. She does so
love to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning white
china sea--and you'd think the safety of an army depended on the way
each plank was laid, too,” she concluded.
Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did not speak.
“I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in his
socks,” resumed Billy, after a moment's silence. “If you'll believe it,
that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playing
that concerto so superbly. It did, actually--right in the middle of the
adagio movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music I
had all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then and
asking her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose.”
“Billy!” gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the gasp broke at once into
what--in Aunt Hannah--passed for a chuckle. “If I remember rightly, when
I was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William told me
that Cyril wouldn't wear any sock after it came to mending.”
“Horrors!” Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. “That will never
do in the world. It would break Marie's heart. You know how she dotes on
darning.”
“Yes, I know,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “By the way, where is she this
morning?”
Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I believe. Really,
Aunt Hannah, between her home-hunting in the morning, and her
furniture-and-rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring over
house-plans in the evening, I can't get her to attend to her clothes at
all. Never did I see a bride so utterly indifferent to her trousseau as
Marie Hawthorn--and her wedding less than a month away!”
“But she's been shopping with you once or twice, since she came back,
hasn't she? And she said it was for her trousseau.”
Billy laughed.
“Her trousseau! Oh, yes, it was. I'll tell you what she got for her
trousseau that first day. We started out to buy two hats, some lace for
her wedding gown, some crêpe de Chine and net for a little dinner
frock, and some silk for a couple of waists to go with her tailored
suit; and what did we get? We purchased a new-style egg-beater and a
set of cake tins. Marie got into the kitchen department and I simply
couldn't get her out of it. But the next day I was not to be inveigled
below stairs by any plaintive prayer for a nutmeg-grater or a soda
spoon. She _shopped_ that day, and to some purpose. We accomplished
lots.”
Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned.
“But she must have _some_ things started!”
“Oh, she has--'most everything now. _I've_ seen to that. Of course her
outfit is very simple, anyway. Marie hasn't much money, you know, and
she simply won't let me do half what I want to. Still, she had saved
up some money, and I've finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn't
consist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that Cyril would want her to
look pretty. That name will fetch her every time, and I've learned to
use it beautifully. I think if I told her Cyril approved of short hair
and near-sightedness she'd I cut off her golden locks and don spectacles
on the spot.”
Aunt Hannah laughed softly.
“What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the only
one in the house who is ruled by a magic name!”
The color deepened in Billy's cheeks.
“Well, of course, any girl--cares something--for the man she loves. Just
as if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for Bertram!”
“Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking
with last evening--just after he left us, I mean?”
“Miss Winthrop--Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is--is painting her
portrait, you know.”
“Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt Hannah. “Hm-m; well, she has a
beautiful face.”
“Yes, she has.” Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a little
tune as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket.
“There's a peculiar something in her face,” mused Aunt Hannah, aloud.
The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh.
“Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in your
face. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it,' he says.
I wonder now--if he does catch it, does she lose it?” Flippant as were
the words, the voice that uttered them shook a little.
Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently--Aunt Hannah had heard only the
flippancy, not the shake.
“I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon.”
Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to the
floor.
“Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon,” she said lightly, as she
stooped to pick up the egg.
“Why, I'm sure he told me--” Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a
questioning pause.
“Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, brightly; “but he's told me something
since. He isn't going. He telephoned me this morning. Miss Winthrop
wanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to this afternoon. He said he
knew I'd understand.”
“Why, yes; but--” Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir of
an electric bell had sounded through the house. A few moments later Rosa
appeared in the open doorway.
“It's Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music,”
she announced.
“Tell him I'll be down at once,” directed the mistress of Hillside.
As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly to
her feet.
“Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about some
duets he had, and he said he'd bring them over. I didn't know he'd come
so soon, though.”
Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low,
familiar strain of music drifted out from the living-room. Billy caught
her breath, and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiar
strain of music had become a lullaby--one of Billy's own--and sung now
by a melting tenor voice that lingered caressingly and understandingly
on every tender cadence.
Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the last
low “lul-la-by” vibrated into silence; then with shining eyes and
outstretched hands she entered the living-room.
“Oh, that was--beautiful,” she breathed.
Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight.
“I could not resist singing it just once--here,” he said a little
unsteadily, as their hands met.
“But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it was
mine,” choked Billy, still plainly very much moved. “You sang it as I've
never heard it sung before.”
Arkwright shook his head slowly.
“The inspiration of the room--that is all,”, he said. “It is a beautiful
song. All of your songs are beautiful.”
Billy blushed rosily.
“Thank you. You know--more of them, then?”
“I think I know them all--unless you have some new ones out. Have you
some new ones, lately?”
Billy shook her head.
“No; I haven't written anything since last spring.”
“But you're going to?”
She drew a long sigh.
“Yes, oh, yes. I know that _now_--” With a swift biting of her lower
lip Billy caught herself up in time. As if she could tell this man, this
stranger, what she had told Bertram that night by the fire--that she
knew that now, _now_ she would write beautiful songs, with his love, and
his pride in her, as incentives. “Oh, yes, I think I shall write more
one of these days,” she finished lightly. “But come, this isn't singing
duets! I want to see the music you brought.”
They sang then, one after another of the duets. To Billy, the music was
new and interesting. To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hear
her own voice blending with another's so perfectly--to feel herself a
part of such exquisite harmony.
“Oh, oh!” she breathed ecstatically, after the last note of a
particularly beautiful phrase. “I never knew before how lovely it was to
sing duets.”
“Nor I,” replied Arkwright in a voice that was not quite steady.
Arkwright's eyes were on the enraptured face of the girl so near him.
It was well, perhaps, that Billy did not happen to turn and catch their
expression. Still, it might have been better if she had turned, after
all. But Billy's eyes were on the music before her. Her fingers were
busy with the fluttering pages, searching for another duet.
“Didn't you?” she murmured abstractedly. “I supposed _you'd_ sung them
before; but you see I never did--until the other night. There, let's try
this one!”
“This one” was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a long
breath.
“There! that must positively be the last,” she declared reluctantly.
“I'm so hoarse now I can scarcely croak. You see, I don't pretend to
sing, really.”
“Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow,” retorted the
man, warmly.
“Thank you,” smiled Billy; “that was nice of you to say so--for my
sake--and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. I
haven't had a chance to ask you yet; and--I think you said Mary Jane was
going to study for Grand Opera.”
Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in
vaudeville.”
“Calderwell! Do you mean--Hugh Calderwell?” Billy's cheeks showed a
deeper color.
The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let that
name slip out just yet.
“Yes.” He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. “We tramped half over
Europe together last summer.”
“Did you?” Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire.
“But this isn't telling me about your own plans,” she hurried on a
little precipitately. “You've studied before, of course. Your voice
shows that.”
“Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or two
of church work, besides a little concert practice of a mild sort.”
“Have you begun here, yet?”
“Y-yes, I've had my voice tried.”
Billy sat erect with eager interest.
“They liked it, of course?”
Arkwright laughed.
“I'm not saying that.”
“No, but I am,” declared Billy, with conviction. “They couldn't help
liking it.”
Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had “liked it” he did not
intend to say. Their remarks had been quite too flattering to repeat
even to this very plainly interested young woman--delightful and
heart-warming as was this same show of interest, to himself.
“Thank you,” was all he said.
Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair.
“And you'll begin to learn rôles right away?”
“I already have, some--after a fashion--before I came here.”
“Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on the
Boston Opera House stage, and we'll all go to hear you. How perfectly
lovely! I can hardly wait.”
Arkwright laughed--but his eyes glowed with pleasure.
“Aren't you hurrying things a little?” he ventured.
“But they do let the students appear,” argued Billy. “I knew a girl last
year who went on in 'Aida,' and she was a pupil at the School. She sang
first in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill for a Saturday
night. She did splendidly--so well that they gave her a chance later at
a subscription performance. Oh, you'll be there--and soon, too!”
“Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had your
flattering enthusiasm on the matter,” he smiled.
“I don't worry any,” nodded Billy, “only please don't 'arrive' too
soon--not before the wedding, you know,” she added jokingly. “We shall
be too busy to give you proper attention until after that.”
A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face.
“The--_wedding?_” he asked, a little faintly.
“Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril
Henshaw next month.”
The man opposite relaxed visibly.
“Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know,” he murmured; then, with sudden
astonishment he added: “And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?”
“Yes. You seem surprised.”
“I am.” Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. “You see,
Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageable
all the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised--naturally,” finished
Arkwright, as he rose to take his leave.
A swift crimson stained Billy's face.
“But surely you must know that--that--”
“That he has a right to change his mind, of course,” supplemented
Arkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue in the evident confusion
that would not let her finish her sentence. “But Calderwell made it so
emphatic, you see, about all the brothers. He said that William had lost
his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and that Bertram--”
“But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is--is--” Billy had moistened her lips, and
plunged hurriedly in to prevent Arkwright's next words. But again was
she unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to listen
to a very different completion from the smiling lips of the man at her
side.
“Is an artist, of course,” said Arkwright. “That's what Calderwell
declared--that it would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve of a
cheek that the artist loved--to paint.”
Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if _now_ she could tell
this man that Bertram Henshaw was engaged to her! He would find it out
soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell,
would think it was the curve of _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin--
Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand in
good-by.