Billy came down-stairs on the thirteenth of December to find everywhere
the peculiar flatness that always follows a day which for weeks has been
the focus of one's aims and thoughts and labor.
“It's just as if everything had stopped at Marie's wedding, and there
wasn't anything more to do,” she complained to Aunt Hannah at the
breakfast table. “Everything seems so--queer!”
“It won't--long, dear,” smiled Aunt Hannah, tranquilly, as she buttered
her roll, “specially after Bertram comes back. How long does he stay in
New York?”
“Only three days; but I'm just sure it's going to seem three weeks,
now,” sighed Billy. “But he simply had to go--else he wouldn't have
gone.”
“I've no doubt of it,” observed Aunt Hannah. And at the meaning
emphasis of her words, Billy laughed a little. After a minute she said
aggrievedly:
“I had supposed that I could at least have a sort of 'after the ball'
celebration this morning picking up and straightening things around.
But John and Rosa have done it all. There isn't so much as a rose
leaf anywhere on the floor. Of course most of the flowers went to
the hospital last night, anyway. As for Marie's room--it looks as
spick-and-span as if it had never seen a scrap of ribbon or an inch of
tulle.”
“But--the wedding presents?”
“All carried down to the kitchen and half packed now, ready to go over
to the new home. John says he'll take them over in Peggy this afternoon,
after he takes Mrs. Hartwell's trunk to Uncle William's.”
“Well, you can at least go over to the apartment and work,” suggested
Aunt Hannah, hopefully.
“Humph! Can I?” scoffed Billy. “As if I could--when Marie left strict
orders that not one thing was to be touched till she got here. They
arranged everything but the presents before the wedding, anyway; and
Marie wants to fix those herself after she gets back. Mercy! Aunt
Hannah, if I should so much as move a plate one inch in the china
closet, Marie would know it--and change it when she got home,” laughed
Billy, as she rose from the table. “No, I can't go to work over there.”
“But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some
new songs after the wedding.”
“I was,” sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlessly
at the bare, brown world outside; “but I can't write songs--when there
aren't any songs in my head to write.”
“No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now,”
soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room.
“It's the reaction, of course,” murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on the
way up-stairs. “She's had the whole thing on her hands--dear child!”
A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minor
melody. Billy was at the piano.
Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William.
It had been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization that
Bertram's trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was to
be carried there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at the
end of a two or three days' visit.
It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had been
gray and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon in
myriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blinding
point, and turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylike
beauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face, looked out upon
it with disapproving eyes.
“I _was_ going in town--and I believe I'll go now,” she cried.
“Don't, dear, please don't,” begged Aunt Hannah. “See, the flakes are
smaller now, and the wind is coming up. We're in for a blizzard--I'm
sure we are. And you know you have some cold, already.”
“All right,” sighed Billy. “Then it's me for the knitting work and the
fire, I suppose,” she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide
the wistful disappointment of her voice.
She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at
four o'clock Rosa brought in the card.
Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little
cry.
“It's Mary Jane!” she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. “Now wasn't he a
dear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?”
Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned.
“Oh, Billy!” she remonstrated. “Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little
later, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came,” she said with reproving
emphasis.
Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder.
“All right,” she nodded. “I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll be
down directly.”
In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordial
hand.
“How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless
and lonesome to-day?” she demanded.
A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes.
“I didn't know it,” he rejoined. “I only knew that I was specially
restless and lonesome myself.”
Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness in
the girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart.
Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He could
not know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had given
warmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made her
greeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away that
had made his presence so welcome.
“Well, I'm glad you came, anyway,” sighed Billy, contentedly; “though I
suppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome--but I'm afraid I'm
not, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm a
little wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped,” she added
laughingly, as she seated herself.
“Tension?”
“The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just
December twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about the
thirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I felt
just as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely
wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here.”
“Thank you; so am I--though usually, I will confess, I'm not much
good at attending 'functions' and meeting strangers. As perhaps you've
guessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap.”
“Of course you aren't! People who are doing things--real things--seldom
are. But we aren't the society kind ourselves, you know--not the capital
S kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from liking
Society. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on 'pink teas
and purple pageants,' as Cyril calls them; and we even go ourselves
sometimes. But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd have
met lots like yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing,
playing, painting, illustrating, writing. Why, we even had a poet,
sir--only he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit,”
she finished laughingly.
“Is long hair--necessary--for poets?” Arkwright's smile was quizzical.
“Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters,
too. But now they look just like--folks.”
Arkwright laughed.
“It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing
ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?”
“I'm afraid it is,” dimpled Billy. “I _love_ velvet coats and flowing
ties!”
“May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,”
declared the man, promptly.
Billy smiled and shook her head.
“I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and
worsteds too well!”
“You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already had
tried to bring about a reform--and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, or
Mr. Bertram--” Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile.
Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merry
tilt with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promised
that his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat for
himself. It was on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this to
Arkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his lips drove
the words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presence
of this man, Billy found herself unable to refer to her engagement to
Bertram Henshaw--though this time she did not in the least doubt that
Arkwright already knew of it.
With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano.
“Come, let us try some duets,” she suggested. “That's lots nicer than
quarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently to
hear us sing.”
Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with an
exclamation of eager acquiescence.
It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently.
“Have you written any new songs lately?”
“No.”
“You're going to?”
“Perhaps--if I find one to write.”
“You mean--you have no words?”
“Yes--and no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; but
I haven't found in any one of them, yet--a melody.”
Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coat
pocket--then fell back at his side. The next moment he picked up a sheet
of music.
“Are you too tired to try this?” he asked.
A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face.
“Why, no, but--”
“Well, children, I've come down to hear the music,” announced Aunt
Hannah, smilingly, from the doorway; “only--Billy, _will_ you run up
and get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, and
there's only the white one down here.”
“Of course,” cried Billy, rising at once. “You shall have a dozen
shawls, if you like,” she laughed, as she left the room.
What a cozy time it was--the hour that followed, after Billy returned
with the pink shawl! Outside, the wind howled at the windows and flung
the snow against the glass in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and the
girl sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, they
feasted royally on the buttered toast, tea, and frosted cakes that
Rosa served on a little table before the roaring fire. It was then that
Arkwright talked of himself, telling them something of his studies, and
of the life he was living.
“After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends
and yours,” he said, at last. “Your friends _are_ doing things. They've
succeeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_.”
“But they will succeed,” cried Billy.
“Some of them,” amended the man.
“Not--all of them?” Billy looked a little troubled.
Arkwright shook his head slowly.
“No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, some
haven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money.”
“But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried,” grieved Billy.
“It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity,
aren't they?”
“Y-yes,” sighed the girl. “But--if there were only something one could
do to--help!”
Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke,
was purposely light.
“I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even your
generosity, Miss Neilson--to mend all the broken hopes in the world,” he
prophesied.
“I have known great good to come from great disappointments,” remarked
Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically.
“So have I,” laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubled
shadow from the face he was watching so intently. “For instance: a
fellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just too
late to get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Half
an hour afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy--a friend who
had an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handed
it over to him.”
Billy turned interestedly.
“What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?”
“Then--you don't know?”
“Not exactly. I've heard of them, in a vague fashion.”
“Then you've missed one of the sights of Boston if you haven't ever
seen that long line of patient waiters at the door of Symphony Hall of a
Friday morning.”
“Morning! But the concert isn't till afternoon!”
“No, but the waiting is,” retorted Arkwright. “You see, those admissions
are limited--five hundred and five, I believe--and they're rush seats,
at that. First come, first served; and if you're too late you aren't
served at all. So the first arrival comes bright and early. I've heard
that he has been known to come at peep of day when there's a Paderewski
or a Melba for a drawing card. But I've got my doubts of that. Anyhow,
I never saw them there much before half-past eight. But many's the cold,
stormy day I've seen those steps in front of the Hall packed for hours,
and a long line reaching away up the avenue.”
Billy's eyes widened.
“And they'll stand all that time and wait?”
“To be sure they will. You see, each pays twenty-five cents at the door,
until the limit is reached, then the rest are turned away. Naturally
they don't want to be turned away, so they try to get there early enough
to be among the fortunate five hundred and five. Besides, the earlier
you are, the better seat you are likely to get.”
“But only think of _standing_ all that time!”
“Oh, they bring camp chairs, sometimes, I've heard, and then there are
the steps. You don't know what a really fine seat a stone step is--if
you have a _big_ enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! They
bring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work for
fine days, I've been told--some of them. All the comforts of home, you
see,” smiled Arkwright.
“Why, how--how dreadful!” stammered Billy.
“Oh, but they don't think it's dreadful at all,” corrected Arkwright,
quickly. “For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down in
your orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium.”
“But who--who are they? Where do they come from? Who _would_ go and
stand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat?” questioned Billy.
“Who are they? Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; people
who have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it,” he rejoined.
“Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a little
dressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from the
uttermost parts of the earth; maybe a widow who used to sit down-stairs,
or a professor who has seen better days. Really to know that line,
you should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson,” smiled Arkwright, as
he reluctantly rose to go. “Some Friday, however, before you take your
seat, just glance up at that packed top balcony and judge by the
faces you see there whether their owners think they're getting their
twenty-five-cents' worth, or not.”
“I will,” nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lips
only, not her eyes: Billy was wishing, at that moment, that she owned
the whole of Symphony Hall--to give away. But that was like Billy. When
she was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they take
all the thirty-five orphans from the Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to live
with them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might have
ice cream every day, if they wanted it. Since then Billy had always been
trying--in a way--to give ice cream to some one who wanted it.
Arkwright was almost at the door when he turned abruptly. His face was
an abashed red. From his pocket he had taken a small folded paper.
“Do you suppose--in this--you might find--that melody?” he stammered in
a low voice. The next moment he was gone, having left in Billy's fingers
a paper upon which was written in a clear-cut, masculine hand six
four-line stanzas.
Billy read them at once, hurriedly, then more carefully.
“Why, they're beautiful,” she breathed, “just beautiful! Where did he
get them, I wonder? It's a love song--and such a pretty one! I believe
there _is_ a melody in it,” she exulted, pausing to hum a line or
two. “There is--I know there is; and I'll write it--for Bertram,” she
finished, crossing joyously to the piano.
Half-way down Corey Hill at that moment, Arkwright was buffeting
the wind and snow. He, too, was thinking joyously of those
stanzas--joyously, yet at the same time fearfully. Arkwright himself had
written those lines--though not for Bertram.