Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busy
ones for everybody. Miss Winthrop was not in town to give sittings for
her portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram time and
opportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayed
and neglected. He was often at Hillside, however, and the lovers managed
to snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and confusion of
the Christmas preparations.
Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwright
were groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the days
passed, she spoke only once of his being at the house. The song, too,
she said little of; and Bertram--though he was ashamed to own it to
himself--breathed more freely.
The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that she
should have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas;
and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himself
synonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint and
kept away.
“I'll make her care for me sometime--for something besides a song,” he
told himself with fierce consolation--but Billy did not know this.
Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days.
There were such a lot of things she wished to do.
“But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving,
dear,” she declared to Bertram one day, when he had remonstrated with
with her for so taxing her time and strength. “I can't really do much.”
“Much!” scoffed Bertram.
“But it isn't much, honestly--compared to what there is to do,” argued
Billy. “You see, dear, it's just this,” she went on, her bright face
sobering a little. “There are such a lot of people in the world who
aren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat,
and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you've
said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know
nothing about--except to long for them.”
“But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named
Societies--I thought that was what they were for,” declared Bertram,
still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face.
“Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor give
sugarplums,” smiled Billy. “And it's right that they shouldn't, too,”
she added quickly. “They have more than they can do now with the roast
beef and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary.”
“And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it--these books and
magazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, the
spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who
were here last summer?”
Billy turned in confused surprise.
“Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all--that?”
“I didn't. I just guessed it--and it seems 'the boy guessed right the
very first time,'” laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender light
in his eyes. “Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the
Lowestoft lady, too, eh?”
Billy's chin rose to a defiant stubbornness.
“I'm going to try to--if I can find out what kind of frosting she
likes.”
“How about the Alice lady--or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?”
smiled the man.
Billy relaxed visibly.
“Yes, I know,” she sighed. “There is--the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, she
can't call a Christmas present 'charity'--not if it's only a little bit
of frosting!” Billy's chin came up again.
“And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?”
“Yes,” avowed Billy. “I'm going down there one of these days, in the
morning--”
“You're going down there! Billy--not alone?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says.”
“So it was horrid--to live in. It was everything that was cheap and mean
and forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn't
know the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled woman
and daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram,
well-born and well-bred, I'm sure--and that's the pity of it, to have
to live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Those
pitiful little worn crutches of hers were mahogany, I'm sure, Bertram,
and they were silver mounted.”
Bertram made a restless movement.
“I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do for
Will, of course, nor me--under the circumstances. But there's Aunt
Hannah--” He paused hopefully.
Billy chuckled.
“Bless your dear heart! Aunt Hannah would call for a dozen shawls in
that place--if she had breath enough to call for any after she got to
the top of those four flights!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” rejoined Bertram, with an unwilling smile.
“Still--well, you _can_ take Rosa,” he concluded decisively.
“How Miss Alice would like that--to catch me going 'slumming' with
my maid!” cried Billy, righteous indignation in her voice. “Honestly,
Bertram, I think even gentle Mrs. Greggory wouldn't stand for that.”
“Then leave Rosa outside in the hall,” planned Bertram, promptly; and
after a few more arguments, Billy finally agreed to this.
It was with Rosa, therefore, that she set out the next morning for the
little room up four flights on the narrow West End street.
Leaving the maid on the top stair of the fourth flight, Billy tapped
at Mrs. Greggory's door. To her joy Mrs. Greggory herself answered the
knock.
“Oh! Why--why, good morning,” murmured the lady, in evident
embarrassment. “Won't you--come m?”
“Thank you. May I?--just a minute?” smiled Billy, brightly.
As she entered the room, Billy threw a hasty look about her. There was
no one but themselves present. With a sigh of satisfaction, therefore,
the girl took the chair Mrs. Greggory offered, and began to speak.
“I was down this way--that is, I came this way this morning,” she began
a little hastily; “and I wanted just to come up and tell you how sorry
I was about--about that teapot the other day. We didn't want it, of
course--if you didn't want us to have it.”
A swift change crossed Mrs. Greggory's perturbed face.
“Oh, then you didn't come for it again--to-day,” she said. “I'm so glad!
I didn't want to refuse--_you_.”
“Indeed I didn't come for it--and we sha'n't again. Don't worry about
that, please.”
Mrs. Greggory sighed.
“I'm afraid you thought me very rude and--and impossible the other day,”
she stammered. “And please let me take this opportunity right now to
apologize for my daughter. She was overwrought and excited. She didn't
know what she was saying or doing, I'm sure. She was ashamed, I think
after you left.”
Billy raised a quick hand of protest.
“Don't, please don't, Mrs. Greggory,” she begged.
“But it was our fault that you came. We _asked_ you to come--through Mr.
Harlow,” rejoined the other, hurriedly. “And Mr. Henshaw--was that his
name?--was so kind in every way. I'm glad of this chance to tell you how
much we really did appreciate it--and _your_ offer, too, which we could
not, of course, accept,” she finished, the bright color flooding her
delicate face.
Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in the
opposite chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that she
wished to say.
“I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointed--about the Lowestoft.
We didn't want to let it go if we could help it; and we hope now to keep
it.”
“Of course,” murmured Billy, sympathetically.
“My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, and
she was determined that I should not give it up. She said I should
have that much left, anyway. You see--my daughter is very unreconciled,
still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are so
different--from what they were!” Her voice broke a little.
“Of course,” said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged with
impatient indignation. “If only there were something one could do to
help!”
“Thank you, my dear, but there isn't--indeed there isn't,” rejoined
the other, quickly; and Billy, looking into the proudly lifted face,
realized suddenly that daughter Alice had perhaps inherited some traits
from mother. “We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughter
has still another pupil. She will be home soon to tell you herself,
perhaps.”
Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as she
murmured:
“Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for I
must go. And may I leave these, please?” she added, hurriedly unpinning
the bunch of white carnations from her coat. “It seems a pity to let
them wilt, when you can put them in water right here.” Her studiously
casual voice gave no hint that those particular pinks had been bought
less than half an hour before of a Park Street florist so that Mrs.
Greggory _might_ put them in water--right there.
“Oh, oh, how lovely!” breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in the
feathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say “Thank you,”
however? she found herself alone.