On the day after his dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw, Hugh
Calderwell left Boston and did not return until more than a month had
passed. One of his first acts, when he did come, was to look up Mr. M.
J. Arkwright at the address which Billy had given him.
Calderwell had not seen Arkwright since they parted in Paris some
two years before, after a six-months tramp through Europe together.
Calderwell liked Arkwright then, greatly, and he lost no time now in
renewing the acquaintance.
The address, as given by Billy, proved to be an attractive but modest
apartment hotel near the Conservatory of Music; and Calderwell was
delighted to find Arkwright at home in his comfortable little bachelor
suite.
Arkwright greeted him most cordially.
“Well, well,” he cried, “if it isn't Calderwell! And how's Mont Blanc?
Or is it the Killarney Lakes this time, or maybe the Sphinx that I
should inquire for, eh?”
“Guess again,” laughed Calderwell, throwing off his heavy coat and
settling himself comfortably in the inviting-looking morris chair his
friend pulled forward.
“Sha'n't do it,” retorted Arkwright, with a smile. “I never gamble on
palpable uncertainties, except for a chance throw or two, as I gave
a minute ago. Your movements are altogether too erratic, and too
far-reaching, for ordinary mortals to keep track of.”
“Well, maybe you're right,” grinned Calderwell, appreciatively. “Anyhow,
you would have lost this time, sure thing, for I've been working.”
“Seen the doctor yet?” queried Arkwright, coolly, pushing the cigars
across the table.
“Thanks--for both,” sniffed Calderwell, with a reproachful glance,
helping himself. “Your good judgment in some matters is still
unimpaired, I see,” he observed, tapping the little gilded band which
had told him the cigar was an old favorite. “As to other matters,
however,--you're wrong again, my friend, in your surmise. I am not sick,
and I have been working.”
“So? Well, I'm told they have very good specialists here. Some one
of them ought to hit your case. Still--how long has it been running?”
Arkwright's face showed only grave concern.
“Oh, come, let up, Arkwright,” snapped Calderwell, striking his match
alight with a vigorous jerk. “I'll admit I haven't ever given any
_special_ indication of an absorbing passion for work. But what can you
expect of a fellow born with a whole dozen silver spoons in his mouth?
And that's what I was, according to Bertram Henshaw. According to him
again, it's a wonder I ever tried to feed myself; and perhaps he's
right--with my mouth already so full.”
“I should say so,” laughed Arkwright.
“Well, be that as it may. I'm going to feed myself, and I'm going to
earn my feed, too. I haven't climbed a mountain or paddled a canoe, for
a year. I've been in Chicago cultivating the acquaintance of John Doe
and Richard Roe.”
“You mean--law?”
“Sure. I studied it here for a while, before that bout of ours a couple
of years ago. Billy drove me away, then.”
“Billy!--er--Mrs. Henshaw?”
“Yes. I thought I told you. She turned down my tenth-dozen proposal so
emphatically that I lost all interest in Boston and took to the tall
timber again. But I've come back. A friend of my father's wrote me to
come on and consider a good opening there was in his law office. I came
on a month ago, and considered. Then I went back to pack up. Now I've
come for good, and here I am. You have my history to date. Now tell me
of yourself. You're looking as fit as a penny from the mint, even though
you have discarded that 'lovely' brown beard. Was that a concession
to--er--_Mary Jane_?”
Arkwright lifted a quick hand of protest.
“'Michael Jeremiah,' please. There is no 'Mary Jane,' now,” he said a
bit stiffly.
The other stared a little. Then he gave a low chuckle.
“'Michael Jeremiah,'” he repeated musingly, eyeing the glowing tip of
his cigar. “And to think how that mysterious 'M. J.' used to tantalize
me! Do you mean,” he added, turning slowly, “that no one calls you 'Mary
Jane' now?”
“Not if they know what is best for them.”
“Oh!” Calderwell noted the smouldering fire in the other's eyes a little
curiously. “Very well. I'll take the hint--Michael Jeremiah.”
“Thanks.” Arkwright relaxed a little. “To tell the truth, I've had quite
enough now--of Mary Jane.”
“Very good. So be it,” nodded the other, still regarding his friend
thoughtfully. “But tell me--what of yourself?”
Arkwright shrugged his shoulders.
“There's nothing to tell. You've seen. I'm here.”
“Humph! Very pretty,” scoffed Calderwell. “Then if _you_ won't tell, I
_will_. I saw Billy a month ago, you see. It seems you've hit the trail
for Grand Opera, as you threatened to that night in Paris; but you
_haven't_ brought up in vaudeville, as you prophesied you would
do--though, for that matter, judging from the plums some of the stars
are picking on the vaudeville stage, nowadays, that isn't to be sneezed
at. But Billy says you've made two or three appearances already on the
sacred boards themselves--one of them a subscription performance--and
that you created no end of a sensation.”
“Nonsense! I'm merely a student at the Opera School here,” scowled
Arkwright.
“Oh, yes, Billy said you were that, but she also said you wouldn't
be, long. That you'd already had one good offer--I'm not speaking of
marriage--and that you were going abroad next summer, and that they were
all insufferably proud of you.”
“Nonsense!” scowled Arkwright, again, coloring like a girl. “That is
only some of--of Mrs. Henshaw's kind flattery.”
Calderwell jerked the cigar from between his lips, and sat suddenly
forward in his chair.
“Arkwright, tell me about them. How are they making it go?”
Arkwright frowned.
“Who? Make what go?” he asked.
“The Henshaws. Is she happy? Is he--on the square?”
Arkwright's face darkened.
“Well, really,” he began; but Calderwell interrupted.
“Oh, come; don't be squeamish. You think I'm butting into what doesn't
concern me; but I'm not. What concerns Billy does concern me. And if he
doesn't make her happy, I'll--I'll kill him.”
In spite of himself Arkwright laughed. The vehemence of the other's
words, and the fierceness with which he puffed at his cigar as he fell
back in his chair were most expressive.
“Well, I don't think you need to load revolvers nor sharpen daggers,
just yet,” he observed grimly.
Calderwell laughed this time, though without much mirth.
“Oh, I'm not in love with Billy, now,” he explained. “Please don't think
I am. I shouldn't see her if I was, of course.”
Arkwright changed his position suddenly, bringing his face into the
shadow. Calderwell talked on without pausing.
“No, I'm not in love with Billy. But Billy's a trump. You know that.”
“I do.” The words were low, but steadily spoken.
“Of course you do! We all do. And we want her happy. But as for her
marrying Bertram--you could have bowled me over with a soap bubble when
I heard she'd done it. Now understand: Bertram is a good fellow, and I
like him. I've known him all his life, and he's all right. Oh, six or
eight years ago, to be sure, he got in with a set of fellows--Bob Seaver
and his clique--that were no good. Went in for Bohemianism, and all that
rot. It wasn't good for Bertram. He's got the confounded temperament
that goes with his talent, I suppose--though why a man can't paint a
picture, or sing a song, and keep his temper and a level head I don't
see!”
“He can,” cut in Arkwright, with curt emphasis.
“Humph! Well, that's what I think. But, about this marriage business.
Bertram admires a pretty face wherever he sees it--_to paint_, and
always has. Not but that he's straight as a string with women--I don't
mean that; but girls are always just so many pictures to be picked up
on his brushes and transferred to his canvases. And as for his settling
down and marrying anybody for keeps, right along--Great Scott! imagine
Bertram Henshaw as a _domestic_ man!”
Arkwright stirred restlessly as he spoke up in quick defense:
“Oh, but he is, I assure you. I--I've seen them in their home
together--many times. I think they are--very happy.” Arkwright spoke
with decision, though still a little diffidently.
Calderwell was silent. He had picked up the little gilt band he had torn
from his cigar and was fingering it musingly.
“Yes; I've seen them--once,” he said, after a minute. “I took dinner
with them when I was on, a month ago.”
“I heard you did.”
At something in Arkwright's voice, Calderwell turned quickly.
“What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?”
Arkwright laughed. The constraint fled from his manner.
“Well, I may as well tell you. You'll hear of it. It's no secret.
Mrs. Henshaw herself tells of it everywhere. It was her friend, Alice
Greggory, who told me of it first, however. It seems the cook was gone,
and the mistress had to get the dinner herself.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“But you should hear Mrs. Henshaw tell the story now, or Bertram.
It seems she knew nothing whatever about cooking, and her trials and
tribulations in getting that dinner on to the table were only one
degree worse than the dinner itself, according to her story. Didn't
you--er--notice anything?”
“Notice anything!” exploded Calderwell. “I noticed that Billy was so
brilliant she fairly radiated sparks; and I noticed that Bertram was so
glum he--he almost radiated thunderclaps. Then I saw that Billy's high
spirits were all assumed to cover a threatened burst of tears, and I
laid it all to him. I thought he'd said something to hurt her; and I
could have punched him. Great Scott! Was _that_ what ailed them?”
“I reckon it was. Alice says that since then Mrs. Henshaw has fairly
haunted the kitchen, begging Eliza to teach her everything, _every
single thing_ she knows!”
Calderwell chuckled.
“If that isn't just like Billy! She never does anything by halves. By
George, but she was game over that dinner! I can see it all now.”
“Alice says she's really learning to cook, in spite of old Pete's
horror, and Eliza's pleadings not to spoil her pretty hands.”
“Then Pete is back all right? What a faithful old soul he is!”
Arkwright frowned slightly.
“Yes, he's faithful, but he isn't all right, by any means. I think he's
a sick man, myself.”
“What makes Billy let him work, then?”
“Let him!” sniffed Arkwright. “I'd like to see you try to stop him! Mrs.
Henshaw begs and pleads with him to stop, but he scouts the idea. Pete
is thoroughly and unalterably convinced that the family would starve to
death if it weren't for him; and Mrs. Henshaw says that she'll admit he
has some grounds for his opinion when one remembers the condition of the
kitchen and dining-room the night she presided over them.”
“Poor Billy!” chuckled Calderwell. “I'd have gone down into the kitchen
myself if I'd suspected what was going on.”
Arkwright raised his eyebrows.
“Perhaps it's well you didn't--if Bertram's picture of what he found
there when he went down is a true one. Mrs. Henshaw acknowledges that
even the cat sought refuge under the stove.”
“As if the veriest worm that crawls ever needed to seek refuge from
Billy!” scoffed Calderwell. “By the way, what's this Annex I hear of?
Bertram mentioned it, but I couldn't get either of them to tell what
it was. Billy wouldn't, and Bertram said he couldn't--not with Billy
shaking her head at him like that. So I had my suspicions. One of
Billy's pet charities?”
“She doesn't call it that.” Arkwright's face and voice softened. “It is
Hillside. She still keeps it open. She calls it the Annex to her home.
She's filled it with a crippled woman, a poor little music teacher, a
lame boy, and Aunt Hannah.”
“But how--extraordinary!”
“She doesn't think so. She says it's just an overflow house for the
extra happiness she can't use.”
There was a moment's silence. Calderwell laid down his cigar, pulled out
his handkerchief, and blew his nose furiously. Then he got to his feet
and walked to the fireplace. After a minute he turned.
“Well, if she isn't the beat 'em!” he spluttered. “And I had the gall to
ask you if Henshaw made her--happy! Overflow house, indeed!”
“The best of it is, the way she does it,” smiled Arkwright. “They're all
the sort of people ordinary charity could never reach; and the only way
she got them there at all was to make each one think that he or she was
absolutely necessary to the rest of them. Even as it is, they all pay a
little something toward the running expenses of the house. They
insisted on that, and Mrs. Henshaw had to let them. I believe her chief
difficulty now is that she has not less than six people whom she wishes
to put into the two extra rooms still unoccupied, and she can't make up
her mind which to take. Her husband says he expects to hear any day of
an Annexette to the Annex.”
“Humph!” grunted Calderwell, as he turned and began to walk up and down
the room. “Bertram is still painting, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes.”
“What's he doing now?”
“Several things. He's up to his eyes in work. As you probably have
heard, he met with a severe accident last summer, and lost the use of
his right arm for many months. I believe they thought at one time he had
lost it forever. But it's all right now, and he has several commissions
for portraits. Alice says he's doing ideal heads again, too.”
“Same old 'Face of a Girl'?”
“I suppose so, though Alice didn't say. Of course his special work just
now is painting the portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop. You may have
heard that he tried it last year and--and didn't make quite a success of
it.”
“Yes. My sister Belle told me. She hears from Billy once in a while.
Will it be a go, this time?”
“We'll hope so--for everybody's sake. I imagine no one has seen it
yet--it's not finished; but Alice says--”
Calderwell turned abruptly, a quizzical smile on his face.
“See here, my son,” he interposed, “it strikes me that this Alice is
saying a good deal--to you! Who is she?”
Arkwright gave a light laugh.
“Why, I told you. She is Miss Alice Greggory, Mrs. Henshaw's friend--and
mine. I have known her for years.”
“Hm-m; what is she like?”
“Like? Why, she's like--like herself, of course. You'll have to know
Alice. She's the salt of the earth--Alice is,” smiled Arkwright, rising
to his feet with a remonstrative gesture, as he saw Calderwell pick up
his coat. “What's your hurry?”
“Hm-m,” commented Calderwell again, ignoring the question. “And when,
may I ask, do you intend to appropriate this--er--salt--to--er--ah,
season your own life with, as I might say--eh?”
Arkwright laughed. There was not the slightest trace of embarrassment in
his face.
“Never. _You're_ on the wrong track, this time. Alice and I are good
friends--always have been, and always will be, I hope.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more. I see her frequently. She is musical, and the Henshaws
are good enough to ask us there often together. You will meet her,
doubtless, now, yourself. She is frequently at the Henshaw home.”
“Hm-m.” Calderwell still eyed his host shrewdly. “Then you'll give me a
clear field, eh?”
“Certainly.” Arkwright's eyes met his friend's gaze without swerving.
“All right. However, I suppose you'll tell me, as I did you, once, that
a right of way in such a case doesn't mean a thoroughfare for the party
interested. If my memory serves me, I gave you right of way in Paris to
win the affections of a certain elusive Miss Billy here in Boston, if
you could. But I see you didn't seem to improve your opportunities,” he
finished teasingly.
Arkwright stooped, of a sudden, to pick up a bit of paper from the
floor.
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn't seem to improve my opportunities.” This
time he did not meet Calderwell's eyes.
The good-byes had been said when Calderwell turned abruptly at the door.
“Oh, I say, I suppose you're going to that devil's carnival at Jordan
Hall to-morrow night.”
“Devil's carnival! You don't mean--Cyril Henshaw's piano recital!”
“Sure I do,” grinned Calderwell, unabashed. “And I'll warrant it'll be
a devil's carnival, too. Isn't Mr. Cyril Henshaw going to play his own
music? Oh, I know I'm hopeless, from your standpoint, but I can't help
it. I like mine with some go in it, and a tune that you can find without
hunting for it. And I don't like lost spirits gone mad that wail and
shriek through ten perfectly good minutes, and then die with a gasping
moan whose home is the tombs. However, you're going, I take it.”
“Of course I am,” laughed the other. “You couldn't hire Alice to miss
one shriek of those spirits. Besides, I rather like them myself, you
know.”
“Yes, I suppose you do. You're brought up on it--in your business. But
me for the 'Merry Widow' and even the hoary 'Jingle Bells' every time!
However, I'm going to be there--out of respect to the poor fellow's
family. And, by the way, that's another thing that bowled me
over--Cyril's marriage. Why, Cyril hates women!”
“Not all women--we'll hope,” smiled Arkwright. “Do you know his wife?”
“Not much. I used to see her a little at Billy's. Music teacher, wasn't
she? Then she's the same sort, I suppose.”
“But she isn't,” laughed Arkwright. “Oh, she taught music, but that
was only because of necessity, I take it. She's domestic through and
through, with an overwhelming passion for making puddings and darning
socks, I hear. Alice says she believes Mrs. Cyril knows every dish and
spoon by its Christian name, and that there's never so much as a spool
of thread out of order in the house.”
“But how does Cyril stand it--the trials and tribulations of domestic
life? Bertram used to declare that the whole Strata was aquiver with
fear when Cyril was composing, and I remember him as a perfect bear if
anybody so much as whispered when he was in one of his moods. I never
forgot the night Bertram and I were up in William's room trying to sing
'When Johnnie comes marching home,' to the accompaniment of a banjo
in Bertram's hands, and a guitar in mine. Gorry! it was Hugh that went
marching home that night.”
“Oh, well, from reports I reckon Mrs. Cyril doesn't play either a banjo
or a guitar,” smiled Arkwright. “Alice says she wears rubber heels on
her shoes, and has put hushers on all the chair-legs, and felt-mats
between all the plates and saucers. Anyhow, Cyril is building a new
house, and he looks as if he were in a pretty healthy condition, as
you'll see to-morrow night.”
“Humph! I wish he'd make his music healthy, then,” grumbled Calderwell,
as he opened the door.