Of all Billy's guests, Marie was very plainly the happiest. She was a permanent guest, it is true, while the others came for only a week or two at a time; but it was not this, Billy decided, that had brought so brilliant a sparkle to Marie's eyes, so joyous a laugh to her lips. The joyousness was all the more noticeable, because heretofore Marie, while very sweet, had been also sad. Her big blue eyes had always carried a haunting shadow, and her step had lacked the spring belonging to youth and happiness. Certainly, Billy had never seen her like this before.
“Verily, Marie,” she teased one day, “have you found an exhaustless supply of stockings to mend, or a never-done pudding to make—which?”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I was only wondering just what had brought that new light to your eyes.”
“Is there a new light?”
“There certainly is.”
“It must be because I'm so happy, then,” sighed Marie; “because you're so good to me.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn't that enough?” Marie's tone was evasive.
“No.” Billy shook her head mischievously. “Marie, what is it?”
“It's nothing—really, it's nothing,” protested Marie, hurrying out of the room with a nervous laugh.
Billy frowned. She was suspicious before; she was sure now. In less than twelve hours' time came her opportunity. She was alone again with Marie.
“Marie, who is he?” she asked abruptly.
“He? Who?”
“The man who is to wear the stockings and eat the pudding.”
The little music teacher flushed very red, but she managed to display something that might pass for surprise.
“BILLY!”
“Come, dear,” coaxed Billy, winningly. “Tell me about it. I'm so interested!”
“But there isn't anything to tell—really there isn't.”
“Who is he?”
“He isn't anybody—that is, he doesn't know he's anybody,” amended Marie.
Billy laughed softly.
“Oh, doesn't he! Hasn't he ever shown—that he cared?”
“No; that is—perhaps he has, only I thought then—that it was—another girl.”
“Another girl! So there's another girl in the case?”
“Yes. I mean, no,” corrected Marie, suddenly beginning to realize what she was saying. “Really, it wasn't anything—it isn't anything!” she protested.
“Hm-m,” murmured Billy, archly. “Oh, I'm getting on some! He did show, once, that he cared; but you thought it was another girl, and you coldly looked the other way. Now, there ISN'T any other girl, you find, and—Marie, tell me the rest!”
Marie shook her head emphatically, and pulled herself gently away from Billy's grasp.
“No, no, please!” she begged. “It really isn't anything. I'm sure I'm imagining it all!” she cried, as she ran away.
During the days that followed, Billy speculated not a little on Marie's half-told story, and wondered interestedly who the man might be. She questioned Marie once again, but the girl would tell nothing more; and, indeed, Billy was so occupied with her own perplexities that she had little time for those of other people.
To herself Billy was forced to own that she was not “getting used to things.” She was still self-conscious with William; she could not forget that she was one day to be his wife. She could not bring back the dear old freedom of comradeship with him.
Billy was alarmed now. She had begun to ask herself searching questions. What should she do if never, never should she get used to the idea of marrying William? How could she marry him if he was still “Uncle William,” and never her dear lover in her eyes? Why had she not been wise enough and brave enough to tell him in the first place that she was not at all sure that she loved him, but that she would try to do so? Then when she had tried—as she had now—and failed, she could have told him honestly the truth, and it would not have been so great a shock to him as it must be now, if she should tell him.
Billy had remorsefully come to the conclusion that she could never love any man well enough to marry him, when one day so small a thing as a piece of paper fluttered into her vision, and showed her the fallacy of that idea.
It was a half-sheet of note paper, and it blew from Marie's balcony to the lawn below. Billy found it there later, and as she picked it up her eyes fell on a single name in Marie's handwriting inscribed half a dozen times as if the writer had musingly accompanied her thoughts with her pen; and the name was, “Marie Henshaw.”
For a moment Billy stared at the name perplexedly—then in a flash came the remembrance of Marie's words; and Billy breathed: “Henshaw!—the man—BERTRAM!”
Billy dropped the paper then and fled. In her own room, behind locked doors, she sat down to think.
Bertram! It was he for whom Marie cared—HER Bertram! And then it came to Billy with staggering force that he was not HER Bertram at all. He never could be her Bertram now. He was—Marie's.
Billy was frightened then, so fierce was this strange new something that rose within her—this overpowering something that seemed to blot out all the world, and leave only—Bertram. She knew then, that it had always been Bertram to whom she had turned, though she had been blind to the cause of that turning. Always her plans had included him. Always she had been the happiest in his presence; never had she pictured him anywhere else but at her side. Certainly never had she pictured him as the devoted lover of another woman!... And she had not known what it all meant—poor blind child that she was!
Very resolutely now Billy set herself to looking matters squarely in the face. She understood it quite well. All summer Marie and Bertram had been thrown together. No wonder Marie had fallen in love with Bertram, and that he—Billy thought she comprehended now why Bertram had found it so easy for the last few weeks to be William's brother. She, of course, had been the “other girl” whom Marie had once feared that the man loved. It was all so clear—so woefully clear!
With an aching heart Billy asked herself what now was to be done. For herself, turn whichever way she could, she could see nothing but unhappiness. She determined, therefore, with Spartan fortitude, that to no one else would she bring equal unhappiness. She would be silent. Bertram and Marie loved each other. That matter was settled. As to William—Billy thought of the story William had told her of his lonely life,—of the plea he had made to her; and her heart ached. Whatever happened, William must be made happy. William must not be told. Her promise to William must be kept.
Before September passed all Billy's friends said that her summer's self-appointed task had been too hard for her. In no other way could they account for the sad change that had come to her.
Undeniably Billy looked really ill. Always slender, she was shadow-like now. Her eyes had found again the wistful appeal of her girlhood, only now they carried something that was almost fear, as well. The rose-flush had gone from her cheeks, and pathetic little hollows had appeared, making the round young chin below look almost pointed. Certainly Billy did seem to be ill.
Late in September William went West on business. Incidentally he called to see his sister, Kate.
“Well, and how is everybody?” asked Kate, cheerily, after the greetings were over.
William sighed.
“Well, 'everybody,' to me, Kate, is pretty badly off. We're worried about Billy.”
“Billy! You don't mean she's sick? Why, she's always been the picture of health!”
“I know she has; but she isn't now.”
“What's the trouble?”
“That's what we don't know.”
“You've had the doctor?”
“Of course; two or three of them—though much against Billy's will. But—they didn't help us.”
“What did they say?”
“They could find nothing except perhaps a little temporary stomach trouble, or something of that kind, which they all agreed was no just cause for her present condition.”
“But what did they say it was?”
“Why, they said it seemed like nervousness, or as if something was troubling her. They asked if she weren't under some sort of strain.”
“Well, is she? Does anything trouble her?”
“Not that I know of. Anyhow, if there is anything, none of us can find out what it is.”
Kate frowned. She threw a quick look into her brother's face.
“William,” she began hesitatingly, “forgive me, but—Billy is quite happy in—her engagement, I suppose.”
The man flushed painfully, and sighed.
“I've thought of that, of course. In fact, it was the first thing I did think of. I even began to watch her rather closely, and once I—questioned her a little.”
“What did she say?”
“She seemed so frightened and distressed that I didn't say much myself. I couldn't. I had but just begun when her eyes filled with tears, and she asked me in a frightened little voice if she had done anything to displease me, anything to make me unhappy; and she seemed so anxious and grieved and dismayed that I should even question her, that I had to stop.”
“What has she done this summer? Where has she been?”
“She hasn't been anywhere. Didn't I write you? She's kept open house for a lot of her less fortunate friends—a sort of vacation home, you know; and—and I must say she's given them a world of happiness, too.”
“But wasn't that hard for her?”
“It didn't seem to be. She appeared to enjoy it immensely, particularly at first. Of course she had plenty of help, and that wonderful little Miss Hawthorn has been a host in herself. They're all gone now, anyway, except Miss Hawthorn.”
“But Billy must have had the care and the excitement.”
“Perhaps—to a certain extent. Though not much, after all. You see Bertram, too, has given up his summer to them, and has been playing the devoted escort to the whole bunch. Indeed, for the last few weeks of it, since Billy began to seem so ill, he and Miss Hawthorn have schemed to take all the care from Billy, and they have done the whole thing together.”
“But what HAS Billy done to make her like this?”
“I don't know. She's done lots for me, in all sorts of ways—cataloguing my curios, you know, and going with me to hunt up things. In fact, she seems the happiest when she IS doing something for me. It's come to be a sort of mania with her, I'm afraid—to do something for me. Kate, I'm really worried. What do you suppose is the matter?”
Kate shook her head. The puzzled frown had come back to her face.
“I can't imagine,” she began slowly. “Of course, when I told her you loved her and—”
“When you told her wha-at?” exploded the usually low-voiced William, with sudden sharpness.
“When I told her that you loved her, William. You see, I—”
William sprang to his feet.
“Told her that I loved her!” he cried, aghast. “Good heavens, Kate, do you mean to say that YOU told her THAT.”
“Why, y-yes.”
“And may I ask where you got your information?”
“Why, William Henshaw, what a question! I got it from yourself, of course,” defended Kate.
“From ME!” William's face expressed sheer amazement.
“Certainly; on that drive when I was East in June,” returned Kate, with dignity. “YOU evidently have forgotten it, but I have not. You told me very frankly how much you thought of her, and how you longed to have her back there with you, but that she didn't seem to be ready to come. I was sorry for you, and I wanted to do something to help, particularly as it might have been my fault, partly, that she went away, in the first place.”
William lifted his head.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, nothing, only that I—I told her a little of how—how upsetting her arrival had been to everything, and of how much you had done for her, and put yourself out. I said it so she'd appreciate things, of course, but she took it quite differently from what I had intended she should take it, and seemed quite cut up about it. Then she went away in that wily, impulsive fashion.”
William bit his lip, but he did not speak. Kate was plunging on feverishly, and in the face of the greater revelation he let the lesser one drop.
“And so that's why I was particularly anxious to bring things around right again,” continued Kate. “And that's why I spoke. I thought I'd seen how things were, and on the drive I said so. Then is when I advised you to speak to Billy; but you declared that Billy wasn't ready, and that you couldn't make a girl marry against her will. NOW don't you recollect it?”
A great light of understanding broke over William's face. He started to speak, but something evidently stayed the words on his lips. With controlled deliberation he turned and sat down. Then he said:
“Kate, will you kindly tell me just what you DID do?”
“Why, I didn't do so very much. I just tried to help, that's all. After I talked with you, and advised you to ask Billy right away to marry you, I went to her. I thought she cared for you already, anyway; but I just wanted to tell her how very much it was to you, and so sort of pave the way. And now comes the part that I started to tell you a little while ago when you caught me up so sharply. I was going to say that when I told Billy this, she appeared to be surprised, and almost frightened. You see, she hadn't known you cared for her, after all, and so I had a chance to help and make it plain to her how you did love her, so that when you spoke everything would be all right. There, that's all. You see I didn't do so very much.”
“'So very much'!” groaned William, starting to his feet. “Great Scott!”
“Why, William, what do you mean? Where are you going?”
“I'm going—to—Billy,” retorted William with slow distinctness. “And I'm going to try to get there—before—you—CAN!” And with this extraordinary shot—for William—he left the house.
William went to Billy as fast as steam could carry him. He found her in her little drawing-room listlessly watching with Aunt Hannah the game of chess that Bertram and Marie were playing.
“Billy, you poor, dear child, come here,” he said abruptly, as soon as the excitement of his unexpected arrival had passed. “I want to talk to you.” And he led the way to the veranda which he knew would be silent and deserted.
“To talk to—me?” murmured Billy, as she wonderingly came to his side, a startled questioning in her wide dark eyes.
William did not re-enter the house after his talk with Billy on the veranda.
“I will go down the steps and around by the rose garden to the street, dear,” he said. “I'd rather not go in now. Just make my adieus, please, and say that I couldn't stay any longer. And now—good-by.” His eyes as they looked down at her, were moist and very tender. His lips trembled a little, but they smiled, and there was a look of new-born peace and joy on his face.
Billy, too, was smiling, though wistfully. The frightened questioning had gone from her eyes, leaving only infinite tenderness.
“You are sure it—it is all right—now?” she stammered.
“Very sure, little girl; and it's the first time it has been right for weeks. Billy, that was very dear of you, and I love you for it; but think how near—how perilously near you came to lifelong misery!”
“But I thought—you wanted me—so much,” she smiled shyly.
“And I did, and I do—for a daughter. You don't doubt that NOW?”
“No, oh, no,” laughed Billy, softly; and to her face came a happy look of relief as she finished: “And I'll be so glad to be—the daughter!”
For some minutes after the man had gone, Billy stood by the steps where he had left her. She was still there when Bertram came to the veranda door and spoke to her.
“Billy, I saw William go by the window, so I knew you were alone. May I speak to you?”
The girl turned with a start.
“Why, of course! What is it?—but I thought you were playing. Where is Marie?”
“The game is finished; besides—Billy, why are you always asking me lately where Marie is, as if I were her keeper, or she mine?” he demanded, with a touch of nervous irritation.
“Why, nothing, Bertram,” smiled Billy, a little wearily; “only that you were playing together a few minutes ago, and I wondered where she had gone.”
“'A few minutes ago'!” echoed Bertram with sudden bitterness. “Evidently the time passed swiftly with you, Billy. William was out here MORE than an hour.”
“Why—Bertram!”
“Yes, I know. I've no business to say that, of course,” sighed the man; “but, Billy, that's why I came out—because I must speak to you this once. Won't you come and sit down, please?” he implored despairingly.
“Why, Bertram,” murmured Billy again, faintly, as she turned toward the vine-shaded corner and sat down. Her eyes were startled. A swift color had come to her cheeks.
“Billy,” began the man, in a sternly controlled voice, “please let me speak this once, and don't try to stop me. You may think, for a moment, that it's disloyal to William if you listen; but it isn't. There's this much due to me—that you let me speak now. Billy, I can't stand it. I've tried, but it's no use. I've got to go away, and it's right that I should. I'm not the only one that thinks so, either. Marie does, too.”
“MARIE!”
“Yes. I talked it all over with her. She's known for a long time how it's been with me; how I cared—for you.”
“Marie! You've told Marie that?” gasped Billy.
“Yes. Surely you don't mind Marie's knowing,” went on Bertram, dejectedly. “And she's been so good to me, and tried to—help me.”
Bertram was not looking at Billy now. If he had been he would have seen the incredulous joy come into her face. His eyes were moodily fixed on the floor.
“And so, Billy, I've come to tell you. I'm going away,” he continued, after a moment. “I've got to go. I thought once, when I first talked with you of William, that you didn't know your own heart; that you didn't really care for him. I was even fool enough to think that—that it would be I to whom you'd turn—some day. And so I stayed. But I stayed honorably, Billy! YOU know that! You know that I haven't once forgotten—not once, that I was only William's brother. I promised you I'd be that—and I have been; haven't I?”
Billy nodded silently. Her face was turned away.
“But, Billy, I can't do it any longer. I've got to ask for my promise back, and then, of course, I can't stay.”
“But you—you don't have to go—away,” murmured the girl, faintly.
Bertram sprang to his feet. His face was white.
“Billy,” he cried, standing tall and straight before her, “Billy, I love every touch of your hand, every glance of your eye, every word that falls from your lips. Do you think I can stay—now? I want my promise back! When I'm no longer William's brother—then I'll go!”
“But you don't have to have it back—that is, you don't have to have it at all,” stammered Billy, flushing adorably. She, too, was on her feet now.
“Billy, what do you mean?”
“Don't you see? I—I HAVE turned,” she faltered breathlessly, holding out both her hands.
Even then, in spite of the great light that leaped to his eyes, Bertram advanced only a single step.
“But—William?” he questioned, unbelievingly.
“It WAS a mistake, just as you thought. We know now—both of us. We don't either of us care for the other—that way. And—Bertram, I think it HAS been you—all the time, only I didn't know!”
“Billy, Billy!” choked Bertram in a voice shaken with emotion. He opened his arms then, wide—and Billy walked straight into them.
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