For the first fifteen minutes after Billy's arrival conversation was a fitful thing made up mostly of a merry monologue on the part of Billy herself, interspersed with somewhat dazed replies from one after another of her auditors as she talked to them in turn. No one thought to ask if she cared to go up to her room, and during the entire fifteen minutes Billy sat on the floor with Spunk in her lap. She was still there when the funereal face of Pete appeared in the doorway. Pete's jaw dropped. It was plain that only the sternest self-control enabled him to announce dinner, with anything like dignity. But he managed to stammer out the words, and then turn loftily away. Bertram, who sat near the door, however, saw him raise his hands in horror as he plunged through the hall and down the stairway.
With a motion to Bertram to lead the way with Billy, William frenziedly gripped his sister's arm, and hissed in her ear for all the world like a villain in melodrama:
“Listen! You'll sleep in Bert's room to-night, and Bert will come up-stairs with me. Get Billy to bed as soon as you can after dinner, and then come back down to us. We've got to plan what's got to be done. Sh-h!” And he dragged his sister downstairs.
In the dining-room there was a slight commotion. Billy stood at her chair with Spunk in her arms. Before her Pete was standing, dumbly staring into her eyes. At last he stammered:
“Ma'am?”
“A chair, please, I said, for Spunk, you know. Spunk always sits at the table right next to me.”
It was too much for Bertram. He fled chokingly to the hall. William dropped weakly into his own place. Cyril stared as had Pete; but Mrs. Hartwell spoke.
“You don't mean—that that cat—has a chair—at the table!” she gasped.
“Yes; and isn't it cute of him?” beamed Billy, entirely misconstruing the surprise in the lady's voice. “His mother always sat at table with us, and behaved beautifully, too. Of course Spunk is little, and makes mistakes sometimes. But he'll learn. Oh, there's a chair right here,” she added, as she spied Bertram's childhood's high-chair, which for long years had stood unused in the corner. “I'll just squeeze it right in here,” she finished gleefully, making room for the chair at her side.
When Bertram, a little red of face, but very grave, entered, the dining-room a moment later, he found the family seated with Spunk snugly placed between Billy and a plainly disgusted and dismayed brother, Cyril. The kitten was alert and interested; but he had settled back in his chair, and was looking as absurdly dignified as the flaring pink bow would let him.
“Isn't he a dear?” Billy was saying. But Bertram noticed that there was no reply to this question.
It was a peculiar dinner-party. Only Billy did not feel the strain. Even Spunk was not entirely happy—his efforts to investigate the table and its contents were too frequently curbed by his mistress for his unalloyed satisfaction. William, it is true, made a valiant attempt to cause the conversation to be general; but he failed dismally. Kate was sternly silent, while Cyril was openly repellent. Bertram talked, indeed—but Bertram always talked; and very soon he and Billy had things pretty much to themselves—that is, with occasional interruptions caused by Spunk. Spunk had an inquisitive nose or paw for each new dish placed before his mistress; and Billy spent much time admonishing him. Billy said she was training him; that it was wonderful what training would do, and, of course, Spunk WAS little, now.
Dinner was half over when there was a slight diversion created by Spunk's conclusion to get acquainted with the silent man at his left. Cyril, however, did not respond to Spunk's advances. So very evident, indeed, was the man's aversion that Billy turned in amazement.
“Why, Mr. Cyril, don't you see? Spunk is trying to say 'How do you do'?”
“Very likely; but I'm not fond of cats, Miss Billy.”
“You're not fond—of—cats!” repeated the girl, as if she could not have heard aright. “Why not?”
Cyril changed his position.
“Why, just because I—I'm not,” he retorted lamely. “Isn't there anything that—that you don't like?”
Billy considered.
“Why, not that I know of,” she began, after a moment, “only rainy days and—tripe. And Spunk isn't a bit like those.”
Bertram chuckled, and even Cyril smiled—though unwillingly.
“All the same,” he reiterated, “I don't like cats.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” lamented Billy; and at the grieved hurt in her dark eyes Bertram came promptly to the rescue.
“Never mind, Miss Billy. Cyril is only ONE of us, and there is all the rest of the Strata besides.”
“The—what?”
“The Strata. You don't know, of course, but listen, and I'll tell you.” And he launched gaily forth into his favorite story.
Billy was duly amused and interested. She laughed and clapped her hands, and when the story was done she clapped them again.
“Oh, what a funny house! And how perfectly lovely that I'm going to live in it,” she cried. Then straight at Mrs. Hartwell she hurled a bombshell. “But where is your stratum?” she demanded. “Mr. Bertram didn't mention a thing about you!”
Cyril said a sharp word under his breath. Bertram choked over a cough. Kate threw into William's eyes a look that was at once angry, accusing, and despairing. Then William spoke.
“Er—she—it isn't anywhere, my dear,” he stammered; “or rather, it isn't here. Kate lives up on the Avenue, you see, and is only here for—for a day or two—just now.”
“Oh!” murmured Billy. And there was not one in the room at that moment who did not bless Spunk—for Spunk suddenly leaped to the table before him; and in the ensuing confusion his mistress quite forgot to question further concerning Mrs. Hartwell's stratum.
Dinner over, the three men, with their sister and Billy, trailed up-stairs to the drawing-rooms. Billy told them, then, of her life at Hampden Falls. She cried a little at the mention of Aunt Ella; and she portrayed very vividly the lonely life from which she herself had so gladly escaped. She soon had every one laughing, even Cyril, over her stories of the lawyer's home that might have been hers, with its gloom and its hush and its socketed chairs.
As soon as possible, however, Mrs. Hartwell, with a murmured “I know you must be tired, Billy,” suggested that the girl go up-stairs to her room. “Come,” she added, “I will show you the way.”
There was some delay, even then, for Spunk had to be provided with sleeping quarters; and it was not without some hesitation that Billy finally placed the kitten in the reluctant hands of Pete, who had been hastily summoned. Then she turned and followed Mrs. Hartwell up-stairs.
It seemed to the three men in the drawing-room that almost immediately came the piercing shriek, and the excited voice of their sister in expostulation. Without waiting for more they leaped to the stairway and hurried up, two steps at a time.
“For heaven's sake, Kate, what is it?” panted William, who had been outdistanced by his more agile brothers.
Kate was on her feet, her face the picture of distressed amazement. In the low chair by the window Billy sat where she had flung herself, her hands over her face. Her shoulders were shaking, and from her throat came choking little cries.
“I don't know,” quavered Kate. “I haven't the least idea. She was all right till she got up-stairs here, and I turned on the lights. Then she gave one shriek and—you know all I know.”
William advanced hurriedly.
“Billy, what is the matter? What are you crying for?” he demanded.
Billy dropped her hands then, and they saw her face. She was not crying. She was laughing. She was laughing so she could scarcely speak.
“Oh, you did, you did!” she gurgled. “I thought you did, and now I know!”
“Did what? What do you mean?” William's usually gentle voice was sharp. Even William's nerves were beginning to feel the strain of the last few hours.
“Thought I was a—b-boy!” choked Billy. “You called me 'he' once in the station—I thought you did; but I wasn't sure—not till I saw this room. But now I know—I know!” And off she went into another hysterical gale of laughter—Billy's nerves, too, were beginning to respond to the excitement of the last few hours.
As to the three men and the woman, they stood silent, helpless, looking into each other's faces with despairing eyes.
In a moment Billy was on her feet, fluttering about the room, touching this thing, looking at that. Nothing escaped her.
“I'm to fish—and shoot—and fence!” she crowed. “And, oh!—look at those knives! U-ugh!... And, my! what are these?” she cried, pouncing on the Indian clubs. “And look at the spiders! Dear, dear, I AM glad they're dead, anyhow,” she shuddered with a nervous laugh that was almost a sob.
Something in Billy's voice stirred Mrs. Hartwell to sudden action.
“Come, come, this will never do,” she protested authoritatively, motioning her brothers to leave the room. “Billy is quite tired out, and needs rest. She mustn't talk another bit to-night.”
“Of c-course not,” stammered William. And only too glad of an excuse to withdraw from a very embarrassing situation, the three men called back a faltering good-night, and precipitately fled down-stairs.
“Well, William,” greeted Kate, grimly, when she came into the drawing-room, after putting her charge to bed, “have you had enough, now?”
“'Enough'! What do you mean?”
Kate raised her eyebrows.
“Why, surely, you're not thinking NOW that you can keep this girl here; are you?”
“I don't know why not.”
“William!”
“Well, where shall she go? Will you take her?”
“I? Certainly not,” declared Kate, with decision. “I'm sure I see no reason why I should.”
“No more do I see why William should, either,” cut in Cyril.
“Oh, come, what's the use,” interposed Bertram. “Let her stay. She's a nice little thing, I'm sure.”
Cyril and Kate turned sharply.
“Bertram!” The cry was a duet of angry amazement. Then Kate added: “It seems that you, too, have come under the sway of dark eyes, pink cheeks, and an unknown quantity of curly hair!”
Bertram laughed.
“Oh, well, she would be nice to—er—paint,” he murmured.
“See here, children,” demurred William, a little sternly, “all this is wasting time. There is no way out of it. I wouldn't be seen turning that homeless child away now. We must keep her; that's settled. The question is, how shall it be done? We must have some woman friend here to be her companion, of course; but whom shall we get?”
Kate sighed, and looked her dismay. Bertram threw a glance into Cyril's eyes, and made an expressive gesture.
“You see,” it seemed to say. “I told you how it would be!”
“Now whom shall we get?” questioned William again. “We must think.”
Unattached gentlewomen of suitable age and desirable temper did not prove to be so numerous among the Henshaws' acquaintances, however, as to make the selection of a chaperon very easy. Several were thought of and suggested; but in each case the candidate was found to possess one or more characteristics that made the idea of her presence utterly abhorrent to some one of the brothers. At last William expostulated:
“See here, boys, we aren't any nearer a settlement than we were in the first place. There isn't any woman, of course, who would exactly suit all of us; and so we shall just have to be willing to take some one who doesn't.”
“The trouble is,” explained Bertram, airily, “we want some one who will be invisible to every one except the world and Billy, and who will be inaudible always.”
“I don't know but you are right,” sighed William. “But suppose we settle on Aunt Hannah. She seems to be the least objectionable of the lot, and I think she'd come. She's alone in the world, and I believe the comfortable roominess of this house would be very grateful to her after the inconvenience of her stuffy little room over at the Back Bay.”
“You bet it would!” murmured Bertram, feelingly; but William did not appear to hear him.
“She's amiable, fairly sensible, and always a lady,” he went on; “and to-morrow morning I believe I'll run over and see if she can't come right away.”
“And may I ask which—er—stratum she—they—will occupy?” smiled Bertram.
“You may ask, but I'm afraid you won't find out very soon,” retorted William, dryly, “if we take as long to decide that matter as we have the rest of it.”
“Er—Cyril has the most—UNOCCUPIED space,” volunteered Bertram, cheerfully.
“Indeed!” retaliated Cyril. “Suppose you let me speak for myself! Of course, so far as truck is concerned, I'm not in it with you and Will. But as for the USE I put my rooms to—! Besides, I already have Pete there, and would have Dong Ling probably, if he slept here. However, if you want any of my rooms, don't let my petty wants and wishes interfere—”
“No, no,” interrupted William, in quick conciliation. “We don't want your rooms, Cyril. Aunt Hannah abhors stairs. Of course I might move, I suppose. My rooms are one flight less; but if I only didn't have so many things!”
“Oh, you men!” shrugged Kate, wearily. “Why don't you ask my opinion sometimes? It seems to me that in this case a woman's wit might be of some help!”
“All right, go ahead!” nodded William.
Kate leaned forward eagerly—Kate loved to “manage.”
“Go easy, now,” cautioned Bertram, warily. “You know a strata, even one as solid as ours, won't stand too much of an earthquake!”
“It isn't an earthquake at all,” sniffed Kate. “It's a very sensible move all around. Here are these two great drawing-rooms, the library, and the little reception-room across the hall, and not one of them is ever used but this. Of course the women wouldn't like to sleep down here, but why don't you, Bertram, take the back drawing-room, the library, and the little reception-room for yours, and leave the whole of the second floor for Billy and Aunt Hannah?”
“Good for you, Kate,” cried Bertram, appreciatively. “You've hit it square on the head, and we'll do it. I'll move to-morrow. The light down here is just as good as it is up-stairs—if you let it in!”
“Thank you, Bertram, and you, too, Kate,” breathed William, fervently. “Now, if you don't mind, I believe I'll go to bed. I am tired!”
As soon as possible after breakfast William went to see Aunt Hannah.
Hannah Stetson was not really William's aunt, though she had been called Aunt Hannah for years. She was the widow of a distant cousin, and she lived in a snug little room in a Back Bay boarding-house. She was a slender, white-haired woman with kind blue eyes, and a lovable smile. Her cheeks were still faintly pink, and her fine silver-white hair broke into little kinks and curls about her ears. According to Bertram she always made one think of “lavender and old lace.”
She welcomed William cordially this morning, though with faint surprise in her eyes.
“Yes, I know I'm an early caller, and an unexpected one,” began William, hurriedly. “And I shall have to plunge straight into the matter, too, for there isn't time to preamble. I've taken an eighteen-year-old girl to bring up, Aunt Hannah, and I want you to come down and live with us to chaperon her.”
“My grief and conscience, WILLIAM!” gasped the little woman, agitatedly.
“Yes, yes, I know, Aunt Hannah, everything you would say if you could. But please skip the hysterics. We've all had them, and Kate has already used every possible adjective that you could think up. Now it's just this.” And he hurriedly gave Mrs. Stetson a full account of the case, and told her plainly what he hoped and expected that she would do for him.
“Why, yes, of course—I'll come,” acquiesced the lady, a little breathlessly, “if—if you are sure you're going to—keep her.”
“Good! And remember I said 'now,' please—that I wanted you to come right away, to-day. Of course Kate can't stay. Just get in half a dozen women to help you pack, and come.”
“Half a dozen women in that little room, William—impossible!”
“Well, I only meant to get enough so you could come right off this morning.”
“But I don't need them, William. There are only my clothes and books, and such things. You know it is a FURNISHED room.”
“All right, all right, Aunt Hannah. I wanted to make sure you hurried, that's all. You see, I don't want Billy to suspect just how much she's upsetting us. I've asked Kate to take her over to her house for the day, while Bertram is moving down-stairs, and while we're getting you settled. I—I think you'll like it there, Aunt Hannah,” added William, anxiously. “Of course Billy's got Spunk, but—” he hesitated, and smiled a little.
“Got what?” faltered the other.
“Spunk. Oh, I don't mean THAT kind,” laughed William, in answer to the dismayed expression on his aunt's face. “Spunk is a cat.”
“A cat!—but such a name, William! I—I think we'll change that.”
“Eh? Oh, you do,” murmured William, with a curious smile. “Very well; be that as it may. Anyhow, you're coming, and we shall want you all settled by dinner time,” he finished, as he picked up his hat to go.
With Kate, Billy spent the long day very contentedly in Kate's beautiful Commonwealth Avenue home. The two boys, Paul, twelve years old, and Egbert, eight, were a little shy, it is true, and not really of much use as companions; but there was a little Kate, four years old, who proved to be wonderfully entertaining.
Billy was not much used to children, and she found this four-year-old atom of humanity to be a great source of interest and amusement. She even told Mrs. Hartwell at parting that little Kate was almost as nice as Spunk—which remark, oddly enough, did not appear to please Mrs. Hartwell to the extent that Billy thought that it would.
At the Beacon Street house Billy was presented at once to Mrs. Stetson.
“And you are to call me 'Aunt Hannah,' my dear,” said the little woman, graciously, “just as the boys do.”
“Thank you,” dimpled Billy, “and you don't know, Aunt Hannah, how good it seems to me to come into so many relatives, all at once!”
Upon going up-stairs Billy found her room somewhat changed. It was far less warlike, and the case of spiders had been taken away.
“And this will be your stratum, you know,” announced Bertram from the stairway, “yours and Aunt Hannah's. You're to have this whole floor. Will and Cyril are above, and I'm down-stairs.”
“You are? Why, I thought you—were—here.” Billy's face was puzzled.
“Here? Oh, well, I did have—some things here,” he retorted airily; “but I took them all away to-day. You see, my stratum is down-stairs, and it doesn't do to mix the layers. By the way, you haven't been up-stairs yet; have you? Come on, and I'll show you—and you, too, Aunt Hannah.”
Billy clapped her hands; but Aunt Hannah shook her head.
“I'll leave that for younger feet than mine,” she said; adding whimsically: “It's best sometimes that one doesn't try to step too far off one's own level, you know.”
“All right,” laughed the man. “Come on, Miss Billy.”
On the door at the head of the stairs he tapped twice, lightly.
“Well, Pete,” called Cyril's voice, none too cordially.
“Pete, indeed!” scoffed Bertram. “You've got company, young man. Open the door. Miss Billy is viewing the Strata.”
The bare floor echoed to a quick tread, then the door opened and Cyril faced them with a forced smile on his lips.
“Come in—though I fear there will be little—to see,” he said.
Bertram assumed a pompous attitude.
“Ladies and gentlemen; you behold here the lion in his lair.”
“Be still, Bertram,” ordered Cyril.
“He is a lion, really,” confided Bertram, in a lower voice; “but as he prefers it, we'll just call him 'the Musical Man.'”
“I should think I was some sort of music-box that turned with a crank,” bristled Cyril.
Bertram grinned.
“A—CRANK, did you say? Well, even I wouldn't have quite dared to say that, you know!”
With an impatient gesture Cyril turned on his heel. Bertram fell once more into his pompous attitude.
“Before you is the Man's workshop,” he orated. “At your right you see his instruments of tor—I mean, his instruments: a piano, flute, etc. At your left is the desk with its pens, paper, erasers, ink and postage stamps. I mention these because there are—er—so few things to mention here. Beyond, through the open door, one may catch glimpses of still other rooms; but they hold even less than this one holds. Tradition doth assert, however, that in one is a couch-bed, and in another, two chairs.”
Billy listened silently. Her eyes were questioning. She was not quite sure how to take Bertram's words; and the bare rooms and their stern-faced master filled her with a vague pity. But the pause that followed Bertram's nonsense seemed to be waiting for her to fill it.
“Oh, I should like to hear you—play, Mr. Cyril,” she stammered. Then, gathering courage. “CAN you play 'The Maiden's Prayer'?”
Bertram gave a cough, a spasmodic cough that sent him, red-faced, out into the hall. From there he called:
“Can't stop for the animals to perform, Miss Billy. It's 'most dinner time, and we've got lots to see yet.”
“All right; but—sometime,” nodded Billy over her shoulder to Cyril as she turned away. “I just love that 'Maiden's Prayer'!”
“Now this is William's stratum,” announced Bertram at the foot of the stairs. “You will perceive that there is no knocking here; William's doors are always open.”
“By all means! Come in—come in,” called William's cheery voice.
“Oh, my, what a lot of things!” exclaimed Billy. “My—my—what a lot of things! How Spunk will like this room!”
Bertram chuckled; then he made a great display of drawing a long breath.
“In the short time at our disposal,” he began loftily, “it will be impossible to point out each particular article and give its history from the beginning; but somewhere you will find four round white stones, which—”
“Er—yes, we know all about those white stones,” interrupted William, “and you'll please let me talk about my own things myself!” And he beamed benevolently on the wondering-eyed girl at Bertram's side.
“But there are so many!” breathed Billy.
“All the more chance then,” smiled William, “that somewhere among them you'll find something to interest you. Now these Chinese ceramics, and these bronzes—maybe you'd like those,” he suggested. And with a resigned sigh and an exaggerated air of submission, Bertram stepped back and gave way to his brother.
“And there are these miniatures, and these Japanese porcelains. Or perhaps you'd like stamps, or theatre programs better,” William finished anxiously.
Billy did not reply. She was turning round and round, her eyes wide and amazed. Suddenly she pounced on a beautifully decorated teapot, and held it up in admiring hands.
“Oh, what a pretty teapot! And what a cute little plate it sets in!” she cried.
The collector fairly bubbled over with joy.
“That's a Lowestoft—a real Lowestoft!” he crowed. “Not that hard-paste stuff from the Orient that's CALLED Lowestoft, but the real thing—English, you know. And that's the tray that goes with it, too. Wonderful—how I got them both! You know they 'most always get separated. I paid a cool hundred for them, anyhow.”
“A hundred dollars for a teapot!” gasped Billy.
“Yes; and here's a nice little piece of lustre-ware. Pretty—isn't it? And there's a fine bit of black basalt. And—”
“Er—Will,” interposed Bertram, meekly.
“Oh, and here's a Castleford,” cried William, paying no attention to the interruption. “Marked, too; see? 'D. D. & Co., Castleford.' You know there isn't much of that ware marked. This is a beauty, too, I think. You see this pitted surface—they made that with tiny little points set into the inner side of the mold. The design stands out fine on this. It's one of the best I ever saw. And, oh—”
“Er—William,” interposed Bertram again, a little louder this time. “May I just say—”
“And did you notice this 'Old Blue'?” hurried on William, eagerly. “Lid sets down in, you see—that's older than the kind where it sets over the top. Now here's one—”
“William,” almost shouted Bertram, “DINNER IS READY! Pete has sounded the gong twice already!”
“Eh? Oh, sure enough—sure enough,” acknowledged William, with a regretful glance at his treasures. “Well, we must go, we must go.”
“But I haven't seen your stratum at all,” demurred Billy to her guide, as they went down the stairway.
“Then there's something left for to-morrow,” promised Bertram; “but you must remember, I haven't got any beautiful 'Old Blues' and 'black basalts,' to say nothing of stamps and baggage tags. But I'll make you some tea—some real tea—and that's more than William has done, with all his hundred and one teapots!”
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