CHAPTER XVIII. SUGARPLUMS
Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busyones for everybody. Miss Winthrop was not in town to give sittings forher portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram time andopportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayedand neglected. He was often at Hillside, however, and the lovers managedto snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and confusion ofthe Christmas preparations.
Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwrightwere groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the dayspassed, 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 tohimself--breathed more freely.
The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that sheshould have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas;and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himselfsynonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint andkept away.
"I'll make her care for me sometime--for something besides a song," hetold 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 withwith 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," arguedBilly. "You see, dear, it's just this," she went on, her bright facesobering a little. "There are such a lot of people in the world whoaren'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'vesaid it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they knownothing about--except to long for them."
"But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-namedSocieties--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 givesugarplums," smiled Billy. "And it's right that they shouldn't, too,"she added quickly. "They have more than they can do now with the roastbeef and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary."
"And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it--these books andmagazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, thespinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people whowere 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 thevery first time,'" laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender lightin his eyes. "Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to theLowestoft 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 shelikes."
"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, shecan't call a Christmas present 'charity'--not if it's only a little bitof 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 themorning--"
"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 meanand forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn'tknow the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled womanand 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 haveto live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Thosepitiful 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 forWill, of course, nor me--under the circumstances. But there's AuntHannah--" He paused hopefully.
Billy chuckled.
"Bless your dear heart! Aunt Hannah would call for a dozen shawls inthat place--if she had breath enough to call for any after she got tothe 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' withmy 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; andafter a few more arguments, Billy finally agreed to this.
It was with Rosa, therefore, that she set out the next morning for thelittle room up four flights on the narrow West End street.
Leaving the maid on the top stair of the fourth flight, Billy tappedat Mrs. Greggory's door. To her joy Mrs. Greggory herself answered theknock.
"Oh! Why--why, good morning," murmured the lady, in evidentembarrassment. "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 wasno 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 begana little hastily; "and I wanted just to come up and tell you how sorryI was about--about that teapot the other day. We didn't want it, ofcourse--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 aboutthat, 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 toapologize for my daughter. She was overwrought and excited. She didn'tknow what she was saying or doing, I'm sure. She was ashamed, I thinkafter 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 hisname?--was so kind in every way. I'm glad of this chance to tell you howmuch we really did appreciate it--and _your_ offer, too, which we couldnot, of course, accept," she finished, the bright color flooding herdelicate face.
Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in theopposite chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that shewished 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 keepit."
"Of course," murmured Billy, sympathetically.
"My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, andshe was determined that I should not give it up. She said I shouldhave that much left, anyway. You see--my daughter is very unreconciled,still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are sodifferent--from what they were!" Her voice broke a little.
"Of course," said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged withimpatient indignation. "If only there were something one could do tohelp!"
"Thank you, my dear, but there isn't--indeed there isn't," rejoinedthe other, quickly; and Billy, looking into the proudly lifted face,realized suddenly that daughter Alice had
perhaps inherited some traitsfrom mother. "We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughterhas 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 shemurmured:
"Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for Imust go. And may I leave these, please?" she added, hurriedly unpinningthe bunch of white carnations from her coat. "It seems a pity to letthem wilt, when you can put them in water right here." Her studiouslycasual voice gave no hint that those particular pinks had been boughtless 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 thefeathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say "Thank you,"however? she found herself alone.
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