At Hillside, Aunt Hannah was, indeed, helping Rosa to put the house to rights, as Marie had said. She was crying, too, over a glove she had found on Billy's piano; but she was crying over something else, also. Not only had she lost Billy, but she had lost her home.
To be sure, nothing had been said during that nightmare of a week of hurry and confusion about Aunt Hannah's future; but Aunt Hannah knew very well how it must be. This dear little house on the side of Corey Hill was Billy's home, and Billy would not need it any longer. It would be sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go back to a "second-story front" and loneliness in some Back Bay boarding-house; and a second story front and loneliness would not be easy now, after these years of home—and Billy.
No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat crying and patting the little white glove in her hand. No wonder, too, that—being Aunt Hannah—she reached for the shawl near by and put it on, shiveringly. Even July, to-night, was cold—to Aunt Hannah.
In yet another home that evening was the wedding of Billy Neilson and Bertram Henshaw uppermost in thought and speech. In a certain little South-End flat where, in two rented rooms, lived Alice Greggory and her crippled mother, Alice was talking to Mr. M. J. Arkwright, commonly known to his friends as "Mary Jane," owing to the mystery in which he had for so long shrouded his name.
Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill at ease.
"You're not listening. You're not listening at all," complained Alice Greggory at last, reproachfully.
With a visible effort the man roused himself.
"Indeed I am," he maintained.
"I thought you'd be interested in the wedding. You used to be friends—you and Billy." The girl's voice still vibrated with reproach.
There was a moment's silence; then, a little harshly, the man said:
"Perhaps—because I wanted to be more than—a friend—is why you're not satisfied with my interest now."
A look that was almost terror came to Alice Greggory's eyes. She flushed painfully, then grew very white.
"You mean—"
"Yes," he nodded dully, without looking up. "I cared too much for her. I supposed Henshaw was just a friend—till too late."
There was a breathless hush before, a little unsteadily, the girl stammered:
"Oh, I'm so sorry—so very sorry! I—I didn't know."
"No, of course you didn't. I've almost told you, though, lots of times; you've been so good to me all these weeks." He raised his head now, and looked at her, frank comradeship in his eyes.
The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes swerved a little under his level gaze.
"Oh, but I've done nothing—n-nothing," she stammered. Then, at the light tap of crutches on a bare floor she turned in obvious relief. "Oh, here's mother. She's been in visiting with Mrs. Delano, our landlady. Mother, Mr. Arkwright is here."
Meanwhile, speeding north as fast as steam could carry them, were the bride and groom. The wondrousness of the first hour of their journey side by side had become a joyous certitude that always it was to be like this now.
"Bertram," began the bride, after a long minute of eloquent silence.
"Yes, love."
"You know our wedding was very different from most weddings."
"Of course it was!"
"Yes, but really it was. Now listen." The bride's voice grew tenderly earnest. "I think our marriage is going to be different, too."
"Different?"
"Yes." Billy's tone was emphatic. "There are so many common, everyday marriages where—where—Why, Bertram, as if you could ever be to me like—like Mr. Carleton is, for instance!"
"Like Mr. Carleton is—to you?" Bertram's voice was frankly puzzled.
"No, no! As Mr. Carleton is to Mrs. Carleton, I mean."
"Oh!" Bertram subsided in relief.
"And the Grahams and Whartons, and the Freddie Agnews, and—and a lot of others. Why, Bertram, I've seen the Grahams and the Whartons not even speak to each other a whole evening, when they've been at a dinner, or something; and I've seen Mrs. Carleton not even seem to know her husband came into the room. I don't mean quarrel, dear. Of course we'd never quarrel! But I mean I'm sure we shall never get used to—to you being you, and I being I."
"Indeed we sha'n't," agreed Bertram, rapturously.
"Ours is going to be such a beautiful marriage!"
"Of course it will be."
"And we'll be so happy!"
"I shall be, and I shall try to make you so."
"As if I could be anything else," sighed Billy, blissfully. "And now we can't have any misunderstandings, you see."
"Of course not. Er—what's that?"
"Why, I mean that—that we can't ever repeat hose miserable weeks of misunderstanding. Everything is all explained up. I know, now, that you don't love Miss Winthrop, or just girls—any girl—to paint. You love me. Not the tilt of my chin, nor the turn of my head; but me."
"I do—just you." Bertram's eyes gave the caress his lips would have given had it not been for the presence of the man in the seat across the aisle of the sleeping-car.
"And you—you know now that I love you—just you?"
"Not even Arkwright?"
"Not even Arkwright," smiled Billy.
There was the briefest of hesitations; then, a little constrainedly, Bertram asked:
"And you said you—you never had cared for Arkwright, didn't you?"
For the second time in her life Billy was thankful that Bertram's question had turned upon her love for Arkwright, not Arkwright's love for her. In Billy's opinion, a man's unrequited love for a girl was his secret, not hers, and was certainly one that the girl had no right to tell. Once before Bertram had asked her if she had ever cared for Arkwright, and then she had answered emphatically, as she did now:
"Never, dear."
"I thought you said so," murmured Bertram, relaxing a little.
"I did; besides, didn't I tell you?" she went on airily, "I think he'll marry Alice Greggory. Alice wrote me all the time I was away, and—oh, she didn't say anything definite, I'll admit," confessed Billy, with an arch smile; "but she spoke of his being there lots, and they used to know each other years ago, you see. There was almost a romance there, I think, before the Greggorys lost their money and moved away from all their friends."
"Well, he may have her. She's a nice girl—a mighty nice girl," answered Bertram, with the unmistakably satisfied air of the man who knows he himself possesses the nicest girl of them all.
Billy, reading unerringly the triumph in his voice, grew suddenly grave. She regarded her husband with a thoughtful frown; then she drew a profound sigh.
"Whew!" laughed Bertram, whimsically. "So soon as this?"
"Bertram!" Billy's voice was tragic.
"Yes, my love." The bridegroom pulled his face into sobriety; then Billy spoke, with solemn impressiveness.
"Bertram, I don't know a thing about—cooking—except what I've been learning in Rosa's cook-book this last week."
Bertram laughed so loud that the man across the aisle glanced over the top of his paper surreptitiously.
"Rosa's cook-book! Is that what you were doing all this week?"
"Yes; that is—I tried so hard to learn something," stammered Billy. "But I'm afraid I didn't—much; there were so many things for me to think of, you know, with only a week. I believe I could make peach fritters, though. They were the last thing I studied."
Bertram laughed again, uproariously; but, at Billy's unchangingly tragic face, he grew suddenly very grave and tender.
"Billy, dear, I didn't marry you to—to get a cook," he said gently.
Billy shook her head.
"I know; but Aunt Hannah said that even if I never expected to cook, myself, I ought to know how it was done, so to properly oversee it. She said that—that no woman, who didn't know how to cook and keep house properly, had any business to be a wife. And, Bertram, I did try, honestly, all this week. I tried so hard to remember when you sponged bread and when you
kneaded it."
"I don't ever need—yours," cut in Bertram, shamelessly; but he got only a deservedly stern glance in return.
"And I repeated over and over again how many cupfuls of flour and pinches of salt and spoonfuls of baking-powder went into things; but, Bertram, I simply could not keep my mind on it. Everything, everywhere was singing to me. And how do you suppose I could remember how many pinches of flour and spoonfuls of salt and cupfuls of baking-powder went into a loaf of cake when all the while the very teakettle on the stove was singing: 'It's all right—Bertram loves me—I'm going to marry Bertram!'?"
"You darling!" (In spite of the man across the aisle Bertram did almost kiss her this time.) "As if anybody cared how many cupfuls of baking-powder went anywhere—with that in your heart!"
"Aunt Hannah says you will—when you're hungry. And Kate said—"
Bertram uttered a sharp word behind his teeth.
"Billy, for heaven's sake don't tell me what Kate said, if you want me to stay sane, and not attempt to fight somebody—broken arm, and all. Kate thinks she's kind, and I suppose she means well; but—well, she's made trouble enough between us already. I've got you now, sweetheart. You're mine—all mine—" his voice shook, and dropped to a tender whisper—"'till death us do part.'"
"Yes; 'till death us do part,'" breathed Billy.
And then, for a time, they fell silent.
"'I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,'" sang the whirring wheels beneath them, to one.
"'I, Billy, take thee, Bertram,'" sang the whirring wheels beneath them, to the other. While straight ahead before them both, stretched fair and beautiful in their eyes, the wondrous path of life which they were to tread together.
Chapter II - For William—A Home
*
On the first Sunday after the wedding Pete came up-stairs to tell his master, William, that Mrs. Stetson wanted to see him in the drawing-room.
William went down at once.
"Well, Aunt Hannah," he began, reaching out a cordial hand. "Why, what's the matter?" he broke off concernedly, as he caught a clearer view of the little old lady's drawn face and troubled eyes.
"William, it's silly, of course," cried Aunt Hannah, tremulously, "but I simply had to go to some one. I—I feel so nervous and unsettled! Did—did Billy say anything to you—what she was going to do?"
"What she was going to do? About what? What do you mean?"
"About the house—selling it," faltered Aunt Hannah, sinking wearily back into her chair.
William frowned thoughtfully.
"Why, no," he answered. "It was all so hurried at the last, you know. There was really very little chance to make plans for anything—except the wedding," he finished, with a smile.
"Yes, I know," sighed Aunt Hannah. "Everything was in such confusion! Still, I didn't know but she might have said something—to you."
"No, she didn't. But I imagine it won't be hard to guess what she'll do. When they get back from their trip I fancy she won't lose much time in having what things she wants brought down here. Then she'll sell the rest and put the house on the market."
"Yes, of—of course," stammered Aunt Hannah, pulling herself hastily to a more erect position. "That's what I thought, too. Then don't you think we'd better dismiss Rosa and close the house at once?"
"Why—yes, perhaps so. Why not? Then you'd be all settled here when she comes home. I'm sure, the sooner you come, the better I'll be pleased," he smiled.
Aunt Hannah turned sharply.
"Here!" she ejaculated. "William Henshaw, you didn't suppose I was coming here to live, did you?"
It was William's turn to look amazed.
"Why, of course you're coming here! Where else should you go, pray?"
"Where I was before—before Billy came—to you," returned Aunt Hannah a little tremulously, but with a certain dignity. "I shall take a room in some quiet boarding-house, of course."
"Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! As if Billy would listen to that! You came before; why not come now?"
Aunt Hannah lifted her chin the fraction of an inch.
"You forget. I was needed before. Billy is a married woman now. She needs no chaperon."
"Nonsense!" scowled William, again. "Billy will always need you."
Aunt Hannah shook her head mournfully.
"I like to think—she wants me, William, but I know, in my heart, it isn't best."
"Why not?"
There was a moment's pause; then, decisively came the answer.
"Because I think young married folks should not have outsiders in the home."
William laughed relievedly.
"Oh, so that's it! Well, Aunt Hannah, you're no outsider. Come, run right along home and pack your trunk."
Aunt Hannah was plainly almost crying; but she held her ground.
"William, I can't," she reiterated.
"But—Billy is such a child, and—"
For once in her circumspect life Aunt Hannah was guilty of an interruption.
"Pardon me, William, she is not a child. She is a woman now, and she has a woman's problems to meet."
"Well, then, why don't you help her meet them?" retorted William, still with a whimsical smile.
But Aunt Hannah did not smile. For a minute she did not speak; then, with her eyes studiously averted, she said:
"William, the first four years of my married life were—were spoiled by an outsider in our home. I don't mean to spoil Billy's."
William relaxed visibly. The smile fled from his face.
"Why—Aunt—Hannah!" he exclaimed.
The little old lady turned with a weary sigh.
"Yes, I know. You are shocked, of course. I shouldn't have told you. Still, it is all past long ago, and—I wanted to make you understand why I can't come. He was my husband's eldest brother—a bachelor. He was good and kind, and meant well, I suppose; but—he interfered with everything. I was young, and probably headstrong. At all events, there was constant friction. He went away once and stayed two whole months. I shall never forget the utter freedom and happiness of those months for us, with the whole house to ourselves. No, William, I can't come." She rose abruptly and turned toward the door. Her eyes were wistful, and her face was still drawn with suffering; but her whole frail little self quivered plainly with high resolve. "John has Peggy outside. I must go."
"But—but, Aunt Hannah," began William, helplessly.
She lifted a protesting hand.
"No, don't urge me, please. I can't come here. But—I believe I won't close the house till Billy gets home, after all," she declared. The next moment she was gone, and William, dazedly, from the doorway, was watching John help her into Billy's automobile, called by Billy and half her friends, "Peggy," short for "Pegasus."
Still dazedly William turned back into the house and dropped himself into the nearest chair.
What a curious call it had been! Aunt Hannah had not acted like herself at all. Not once had she said "Oh, my grief and conscience!" while the things she had said—! Someway, he had never thought of Aunt Hannah as being young, and a bride. Still, of course she must have been—once. And the reason she gave for not coming there to live—the pitiful story of that outsider in her home! But she was no outsider! She was no interfering brother of Billy's—
William caught his breath suddenly, and held it suspended. Then he gave a low ejaculation and half sprang from his chair.
Spunkie, disturbed from her doze by the fire, uttered a purring "me-o-ow," and looked up inquiringly.
For a long minute William gazed dumbly into the cat's yellow, sleepily contented eyes; then he said with tragic distinctness:
"Spunkie, it's true: Aunt Hannah isn't Billy's husband's brother, but—I am! Do you hear? I am!"
"Pur-r-me-ow!" commented Spunkie; and curled herself for another nap.
There was no peace for William after that. In vain he told himself that he was no "interfering" brother, and that this was his home and had been all his life; in vain did he declare emphatically t
hat he could not go, he would not go; that Billy would not wish him to go: always before his eyes was the vision of that little bride of years long gone; always in his ears was the echo of Aunt Hannah's "I shall never forget the utter freedom and happiness of those months for us, with the whole house to ourselves." Nor, turn which way he would, could he find anything to comfort him. Simply because he was so fearfully looking for it, he found it—the thing that had for its theme the wretchedness that might be expected from the presence of a third person in the new home.
Poor William! Everywhere he met it—the hint, the word, the story, the song, even; and always it added its mite to the woeful whole. Even the hoariest of mother-in-law jokes had its sting for him; and, to make his cup quite full, he chanced to remember one day what Marie had said when he had suggested that she and Cyril come to the Strata to live: "No; I think young folks should begin by themselves."
Unhappy, indeed, were these days for William. Like a lost spirit he wandered from room to room, touching this, fingering that. For long minutes he would stand before some picture, or some treasured bit of old mahogany, as if to stamp indelibly upon his mind a thing that was soon to be no more. At other times, like a man without a home, he would go out into the Common or the Public Garden and sit for hours on some bench—thinking.
All this could have but one ending, of course. Before the middle of August William summoned Pete to his rooms.
"Oh, Pete, I'm going to move next week," he began nonchalantly. His voice sounded as if moving were a pleasurable circumstance that occurred in his life regularly once a month. "I'd like you to begin to pack up these things, please, to-morrow."
The old servant's mouth fell open.
"You're goin' to—to what, sir?" he stammered.
"Move—move, I said." William spoke with unusual harshness.
Pete wet his lips.
"You mean you've sold the old place, sir?—that we—we ain't goin' to live here no longer?"
Miss Billy Married Page 2