Miss Billy - Eleanor Hodgman Porter (read dune .txt) đ
- Author: Eleanor Hodgman Porter
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âAnd now Iâm ready to see my friends,â she announced.
âAnd I think your friends will be ready to see you,â Bertram assured her.
And they wereâat least, so it appeared. For at once the little house perched on the hillside became the Mecca for many of the Henshawsâ friends who had known Billy as Williamâs merry, eighteen-year-old namesake. There were others, too, whom Billy had met abroad; and there were soft-stepping, sweet-faced old women and an occasional white-whiskered old manâAunt Hannahâs friendsâwho found that the young mistress of Hillside was a charming hostess. There were also the Henshaw âboys,â and there was always Calderwellâat least, so Bertram declared to himself sometimes.
Bertram came frequently to the little house on the hill, even more frequently than William; but Cyril was not seen there so often. He came once at first, it is true, and followed Billy from room to room as she proudly displayed her new home. He showed polite interest in her view, and a perfunctory enjoyment of the tea she prepared for him. But he did not come again for some time, and when he did come, he sat stiffly silent, while his brothers did most of the talking.
As to CalderwellâCalderwell seemed suddenly to have lost his interest in impenetrable forests and unclimbable mountains. Nothing more intricate than the long Beacon Street boulevard, or more inaccessible than Corey Hill seemed worth exploring, apparently. According to Calderwellâs own version of it, he had âsettled downâ; he was going to âbe something that was something.â And he did spend sundry of his morning hours in a Boston law office with ponderous, calf-bound volumes spread in imposing array on the desk before him. Other hoursâmany hoursâhe spent with Billy.
One day, very soon, in fact, after she arrived in Boston, Billy asked Calderwell about the Henshaws.
âTell me about them,â she said. âTell me what they have been doing all these years.â
âTell you about them! Why, donât you know?â
She shook her head.
âNo. Cyril says nothing. William little moreâabout themselves; and you know what Bertram is. One can hardly separate sense from nonsense with him.â
âYou donât know, then, how splendidly Bertram has done with his art?â
âNo; only from the most casual hearsay. Has he done well then?â
âFinely! The public has been his for years, and now the critics are tumbling over each other to do him honor. They rave about his âsensitive, brilliant, nervous touch,ââwhatever that may be; his âmarvelous color senseâ; his âbeauty of line and pose.â And they quarrel over whether itâs realism or idealism that constitutes his charm.â
âIâm so glad! And is it still the âFace of a Girlâ?â
âYes; only heâs doing straight portraiture now as well. Itâs got to be quite the thing to be âdoneâ by Henshaw; and thereâs many a fair lady that has graciously commissioned him to paint her portrait. Heâs a fine fellow, tooâa mighty fine fellow. You may not know, perhaps, but three or four years ago he wasâwell, not wild, but âfrolicsome,â he would probably have called it. He got in with a lot of fellows thatâwell, that werenât good for a chap of Bertramâs temperament.â
âLikeâMr. Seaver?â
Calderwell turned sharply.
âDid YOU know Seaver?â he demanded in obvious surprise.
âI used to SEE himâwith Bertram.â
âOh! Well, he WAS one of them, unfortunately. But Bertram shipped him years ago.â
Billy gave a sudden radiant smileâbut she changed the subject at once.
âAnd Mr. William still collects, I suppose,â she observed.
âJove! I should say he did! Iâve forgotten the latest; but heâs a fine fellow, too, like Bertram.â
âAndâMr. Cyril?â
Calderwell frowned.
âThat chapâs a poser for me, Billy, and no mistake. I canât make him out!â
âWhatâs the matter?â
âI donât know. Probably Iâm not âtuned to his pitch.â Bertram told me once that Cyril was very sensitively strung, and never responded until a certain note was struck. Well, I havenât ever found that note, I reckon.â
Billy laughed.
âI never heard Bertram say that, but I think I know what he means; and heâs right, too. I begin to realize now what a jangling discord I must have created when I tried to harmonize with him three years ago! But what is he doing in his music?â
The other shrugged his shoulders.
âSame thing. Plays occasionally, and plays well, too; but heâs so erratic itâs difficult to get him to do it. Everything must be just so, you knowâair, light, piano, and audience. Heâs got another book out, Iâm toldâa profound treatise on somebodyâs something or otherâmusical, of course.â
âAnd he used to write music; doesnât he do that any more?â
âI believe so. I hear of it occasionally through musical friends of mine. They even play it to me sometimes. But I canât stand for much of itâhis stuffâreally, Billy.â
ââStuffâ indeed! And why not?â An odd hostility showed in Billyâs eyes.
Again Calderwell shrugged his shoulders.
âDonât ask me. I donât know. But theyâre always dead slow, somber things, with the wail of a lost spirit shrieking through them.â
âBut I just love lost spirits that wail,â avowed Billy, with more than a shade of reproach in her voice.
Calderwell stared; then he shook his head.
âNot in mine, thank you;â he retorted whimsically. âI prefer my spirits of a more sane and cheerful sort.â
The girl laughed, but almost instantly she fell silent.
âIâve been wondering,â she began musingly, after a time, âwhy some one of those three men does notâmarry.â
âYou wouldnât wonderâif you knew them better,â declared Calderwell. âNow think. Letâs begin at the top of the Strataâby the way, Bertramâs name for that establishment is mighty clever! First, Cyril: according to Bertram Cyril hates âall kinds of women and other confusionâ; and I fancy Bertram hits it about right. So that settles Cyril. Then thereâs Williamâyou know William. Any girl would say William was a dear; but William isnât a MARRYING man. Dad says,ââCalderwellâs voice softened a littleââdad says that William and his young wife were the most devoted couple that he ever saw; and that when she died she seemed to take with her the whole of Williamâs heartâthat is, what hadnât gone with the baby a few years before. There was a boy, you know, that died.â
âYes, I know,â nodded Billy, quick tears in her eyes. âAunt Hannah told me.â
âWell, that counts out William, then,â said Calderwell, with an air of finality.
âBut how about Bertram? You havenât settled Bertram,â laughed Billy, archly.
âBertram!â Calderwellâs eyes widened. âBilly, can you imagine Bertramâs making love in real earnest to a girl?â
âWhy, Iâdonâtâknow; maybe!â Billy tipped her head from side to side as if she were viewing a picture set up for her inspection.
âWell, I canât. In the first place, no girl would think he was serious; or if by any chance she did, sheâd soon discover that it was the turn of her head or the tilt of her chin that he admiredâ TO PAINT. Now isnât that so?â
Billy laughed, but she did not answer.
âIt is, and you know it,â declared Calderwell. âAnd that settles him. Now you can see, perhaps, why none of these menâwill marry.â
It was a long minute before Billy spoke.
âNot a bit of it. I donât see it at all,â she declared with roguish merriment. âMoreover, I think that some day, some one of themâwill marry, Sir Doubtful!â
Calderwell threw a quick glance into her eyes. Evidently something he saw there sent a swift shadow to his own. He waited a moment, then asked abruptly:
âBilly, WONâT you marry me?â
Billy frowned, though her eyes still laughed.
âHugh, I told you not to ask me that again,â she demurred.
âAnd I told you not to ask impossibilities of me,â he retorted imperturbably. âBilly, wonât you, nowâseriously? â
âSeriously, no, Hugh. Please donât let us go all over that again when weâve done it so many times.â
âNo, letâs donât,â agreed the man, cheerfully. âAnd we donât have to, either, if youâll only say âyes,â now right away, without any more fuss.â
Billy sighed impatiently.
âHugh, wonât you understand that Iâm serious?â she cried; then she turned suddenly, with a peculiar flash in her eyes.
âHugh, I donât believe Bertram himself could make love any more nonsensically than you can!â
Calderwell laughed, but he frowned, too; and again he threw into Billyâs face that keenly questioning glance. He said somethingâa light somethingâthat brought the laugh to Billyâs lips in spite of herself; but he was still frowning when he left the house some minutes later, and the shadow was not gone from his eyes.
Billyâs time was well occupied. There were so many, many things she wished to do, and so few, few hours in which to do them. First there was her music. She made arrangements at once to study with one of Bostonâs best piano teachers, and she also made plans to continue her French and German. She joined a musical club, a literary club, and a more strictly social club; and to numerous church charities and philanthropic enterprises she lent more than her name, giving freely of both time and money.
Friday afternoons, of course, were to be held sacred to the Symphony concerts; and on certain Wednesday mornings there was to be a series of recitals, in which she was greatly interested.
For Society with a capital S, Billy cared little; but for sociability with a small s, she cared much; and very wide she opened her doors to her friends, lavishing upon them a wealth of hospitality. Nor did they all come in carriages or automobilesâ these friends. A certain pale-faced little widow over at the South End knew just how good Miss Neilsonâs tea tasted on a crisp October afternoon and Marie Hawthorn, a frail young woman who gave music lessons, knew just how restful was Miss Neilsonâs couch after a weary day of long walks and fretful pupils.
âBut how in the world do you discover them allâthese forlorn specimens of humanity?â queried Bertram one evening, when he had found Billy entertaining a freckled-faced messenger-boy with a plate of ice cream and a big square of cake.
âAnywhereâeverywhere,â smiled Billy.
âWell, this last candidate for your favor, who has just goneâwhoâs he?â
âI donât know, beyond that his name is âTom,â and that he likes ice cream.â
âAnd you never saw him before?â
âNever.â
âHumph! One wouldnât think it, to see his charming air of nonchalant accustomedness.â
âOh, but it doesnât take much to make a little fellow like that feel at home,â laughed Billy.
âAnd are you in the habit of feeding every one who comes to your house, on ice cream and chocolate cake? I thought that stone doorstep of yours was looking a little worn.â
âNot a bit of it,â retorted Billy. âThis little chap came with a message just as I was finishing dinner. The ice cream was particularly good tonight, and it occurred to me that he might like a taste; so I gave it to him.â
Bertram raised his eyebrows quizzically.
âVery kind, of course; butâwhy
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