Eleanor H. Porter

“ To Billy, life was eminently worth living to-night. Her head did not ache, her throat was not sore, her shoe did not hurt, her dress had been mended so successfully by Aunt Hannah, and with such comforting celerity, that long before night one would never have suspected the filmy thing had known the devastating tread of any man's foot. Better yet, the soprano had sung exactly to key, the alto had shrieked “Beware!” to thrilling purpose, Arkwright had shown all his old charm and vim, and the chorus had been prodigies of joyousness and marvels of lightness. ”

“ Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on.
“And the flowers—roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't let you do all this for me.”
“Nonsense, dear!” laughed Billy. “Why, I love to do it. Besides, when you're gone, just think how lonesome I'll be! I shall have to adopt somebody else then—now that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but a disappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you,” she finished whimsically.
Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows. ”

“ As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyes sombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifference that to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening.
“But, Bertram, why don't you do something? Why don't you say something? Why don't you act something?” she burst out one day.
The artist shrugged his shoulders.
“But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?” he asked.
“I don't know, of course,” sighed Billy. “But I know what I'd like to do. I should like to go out and—fight somebody!” ”

“ Bertram's jaw dropped.
“Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for that trumpery teapot!”
“Of course not,” flashed Billy, heatedly. “It isn't the teapot—it's that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poor they are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either—except patches. It's awful, Bertram!” ”

“ Billy was thinking of what Hugh Calderwell had once said to her: that Bertram Henshaw would never love any girl seriously; that it would always be the turn of her head or the tilt of her chin that he loved—to paint. ”

“ Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice Greggory as she had opened the door at the last.
“For,” as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him the story of the morning's adventure, “you see, dear, I had never been really turned out of a house before!”
“I should think not,” scowled her lover, indignantly; “and it's safe to say you never will again. The impertinence of it! But then, you won't see them any more, sweetheart, so we'll just forget it.” ”

“ After a moment Marie turned to Billy again.
“I'm so glad he wants—just puddings and stockings,” she began a little breathlessly. “You see, for so long I supposed he wouldn't want anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing beautifully; a wife he'd be proud of—like you.”
“Me? Nonsense!” laughed Billy. “Cyril never wanted me, and I never wanted him—only once for a few minutes, so to speak, when I thought, I did. In spite of our music, we aren't a mite congenial. I like people around; he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. ”

“ But it was Arkwright's song. He remembered that, too—and grew faint at the thought. True, he had won when his rival, music, had been a “cold, senseless thing of spidery marks” on paper; but would that winning stand when “music” had become a thing of flesh and blood—a man of undeniable charm, good looks, and winsomeness; a man whose thoughts, aims, and words were the personification of the thing Billy, in the long ago, had declared she loved best of all—music?
Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano. ”

“ Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear of Bertram's engagement as I was of Cyril's.”
Billy grew a little white.
“But Bertram was never an avowed—woman-hater, like Cyril, was he?”
“'Woman-hater'—dear me, no! He was a woman-lover, always. As if his eternal 'Face of a Girl' didn't prove that! Bertram has always loved women—to paint. ”

“ You know how flighty and unreliable you can be sometimes, Billy, and I don't say that to mean anything against you, either—that's your way. You're just as temperamental in your art, music, as Bertram is in his. You're utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry anybody, it should be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be a help to him. ”

“ Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she must set Bertram's mind at rest.
“Dearest,” she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, “just what it is, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feel that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this afternoon.” ”

“ Everybody's nerves were on edge, everybody was sure the thing would be a “flat failure.” The soprano sang off the key, the alto forgot to shriek “Beware, beware!” until it was so late there was nothing to beware of; the basso stepped on Billy's trailing frock and tore it; even the tenor, Arkwright himself, seemed to have lost every bit of vim from his acting. The chorus sang “Oh, be joyful!” with dirge-like solemnity, and danced as if legs and feet were made of wood. The lovers, after the fashion of amateur actors from time immemorial, “made love like sticks.” ”

“ Things went from bad to worse then, until there was almost nothing left.”
“I knew there was some such story as that back of them,” declared Billy. “But how do you suppose they came here?”
“To get away from—everybody, I suspect,” replied Arkwright. “That would be like them. They were very proud; and it isn't easy, you know, to be nobody where you've been somebody. It doesn't hurt quite so hard—to be nobody where you've never been anything but nobody.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Billy. “Still—they must have had friends.” ”

“ Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little.
“He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, that—that I couldn't.”
“I know, dear; but—they don't always understand.” Aunt Hannah sighed in sympathy with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked down at the bright young face near her.
There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh.
“He will be surprised,” she said. “He told me once that Bertram wouldn't ever care for any girl except to paint. To paint, indeed! As if Bertram didn't love me—just me!—if he never saw another tube of paint!” ”

“ To Billy, just then, life did not look to be even half worth the living. Her head ached, her throat was going-to-be-sore, her shoe hurt, and her dress—the trailing frock that had been under the basso's foot—could not possibly be decently repaired before to-morrow night, she was sure.
Bad as these things were, however, they were only the intimate, immediate woes. Beyond and around them lay others many others. To be sure, Bertram and happiness were supposed to be somewhere in the dim and uncertain future ”

“ You don't know what a really fine seat a stone step is—if you have a big enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! They bring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work for fine days, I've been told—some of them. All the comforts of home, you see,” smiled Arkwright.
“Why, how—how dreadful!” stammered Billy.
“Oh, but they don't think it's dreadful at all,” corrected Arkwright, quickly. “For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down in your orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium.” ”

“ I know there's no chance for me—now.”
“Then you'll leave me a clear field?” bantered the other.
“Of course—'Mary Jane,'” retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, you needn't,” laughed Calderwell. “My giving you the right of way doesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself—there are others, you know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man who wins it—for the man who wins that, wins her.” ”

“ Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were great friends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys' ten-days' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentle tap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the very first day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunny friendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness.
Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was no longer trying to play Cupid's assistant. ”

“ Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control.
“Please—please, forgive me!” she choked. “But you see—you couldn't, of course, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't girls. They're just a man and an automobile!”
An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still stood her ground.
“After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilson—it makes little difference. They're—charity. And it's not so long that we've been objects of charity that we quite really enjoy it—yet.” ”

“ But—I no longer have any business with pride, of course. I shall be pleased, I'm sure,” she went on dully, “to accept anything you may do for us, from automobile rides to—to red flannel petticoats.”
Billy almost—but not quite—laughed. Still, the laugh would have been near to a sob, had it been given. Surprising as was the quick transition in the girl's manner, and absurd as was the juxtaposition of automobiles and red flannel petticoats, the white misery of Alice Greggory's face and the weary despair of her attitude were tragic—specially to one who knew her story as did Billy Neilson. ”

“ And of course music would be the most natural thing.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Aunt Hannah.
“And it seems actually almost providential that Mary—I mean Mr. Arkwright is here to help me, now that Cyril is gone,” went on Billy, still a little wistfully.
“Yes, of course. He isn't like—a stranger,” murmured Aunt Hannah. Aunt Hannah's voice sounded as if she were trying to convince herself—of something.
“No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if he were really—your niece, Mary Jane,” laughed Billy. ”

“ All the way to the telephone booth Billy was trying to bring order out of the chaos of her mind; but all the way, too, she was chuckling.
“To think that this thing should have happened to me!” she said, almost aloud. “And here I am telephoning just like Uncle William—Bertram said Uncle William did telephone about me!”
In due course Billy had Aunt Hannah at the other end of the wire.
“Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened. Mary Jane is—a man.” ”

“ Billy went down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactly as usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know—yet.
When people try to “act exactly as usual,” they generally end in acting quite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence her attempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter giggles that rang too frequently to be quite sincere—though from Aunt Hannah it all elicited only an affectionate smile at “the dear child's high spirits.” ”

“ Nonsense!” she cried. “Why, he's going to marry Alice Greggory. I know he is! I can see it as plain as day in her letters. He's there a lot.”
“And you never did think for a minute, Billy, that you cared for him?” Bertram's gaze searched Billy's face a little fearfully. He had not been slow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked him now straight in the face—it was a level, frank gaze of absolute truth.
“Never, dear,” she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned the question on her love instead of Arkwright's!) “There has never really been any one but you.” ”

“ In Bertram's studio the latest “Face of a Girl” had made way for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy Neilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos of treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea enamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms—usually so austerely bare—a handsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at purchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own. ”

“ Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; people who have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it,” he rejoined. “Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a little dressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from the uttermost parts of the earth; maybe a widow who used to sit down-stairs, or a professor who has seen better days. Really to know that line, you should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson,” smiled Arkwright, as he reluctantly rose to go. ”