CHAPTER X
A JOB FOR PETE--AND FOR BERTRAM
The early days in December were busy ones, certainly, in the littlehouse on Corey Hill. Marie was to be married the twelfth. It was to bea home wedding, and a very simple one--according to Billy, and accordingto what Marie had said it was to be. Billy still serenely spoke of itas a "simple affair," but Marie was beginning to be fearful. As thedays passed, bringing with them more and more frequent evidences eithertangible or intangible of orders to stationers, caterers, and florists,her fears found voice in a protest.
"But Billy, it was to be a _simple_ wedding," she cried.
"And so it is."
"But what is this I hear about a breakfast?"
Billy's chin assumed its most stubborn squareness.
"I don't know, I'm sure, what you did hear," she retorted calmly.
"Billy!"
Billy laughed. The chin was just as stubborn, but the smiling lips aboveit graced it with an air of charming concession.
"There, there, dear," coaxed the mistress of Hillside, "don't fret.Besides, I'm sure I should think you, of all people, would want yourguests _fed!_"
"But this is so elaborate, from what I hear."
"Nonsense! Not a bit of it."
"Rosa says there'll be salads and cakes and ices--and I don't know whatall."
Billy looked concerned.
"Well, of course, Marie, if you'd _rather_ have oatmeal and doughnuts,"she began with kind solicitude; but she got no farther.
"Billy!" besought the bride elect. "Won't you be serious? And there'sthe cake in wedding boxes, too."
"I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner than--just fingers,"apologized an anxiously serious voice.
Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on.
"And the flowers--roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't letyou do all this for me."
"Nonsense, dear!" laughed Billy. "Why, I love to do it. Besides, whenyou're gone, just think how lonesome I'll be! I shall have to adoptsomebody else then--now that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but adisappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you," she finishedwhimsically.
Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows.
"And for my trousseau--there were so many things that you simply wouldbuy!"
"I didn't get one of the egg-beaters," Billy reminded her anxiously.
Marie smiled now, but she shook her head, too.
"Billy, I cannot have you do all this for me."
"Why not?"
At the unexpectedly direct question, Marie fell back a little.
"Why, because I--I can't," she stammered. "I can't get them for myself,and--and--"
"Don't you love me?"
A pink flush stole to Marie's face.
"Indeed I do, dearly."
"Don't I love you?"
The flush deepened.
"I--I hope so."
"Then why won't you let me do what I want to, and be happy in it? Money,just money, isn't any good unless you can exchange it for something youwant. And just now I want pink roses and ice cream and lace flouncesfor you. Marie,"--Billy's voice trembled a little--"I never had a sistertill I had you, and I have had such a good time buying things that Ithought you wanted! But, of course, if you don't want them--" The wordsended in a choking sob, and down went Billy's head into her folded armson the desk before her.
Marie sprang to her feet and cuddled the bowed head in a loving embrace.
"But I do want them, dear; I want them all--every single one," sheurged. "Now promise me--promise me that you'll do them all, just asyou'd planned! You will, won't you?"
There was the briefest of hesitations, then came the muffled reply:
"Yes--if you really want them."
"I do, dear--indeed I do. I love pretty weddings, and I--I always hopedthat I could have one--if I ever married. So you must know, dear, how Ireally do want all those things," declared Marie, fervently. "And now Imust go. I promised to meet Cyril at Park Street at three o'clock."And she hurried from the room--and not until she was half-way to herdestination did it suddenly occur to her that she had been urging,actually urging Miss Billy Neilson to buy for her pink roses, ice cream,and lace flounces.
Her cheeks burned with shame then. But almost at once she smiled.
"Now wasn't that just like Billy?" she was saying to herself, with atender glow in her eyes.
It was early in December that Pete came one day with a package for Mariefrom Cyril. Marie was not at home, and Billy herself went downstairs totake the package from the old man's hands.
"Mr. Cyril said to give it to Miss Hawthorn," stammered the old servant,his face lighting up as Billy entered the room; "but I'm sure hewouldn't mind _your_ taking it."
"I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry itback with you," she smiled. "I'll see that Miss Hawthorn has it the veryfirst moment she comes in."
"Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face." Hehesitated, then turned slowly. "Good day, Miss Billy."
Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as shelooked after the old man, who was now almost to the door. Something inhis bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step towardhim.
"You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete," she said pleasantly.
The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a littleproudly.
"Yes, Miss. I--I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man."
"Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, some--to makehim so," smiled the girl, vaguely wishing that she could say somethingthat would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before her.
For a moment Billy thought she had succeeded. The old servant drewhimself stiffly erect. In his eyes shone the loyal pride of more thanfifty years' honest service. Almost at once, however, the pride diedaway, and the wistfulness returned.
"Thank ye, Miss; but I don't lay no claim to that, of course," he said."Mr. Cyril's a fine man, and we shall miss him; but--I cal'late changesmust come--to all of us."
Billy's brown eyes grew a little misty.
"I suppose they must," she admitted.
The old man hesitated; then, as if impelled by some hidden force, heplunged on:
"Yes; and they'll be comin' to you one of these days, Miss, and that'swhat I was wantin' to speak to ye about. I understand, of course, thatwhen you get there you'll be wantin' younger blood to serve ye. My feetain't so spry as they once was, and my old hands blunder sometimes,in spite of what my head bids 'em do. So I wanted to tell ye--that ofcourse I shouldn't expect to stay. I'd go."
As he said the words, Pete stood with head and shoulders erect, his eyeslooking straight forward but not at Billy.
"Don't you _want_ to stay?" The girlish voice was a little reproachful.
Pete's head drooped.
"Not if--I'm not wanted," came the husky reply.
With an impulsive movement Billy came straight to the old man's side andheld out her hand.
"Pete!"
Amazement, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed theold man's face; then a flood of dull red blotted them all out and leftonly worshipful rapture. With a choking cry he took the slim little handin both his rough and twisted ones much as if he were possessing himselfof a treasured bit of eggshell china.
"Miss Billy!"
"Pete, there aren't a pair of feet in Boston, nor a pair of hands,either, that I'd rather have serve me than yours, no matter if theystumble and blunder all day! I shall love stumbles and blunders--if youmake them. Now run home, and don't ever let me hear another syllableabout your leaving!"
They were not the words Billy had intended to say. She had meant tospeak of his long, faithful service, and of how much they appreciatedit; but, to her surprise, Billy found her own eyes wet and her own voicetrembling, and the words that she would have said she found fast shutin her throat. So there was nothing to do but to stamm
er outsomething--anything, that would help to keep her from yielding to thatabsurd and awful desire to fall on the old servant's neck and cry.
"Not another syllable!" she repeated sternly.
"Miss Billy!" choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anythingbut his usual dignity.
Bertram called that evening. When Billy came to him in the living-room,her slender self was almost hidden behind the swirls of damask linen inher arms.
Bertram's eyes grew mutinous.
"Do you expect me to hug all that?" he demanded.
Billy flashed him a mischievous glance.
"Of course not! You don't _have_ to hug anything, you know."
For answer he impetuously swept the offending linen into the nearestchair and drew the girl into his arms.
"Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's table-cloth!" she cried,with reproachful eyes.
Bertram sniffed imperturbably.
"I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie," he alleged.
"Bertram!"
"I can't help it. See here, Billy." He loosened his clasp and held thegirl off at arm's length, regarding her with stormy eyes. "It's Marie,Marie, Marie--always. If I telephone in the morning, you've goneshopping with Marie. If I want you in the afternoon for something,you're at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call in the evening--"
"I'm here," interrupted Billy, with decision.
"Oh, yes, you're here," admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, "and so aredozens of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of laceand flummydiddles you call 'doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and theyfill your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of roomfor me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?"
Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced.
"The twelfth;--that is, there'll be a--pause, then."
"Well, I'm thankful if--eh?" broke off the man, with a sudden change ofmanner. "What do you mean by 'a pause'?"
Billy cast down her eyes demurely.
"Well, of course _this_ ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; butI've sort of regarded it as an--understudy for one that's coming nextOctober, you see."
"Billy, you darling!" breathed a supremely happy voice in a shell-likeear--Billy was not at arm's length now.
Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness.
"And now I must go back to my sewing," she said.
Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again.
"That is," she amended, "I must be practising my part of--theunderstudy, you know."
"You darling!" breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let hergo.
"But, honestly, is it all necessary?" he sighed despairingly, as sheseated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. "Do you haveto do so much of it all?"
"I do," smiled Billy, "unless you want your brother to run the risk ofleading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen apronwith an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet."
Bertram laughed.
"Is it so bad as that?"
"No, of course not--quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterlyoblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told herthat Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman."
"As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!"scoffed Bertram, merrily.
"I know; but I didn't mention that part," smiled Billy. "I just singledout the dowdy one."
"Did it work?"
Billy made a gesture of despair.
"Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look,then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea thatshe _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued everylurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn'tworth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for Ihave to assure her at least four times every day now that she is _not_ adowdy woman."
"You poor dear," laughed Bertram. "No wonder you don't have time to giveto me!"
A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face.
"Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged,sir," she reminded him.
"What do you mean?"
"There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--"
"Oh, but you _let_ me off, then," argued Bertram, anxiously. "And yousaid--"
"That I didn't wish to interfere with your work--which was quite true,"interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. "By the way,"--Billy wasexamining her stitches very closely now--"how is Miss Winthrop'sportrait coming on?"
"Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittingsfor her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next week,too, to be gone nearly a fortnight," finished Bertram, gloomily.
"Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and moresittings?"
"Well, yes," laughed Bertram, a little shortly. "You see, she's changedthe pose twice already."
"Changed it!"
"Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different."
"But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?"
"Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow.But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and inthe habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under thosecircumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she'sout of tune with the pose. Besides, I will own, so far her suggestionshave made for improvement--probably because she's been happy in makingthem, so her expression has been good."
Billy wet her lips.
"I saw her the other night," she said lightly. (If the lightness wasa little artificial Bertram did not seem to notice it.) "She iscertainly--very beautiful."
"Yes." Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the littleroom. His eyes were alight. On his face the "painting look" was king."It's going to mean a lot to me--this picture, Billy. In the first placeI'm just at the point in my career where a big success would mean alot--and where a big failure would mean more. And this portrait is boundto be one or the other from the very nature of the thing."
"I-is it?" Billy's voice was a little faint.
"Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of whatshe is. She is, of course, the most famous subject I've had, and halfthe artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is beingdone by Henshaw. You can see what it'll be--if I fail."
"But you won't fail, Bertram!"
The artist lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders.
"No, of course not; but--" He hesitated, frowned, and dropped himselfinto a chair. His eyes studied the fire moodily. "You see," he resumed,after a moment, "there's a peculiar, elusive something about herexpression--" (Billy stirred restlessly and gave her thread so savage ajerk that it broke)"--a something that isn't easily caught by the brush.Anderson and Fullam--big fellows, both of them--didn't catch it. Atleast, I've understood that neither her family nor her friends aresatisfied with _their_ portraits. And to succeed where Anderson andFullam failed--Jove! Billy, a chance like that doesn't come to a fellowtwice in a lifetime!" Bertram was out of his chair, again, tramping upand down the little room.
Billy tossed her work aside and sprang to her feet. Her eyes, too, werealight, now.
"But you aren't going to fail, dear," she cried, holding out both herhands. "You're going to succeed!"
Bertram caught the hands and kissed first one then the other of theirsoft little palms.
"Of course I am," he agreed passionately, leading her to the sofa, andseating himself at her side.
"Yes, but you must really _feel_ it," she urged; "feel the '_sure_' inyourself. You have to!--to doing things. That's what I told Mary Janeyesterday, when he was running on about what _he_ wanted to do--in hissinging, you know."
Bertram stiffened a little. A quick frown came to his face.
"Mary Jane, indeed! Of all the absurd names to give a full-grown,six-foot man! Billy, do, for pity's sake, call him by his name--if he'
sgot one."
Billy broke into a rippling laugh.
"I wish I could, dear," she sighed ingenuously.
"Honestly, it bothers me because I _can't_ think of him as anything but'Mary Jane.' It seems so silly!"
"It certainly does--when one remembers his beard."
"Oh, he's shaved that off now. He looks rather better, too."
Bertram turned a little sharply.
"Do you see the fellow--often?"
Billy laughed merrily.
"No. He's about as disgruntled as you are over the way the weddingmonopolizes everything. He's been up once or twice to see Aunt Hannahand to get acquainted, as he expresses it, and once he brought up somemusic and we sang; but he declares the wedding hasn't given him half ashow."
"Indeed! Well, that's a pity, I'm sure," rejoined Bertram, icily.
Billy turned in slight surprise.
"Why, Bertram, don't you like Mary Jane?"
"Billy, for heaven's sake! _Hasn't_ he got any name but that?"
Billy clapped her hands together suddenly.
"There, that makes me think. He told Aunt Hannah and me to guess whathis name was, and we never hit it once. What do you think it is? Theinitials are M. J."
"I couldn't say, I'm sure. What is it?"
"Oh, he didn't tell us. You see he left us to guess it."
"Did he?"
"Yes," mused Billy, abstractedly, her eyes on the dancing fire. The nextminute she stirred and settled herself more comfortably in the curveof her lover's arm. "But there! who cares what his name is? I'm sure Idon't."
"Nor I," echoed Bertram in a voice that he tried to make not toofervent. He had not forgotten Billy's surprised: "Why, Bertram, don'tyou like Mary Jane?" and he did not like to call forth a repetition ofit. Abruptly, therefore, he changed the subject. "By the way, what didyou do to Pete to-day?" he asked laughingly. "He came home in a seventhheaven of happiness babbling of what an angel straight from the sky MissBilly was. Naturally I agreed with him on that point. But what did youdo to him?"
Billy smiled.
"Nothing--only engaged him for our butler--for life."
"Oh, I see. That was dear of you, Billy."
"As if I'd do anything else! And now for Dong Ling, I suppose, someday."
Bertram chuckled.
"Well, maybe I can help you there," he hinted. "You see, his CelestialMajesty came to me himself the other day, and said, after sundry andvarious preliminaries, that he should be 'velly much glad' when the'Little Missee' came to live with me, for then he could go back to Chinawith a heart at rest, as he had money 'velly much plenty' and didn'twish to be 'Melican man' any longer."
"Dear me," smiled Billy, "what a happy state of affairs--for him. Butfor you--do you realize, young man, what that means for you? A new wifeand a new cook all at once? And you know I'm not Marie!"
"Ho! I'm not worrying," retorted Bertram with a contented smile;"besides, as perhaps you noticed, it wasn't Marie that I asked--to marryme!"