CHAPTER XV. "MR. BILLY" AND "MISS MARY JANE"
On the fourteenth of December Billy came down-stairs alert, interested,and happy. She had received a dear letter from Bertram (mailed on theway to New York), the sun was shining, and her fingers were fairlytingling to put on paper the little melody that was now surgingriotously through her brain. Emphatically, the restlessness of the daybefore was gone now. Once more Billy's "clock" had "begun to tick."
After breakfast Billy went straight to the telephone and called upArkwright. Even one side of the conversation Aunt Hannah did not hearvery clearly; but in five minutes a radiant-faced Billy danced into theroom.
"Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think--Mary Jane wrote the wordshimself, so of course I can use them!"
"Billy, dear, _can't_ you say 'Mr. Arkwright'?" pleaded Aunt Hannah.
Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little old lady an impulsivehug.
"Of course! I'll say 'His Majesty' if you like, dear," she chuckled."But did you hear--did you realize? They're his own words, so there's noquestion of rights or permission, or anything. And he's coming up thisafternoon to hear my melody, and to make a few little changes in thewords, maybe. Oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it seems to getinto my music again!"
"Yes, yes, dear, of course; but--" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in avaguely troubled pause.
Billy turned in surprise.
"Why, Aunt Hannah, aren't you glad? You _said_ you'd be glad!"
"Yes, dear; and I am--very glad. It's only--if it doesn't take too muchtime--and if Bertram doesn't mind."
Billy flushed. She laughed a little bitterly.
"No, it won't take too much time, I fancy, and--so far as Bertram isconcerned--if what Sister Kate says is true, Aunt Hannah, he'll be gladto have me occupy a little of my time with something besides himself."
"Fiddlededee!" bristled Aunt Hannah.
"What did she mean by that?"
Billy smiled ruefully.
"Well, probably I did need it. She said it night before last just beforeshe went home with Uncle William. She declared that I seemed to forgetentirely that Bertram belonged to his Art first, before he belonged tome; and that it was exactly as she had supposed it would be--a perfectabsurdity for Bertram to think of marrying anybody."
"Fiddlededee!" ejaculated the irate Aunt Hannah, even more sharply. "Ihope you have too much good sense to mind what Kate says, Billy."
"Yes, I know," sighed the girl; "but of course I can see some things formyself, and I suppose I did make--a little fuss about his going to NewYork the other night. And I will own that I've had a real struggle withmyself sometimes, lately, not to mind--his giving so much time tohis portrait painting. And of course both of those are veryreprehensible--in an artist's wife," she finished, a little tremulously.
"Humph! Well, I don't think I should worry about that," observed AuntHannah with grim positiveness.
"No, I don't mean to," smiled Billy, wistfully. "I only told you soyou'd understand that it was just as well if I did have something totake up my mind--besides Bertram. And of course music would be the mostnatural 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. AuntHannah's voice sounded as if she were trying to convince herself--ofsomething.
"No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if hewere really--your niece, Mary Jane," laughed Billy.
Aunt Hannah moved restlessly.
"Billy," she hazarded, "he knows, of course, of your engagement?"
"Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah everybody does!" Billy's eyes wereplainly surprised.
"Yes, yes, of course--he must," subsided Aunt Hannah, confusedly, hopingthat Billy would not divine the hidden reason behind her question. Shewas relieved when Billy's next words showed that she had not divined it.
"I told you, didn't I? He's coming up this afternoon. He can't get heretill five, though; but he's so interested! He's about as crazy over thething as I am. And it's going to be fine, Aunt Hannah, when it's done.You just wait and see!" she finished gayly, as she tripped from theroom.
Left to herself, Aunt Hannah drew a long breath.
"I'm glad she didn't suspect," she was thinking. "I believe she'dconsider even the _question_ disloyal to Bertram--dear child! And ofcourse Mary"--Aunt Hannah corrected herself with cheeks aflame--"I meanMr. Arkwright does--know."
It was just here, however, that Aunt Hannah was mistaken. Mr. Arkwrightdid not--know. He had not reached Boston when the engagement wasannounced. He knew none of Billy's friends in town save the Henshawbrothers. He had not heard from Calderwell since he came to Boston. Thevery evident intimacy of Billy with the Henshaw brothers he accepted asa matter of course, knowing the history of their acquaintance, and thefact that Billy was Mr. William Henshaw's namesake. As to Bertrambeing Billy's lover--that idea had long ago been killed at birth byCalderwell's emphatic assertion that the artist would never care for anygirl--except to paint. Since coming to Boston, Arkwright had seen littleof the two together. His work, his friends, and his general mode of lifeprecluded that. Because of all this, therefore, Arkwright did not--know;which was a pity--for Arkwright, and for some others.
Promptly at five o'clock that afternoon, Arkwright rang Billy'sdoorbell, and was admitted by Rosa to the living-room, where Billy wasat the piano.
Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of greeting.
"I'm so glad you've come," she sighed happily. "I want you to hear themelody your pretty words have sung to me. Though, maybe, after all, youwon't like it, you know," she finished with arch wistfulness.
"As if I could help liking it," smiled the man, trying to keep from hisvoice the ecstatic delight that the touch of her hand had brought him.
Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano.
"The words are lovely," she declared, sorting out two or three sheets ofmanuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her. "But there'sone place--the rhythm, you know--if you could change it. There!--butlisten. First I'm going to play it straight through to you." And shedropped her fingers to the keyboard. The next moment a tenderly sweetmelody--with only a chord now and then for accompaniment--filledArkwright's soul with rapture. Then Billy began to sing, very softly,the words!
No wonder Arkwright's soul was filled with rapture. They were his words,wrung straight from his heart; and they were being sung by the girlfor whom they were written. They were being sung with feeling, too--soevident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed asudden fire. Arkwright could not know, of course, that Billy, in her ownmind, was singing that song--to Bertram Henshaw.
The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; butBilly very plainly did not see it. With a frowning sigh and a murmured"There!" she began to talk of "rhythm" and "accent" and "cadence"; andto point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two wereneeded at the end of a certain line. From this she passed eagerly tothe accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a mazeof "minor thirds" and "diminished sevenths," until he was forced toturn from the singer to the song. Still, watching her a little later, henoticed her absorbed face and eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance ofan elusive harmony, and he wondered: did she, or did she not sing thatsong with feeling a little while before?
Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction whenAunt Hannah came in at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vaguedisappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned anuntroubled face to the newcomer.
"We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah," she cried. Then, suddenly, she flunga laughing question to the man. "How about it, sir? Are we going to puton the title-page: 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'--or will you unveilthe mystery for us now?"
"Have you gu
essed it?" he bantered.
"No--unless it's 'Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other day."
"Wrong again!" he laughed.
"Then it'll have to be 'Mary Jane,'" retorted Billy, with calmnaughtiness, refusing to meet Aunt Hannah's beseechingly reproving eyes.Then suddenly she chuckled. "It would be a combination, wouldn't it?'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright. Music by Billy Neilson'! We'd havesighing swains writing to 'Dear Miss Arkwright,' telling how touchingwere _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_soul-inspiring music!"
"Billy, my dear!" remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly.
"Yes, yes, I know; that was bad--and I won't again, truly," promisedBilly. But her eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled about onthe piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then,seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves.