Miss Billy's Decision

  CHAPTER VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW

  At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billycame into the living-room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, aswas frequently the case, were dining at Hillside.

  Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier than she did thisafternoon with the bronze sheen of her pretty house gown bringingout the bronze lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of herbeautiful hair. Her countenance, too, carried a peculiar something thatthe artist's eye was quick to detect, and that the artist's fingerstingled to put on canvas.

  "Jove! Billy," he said low in her ear, as he greeted her, "I wish I hada brush in my hand this minute. I'd have a 'Face of a Girl' that wouldbe worth while!"

  Billy laughed and dimpled her appreciation; but down in her heart shewas conscious of a vague unrest. Billy wished, sometimes, that she didnot so often seem to Bertram--a picture.

  She turned to Cyril with outstretched hand.

  "Oh, yes, Marie's coming," she smiled in answer to the quick shiftingof Cyril's eyes to the hall doorway. "And Aunt Hannah, too. They'reup-stairs."

  "And Mary Jane?" demanded William, a little anxiously

  "Will's getting nervous," volunteered Bertram, airily. "He wants to seeMary Jane. You see we've told him that we shall expect him to see thatshe doesn't bother us four too much, you know. He's expected always toremove her quietly but effectually, whenever he sees that she is likelyto interrupt a tete-a-tete. Naturally, then, Will wants to seeMary Jane."

  Billy began to laugh hysterically. She dropped into a chair and raisedboth her hands, palms outward.

  "Don't, don't--please don't!" she choked, "or I shall die. I've had allI can stand, already."

  "All you can stand?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is she so--impossible?" This last was from Bertram, spoken softly, andwith a hurried glance toward the hall.

  Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulledher face into sobriety--all but her eyes--and announced:

  "Mary Jane is--a man."

  "Wha-at?"

  "A _man!_"

  "Billy!"

  Three masculine forms sat suddenly erect.

  "Yes. Oh, Uncle William, I know now just how you felt--I know, I know,"gurgled Billy, incoherently. "There he stood with his pink just as Idid--only he had a brown beard, and he didn't have Spunk--and I had totelephone to prepare folks, just as you did. And the room--the room!I fixed the room, too," she babbled breathlessly, "only I had curlingtongs and hair pins in it instead of guns and spiders!"

  "Child, child! what _are_ you talking about?" William's face was red.

  "A _man!_--_Mary Jane!_" Cyril was merely cross.

  "Billy, what does this mean?" Bertram had grown a little white.

  Billy began to laugh again, yet she was plainly trying to controlherself.

  "I'll tell you. I must tell you. Aunt Hannah is keeping him up-stairsso I can tell you," she panted. "But it was so funny, when I expected agirl, you know, to see him with his brown beard, and he was so tall andbig! And, of course, it made me think how _I_ came, and was a girl whenyou expected a boy; and Mrs. Carleton had just said to-day that maybethis girl would even things up. Oh, it was so funny!"

  "Billy, my-my dear," remonstrated Uncle William, mildly.

  "But what _is_ his name?" demanded Cyril.

  "Did the creature sign himself 'Mary Jane'?" exploded Bertram.

  "I don't know his name, except that it's 'M. J.'--and that's how hesigned the letters. But he _is_ called 'Mary Jane' sometimes, and in theletter he quoted somebody's speech--I've forgotten just how--but in ithe was called 'Mary Jane,' and, of course, Aunt Hannah took him for agirl," explained Billy, grown a little more coherent now.

  "Didn't he write again?" asked William.

  "Yes."

  "Well, why didn't he correct the mistake, then?" demanded Bertram.

  Billy chuckled.

  "He didn't want to, I guess. He thought it was too good a joke."

  "Joke!" scoffed Cyril.

  "But, see here, Billy, he isn't going to live here--now?" Bertram'svoice was almost savage.

  "Oh, no, he isn't going to live here--now," interposed smooth tones fromthe doorway.

  "Mr.--Arkwright!" breathed Billy, confusedly.

  Three crimson-faced men sprang to their feet. The situation, for amoment, threatened embarrassed misery for all concerned; but Arkwright,with a cheery smile, advanced straight toward Bertram, and held out afriendly hand.

  "The proverbial fate of listeners," he said easily; "but I don't blameyou at all. No, 'he' isn't going to live here," he went on, graspingeach brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; "andwhat is more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance hislittle joke has caused. He might add that he's heartily-ashamed ofhimself, as well; but if any of you--" Arkwright turned to the threetall men still standing by their chairs--"if any of you had sufferedwhat he has at the hands of a swarm of youngsters for that name's sake,you wouldn't blame him for being tempted to get what fun he could out ofMary Jane--if there ever came a chance!"

  Naturally, after this, there could be nothing stiff or embarrassing.Billy laughed in relief, and motioned Mr. Arkwright to a seat near her.William said "Of course, of course!" and shook hands again. Bertram andCyril laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: "But what doesthe 'M. J.' stand for, anyhow?" Nobody answered this, however; perhapsbecause Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway.

  Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met hismatch for wit and satire; and "Mr. Mary Jane," as he was promptly calledby every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to be a most entertaining guest.

  After dinner somebody suggested music.

  Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still frowning, he turned to abookcase near him and began to take down and examine some of the books.

  Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy.

  "Which is it, Cyril?" he called with cheerful impertinence; "stool,piano, or audience that is the matter to-night?"

  Only a shrug from Cyril answered.

  "You see," explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes wereslightly puzzled, "Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals andthe weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!"

  "Nonsense!" scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to hischair. "I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all."

  "You see," nodded Bertram again.

  "I see," bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement.

  "I believe--Mr. Mary Jane--sings," observed Billy, at this point,demurely.

  "Why, yes, of course," chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness."That's what she--I mean he--was coming to Boston for--to study music."

  Everybody laughed.

  "Won't you sing, please?" asked Billy. "Can you--without your notes? Ihave lots of songs if you want them."

  For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose andwent to the piano.

  With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped tothe keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test thetouch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made everylistener turn in amazed delight, a well-trained tenor began the "Thro'the leaves the night winds moving," of Schubert's Serenade.

  Cyril's chin had lifted at the first tone. He was listening now withvery obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was showing by his attitude thekeenest appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in theirchairs, were contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie inher corner was motionless with rapture. As to Billy--Billy was plainlyoblivious of everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcelyto move or to breathe till the song's completion; then there came a low"Oh, how beautiful!" through her parted lips.

  Bertram, looking at her, was conscious of a vague irritation.

  "Arkwright, you're a lucky dog," he declared almost crossly. "I wish Icould sing
like that!"

  "I wish I could paint a 'Face of a Girl,'" smiled the tenor as he turnedfrom the piano.

  "Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop," objected Billy, springing to herfeet and going to her music cabinet by the piano. "There's a little songof Nevin's I want you to sing. There, here it is. Just let me play itfor you." And she slipped into the place the singer had just left.

  It was the beginning of the end. After Nevin came De Koven, and afterDe Koven, Gounod. Then came Nevin again, Billy still playing theaccompaniment. Next followed a duet. Billy did not consider herself muchof a singer, but her voice was sweet and true, and not without training.It blended very prettily with the clear, pure tenor.

  William and Aunt Hannah still smiled contentedly in their chairs, thoughAunt Hannah had reached for the pink shawl near her--the music had sentlittle shivers down her spine. Cyril, with Marie, had slipped into thelittle reception-room across the hall, ostensibly to look at some plansfor a house, although--as everybody knew--they were not intending tobuild for a year.

  Bertram, still sitting stiffly erect in his chair, was not consciousof a vague irritation now. He was conscious of a very real, and a verydecided one--an irritation that was directed against himself, againstBilly, and against this man, Arkwright; but chiefly against music,_per se_. He hated music. He wished he could sing. He wondered how longit took to teach a man to sing, anyhow; and he wondered if a man couldsing--who never had sung.

  At this point the duet came to an end, and Billy and her guest leftthe piano. Almost at once, after this, Arkwright made his very gracefuladieus, and went off with his suit-case to the hotel where, as he hadinformed Aunt Hannah, his room was already engaged.

  William went home then, and Aunt Hannah went up-stairs. Cyril and Mariewithdrew into a still more secluded corner to look at their plans, andBertram found himself at last alone with Billy. He forgot, then, inthe blissful hour he spent with her before the open fire, how he hatedmusic; though he did say, just before he went home that night:

  "Billy, how long does it take--to learn to sing?"

  "Why, I don't know, I'm sure," replied Billy, abstractedly; then, withsudden fervor: "Oh, Bertram, hasn't Mr. Mary Jane a beautiful voice?"

  Bertram wished then he had not asked the question; but all he said was:

  "'Mr. Mary Jane,' indeed! What an absurd name!"

  "But doesn't he sing beautifully?"

  "Eh? Oh, yes, he sings all right," said Bertram's tongue. Bertram'smanner said: "Oh, yes, anybody can sing."