CHAPTER IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID
Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy andAunt Hannah to spend the day with them. This time, however, there was tobe an additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn.
And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! Firstthe Strata itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril'sdomain on the top floor, the house was as spick-and-span as Pete's eagerold hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's den andstudio, great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightenedthe sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire inthe den a sleek gray cat--adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shadeof the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)--winked and blinked sleepyyellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest "Face of a Girl" had madeway for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed BillyNeilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos oftreasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given toa small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Batterseaenamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms--usually so austerely bare--ahandsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted atpurchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own.
When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness thatwas suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete'sface the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment werefighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson'sfriendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped overthe threshold with a cheery "Good morning, Pete."
"Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again," stammered theman,--delight now in sole possession.
"She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete," smiled the eldestHenshaw, hurrying forward.
"I wish she had now," whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William'squick stride, had reached Billy's side first.
From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet.
"The rug has come, and the curtains, too," called a "householder" sortof voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw."You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner." The voice,apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voiceplainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in theshadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something alittle fearsome, but very dear.
"You know--I've never been--where you live--before," explained MarieHawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take thefurs from her shoulders.
In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced towardthe fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her headwith majestic condescension.
"Well, Spunkie, come here," commanded Billy, snapping her fingers atthe slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. "Spunkie, when I am yourmistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As ifI were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as youmasquerading as an understudy to my frisky little Spunk!"
Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as hesaid:
"Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying." The cat had jumped into Billy'slap with a matter-of-course air that was unmistakable--and to Bertram,adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder thanwere his brother's.
"I don't think any one is--_worrying_," he said with quiet emphasis.
Billy smiled.
"I should think they might be," she answered. "Only think how dreadfullyupsetting I was in the first place!"
William's beaming face grew a little stern.
"Nobody knew it but Kate--and she didn't _know_ it; she only imaginedit," he said tersely.
Billy shook her head.
"I'm not so sure," she demurred. "As I look back at it now, I think Ican discern a few evidences myself--that I was upsetting. I was a botherto Bertram in his painting, I am sure."
"You were an inspiration," corrected Bertram. "Think of the posing youdid for me."
A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before herlover could question its meaning, it was gone.
"And I know I was a torment to Cyril." Billy had turned to the musiciannow.
"Well, I admit you were a little--upsetting, at times," retorted thatindividual, with something of his old imperturbable rudeness.
"Nonsense!" cut in William, sharply. "You were never anything but acomfort in the house, Billy, my dear--and you never will be."
"Thank you," murmured Billy, demurely. "I'll remember that--when Peteand I disagree about the table decorations, and Dong Ling doesn't likethe way I want my soup seasoned."
An anxious frown showed on Bertram's face.
"Billy," he said in a low voice, as the others laughed at her sally,"you needn't have Pete nor Dong Ling here if you don't want them."
"Don't want them!" echoed Billy, indignantly. "Of course I want them!"
"But--Pete _is_ old, and--"
"Yes; and where's he grown old? For whom has he worked the last fiftyyears, while he's been growing old? I wonder if you think I'd let Peteleave this house as long as he _wants_ to stay! As for Dong Ling--"
A sudden movement of Bertram's hand arrested her words. She looked up tofind Pete in the doorway.
"Dinner is served, sir," announced the old butler, his eyes on hismaster's face.
William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah.
"Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner," he declared.
It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely havebeen otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-roomdoing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough insteadof tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead ofwith delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would haveknown the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing whereto put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billyat the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according toBertram, the Strata would have the "dearest little mistress that everwas born." As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of theturkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannahand William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so itwas well, of course, that the dinner was a good one.
"And now," said Cyril, when dinner was over, "suppose you come up andsee the rug."
In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flightsof stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah--Cyril'srooms were always cool.
"Oh, yes, I knew we should need it," she nodded to Bertram, as shepicked up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when shecame in. "That's why I brought it."
"Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_ you stand it?--to climbstairs like this," panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of thelast flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair--from whichMarie had rescued a curtain just in time.
"Well, I'm not sure I could--if I were always to eat a Thanksgivingdinner just before," laughed Cyril. "Maybe I ought to have waited andlet you rest an hour or two."
"But 'twould have been too dark, then, to see the rug," objected Marie."It's a genuine Persian--a Kirman, you know; and I'm so proud of it,"she added, turning to the others. "I wanted you to see the colors bydaylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime."
"Fancy Cyril _liking_ any sort of a rug at any time," chuckled Bertram,his eyes on the rich, softly blended colors of the rug before him."Honestly, Miss Marie," he added, turning to the little bride elect,"how did you ever manage to get him to buy _any_ rug? He won't have somuch as a ravelling on the floor up here to walk on."
A startled dismay came into Marie's blue eyes.
"Why, I thought he wanted rugs," she faltered. "I'm sure he said--"
"Of course I want rugs," interrupted Cyril, irritably. "I want themeverywhere except in my own especial den. You
don't suppose I want tohear other people clattering over bare floors all day, do you?"
"Of course not!" Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turnedto the little music teacher. "I hope, Miss Marie, that you wear rubberheels on your shoes," he observed solicitously.
Even Cyril laughed at this, though all he said was:
"Come, come, I got you up here to look at the rug."
Bertram, however, was not to be silenced.
"And another thing, Miss Marie," he resumed, with the air of a true andtried adviser. "Just let me give you a pointer. I've lived with yourfuture husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about."
"Bertram, be still," growled Cyril.
Bertram refused to be still.
"Whenever you want to know anything about Cyril, listen to his playing.For instance: if, after dinner, you hear a dreamy waltz or a sleepynocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there fallsanything like a dirge, or the wail of a lost spirit gone mad, betterlook to your soup and see if it hasn't been scorched, or taste of yourpudding and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar."
"Bertram, will you be still?" cut in Cyril, testily, again.
"After all, judging from what Billy tells me," resumed Bertram,cheerfully, "what I've said won't be so important to you, for you aren'tthe kind that scorches soups or uses salt for sugar. So maybe I'd betterput it to you this way: if you want a new sealskin coat or an extradiamond tiara, tackle him when he plays like this!" And with a swiftturn Bertram dropped himself to the piano stool and dashed into arollicking melody that half the newsboys of Boston were whistling.
What happened next was a surprise to every one. Bertram, very much asif he were a naughty little boy, was jerked by a wrathful brother's handoff the piano stool. The next moment the wrathful brother himself sat atthe piano, and there burst on five pairs of astonished ears a crashingdissonance which was but the prelude to music such as few of the partyoften heard.
Spellbound they listened while rippling runs and sonorous harmoniesfilled the room to overflowing, as if under the fingers of the playerthere were--not the keyboard of a piano--but the violins, flutes,cornets, trombones, bass viols and kettledrums of a full orchestra.
Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood. She knew that in thosetripping melodies and crashing chords were Cyril's joy at the presenceof Marie, his wrath at the flippancy of Bertram, his ecstasy at that forwhich the rug and curtains stood--the little woman sewing in the radiantcircle of a shaded lamp. Billy knew that all this and more were findingvoice at Cyril's finger tips. The others, too, understood in a way; butthey, unlike Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few score bitsof wood and ivory a vent for their moods and fancies.
The music was softer now. The resounding chords and purling runs hadbecome a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a maze ofexquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid, likea mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadowsof its forest home.
In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertramwho broke the pause with a long-drawn:
"By George!" Then, a little unsteadily: "If it's I that set you goinglike that, old chap, I'll come up and play ragtime every day!"
Cyril shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet.
"If you've seen all you want of the rug we'll go down-stairs," he saidnonchalantly.
"But we haven't!" chorussed several indignant voices. And for the nextfew minutes not even the owner of the beautiful Kirman could find anyfault with the quantity or the quality of the attention bestowed onhis new possession. But Billy, under cover of the chatter, saidreproachfully in his ear:
"Oh, Cyril, to think you can play like that--and won't--on demand!"
"I can't--on demand," shrugged Cyril again.
On the way down-stairs they stopped at William's rooms.
"I want you to see a couple of Batterseas I got last week," criedthe collector eagerly, as he led the way to the black velvet square."They're fine--and I think she looks like you," he finished, turningto Billy, and holding out one of the knobs, on which was a beautifullyexecuted miniature of a young girl with dark, dreamy eyes.
"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Marie, over Billy's shoulder. "But what arethey?"
The collector turned, his face alight.
"Mirror knobs. I've got lots of them. Would you like to seethem--really? They're right here."
The next minute Marie found herself looking into a cabinet where lay ascore or more of round and oval discs of glass, porcelain, and metal,framed in silver, gilt, and brass, and mounted on long spikes.
"Oh, how pretty," cried Marie again; "but how--how queer! Tell me aboutthem, please."
William drew a long breath. His eyes glistened. William loved totalk--when he had a curio and a listener.
"I will. Our great-grandmothers used them, you know, to support theirmirrors, or to fasten back their curtains," he explained ardently."Now here's another Battersea enamel, but it isn't so good as my newones--that face is almost a caricature."
"But what a beautiful ship--on that round one!" exclaimed Marie. "Andwhat's this one?--glass?"
"Yes; but that's not so rare as the others. Still, it's pretty enough.Did you notice this one, with the bright red and blue and green on thewhite background?--regular Chinese mode of decoration, that is."
"Er--any time, William," began Bertram, mischievously; but William didnot seem to hear.
"Now in this corner," he went on, warming to his subject, "arethe enamelled porcelains. They were probably made at the Worcesterworks--England, you know; and I think many of them are quite as prettyas the Batterseas. You see it was at Worcester that they inventedthat variation of the transfer printing process that they called batprinting, where they used oil instead of ink, and gelatine instead ofpaper. Now engravings for that kind of printing were usually in stipplework--dots, you know--so the prints on these knobs can easily bedistinguished from those of the transfer printing. See? Now, this oneis--"
"Er, of course, William, any time--" interposed Bertram again, his eyestwinkling.
William stopped with a laugh.
"Yes, I know. 'Tis time I talked of something else, Bertram," heconceded.
"But 'twas lovely, and I _was_ interested, really," claimed Marie."Besides, there are such a lot of things here that I'd like to see," shefinished, turning slowly about.
"These are what he was collecting last year," murmured Billy, hoveringover a small cabinet where were some beautiful specimens of antiquejewelry brooches, necklaces, armlets, Rajah rings, and anklets, gorgeousin color and exquisite in workmanship.
"Well, here is something you _will_ enjoy," declared Bertram, with anairy flourish. "Do you see those teapots? Well, we can have tea everyday in the year, and not use one of them but five times. I've counted.There are exactly seventy-three," he concluded, as he laughingly led theway from the room.
"How about leap year?" quizzed Billy.
"Ho! Trust Will to find another 'Old Blue' or a 'perfect treasure of ablack basalt' by that time," shrugged Bertram.
Below William's rooms was the floor once Bertram's, but afterwards givenover to the use of Billy and Aunt Hannah. The rooms were open to-day,and were bright with sunshine and roses; but they were very plainlyunoccupied.
"And you don't use them yet?" remonstrated Billy, as she paused at anopen door.
"No. These are Mrs. Bertram Henshaw's rooms," said the youngest Henshawbrother in a voice that made Billy hurry away with a dimpling blush.
"They were Billy's--and they can never seem any one's but Billy's, now,"declared William to Marie, as they went down the stairs.
"And now for the den and some good stories before the fire," proposedBertram, as the six reached the first floor again.
"But we haven't seen your pictures, yet," objected Billy.
Bertram made a deprecatory gesture.
"There's nothing much--" he began; but he stopped at once, with an oddlaug
h. "Well, I sha'n't say _that_," he finished, flinging open the doorof his studio, and pressing a button that flooded the room with light.The next moment, as they stood before those plaques and panels andcanvases--on each of which was a pictured "Billy"--they understood thechange in his sentence, and they laughed appreciatively.
"'Much,' indeed!" exclaimed William.
"Oh, how lovely!" breathed Marie.
"My grief and conscience, Bertram! All these--and of Billy? I knew youhad a good many, but--" Aunt Hannah paused impotently, her eyes goingfrom Bertram's face to the pictures again.
"But how--when did you do them?" queried Marie.
"Some of them from memory. More of them from life. A lot of them werejust sketches that I did when she was here in the house four or fiveyears ago," answered Bertram; "like this, for instance." And he pulledinto a better light a picture of a laughing, dark-eyed girl holdingagainst her cheek a small gray kitten, with alert, bright eyes. "Theoriginal and only Spunk," he announced.
"What a dear little cat!" cried Marie.
"You should have seen it--in the flesh," remarked Cyril, dryly. "Nopaint nor painter could imprison that untamed bit of Satanic mischief onany canvas that ever grew!"
Everybody laughed--everybody but Billy. Billy, indeed, of them all, hadbeen strangely silent ever since they entered the studio. She stood nowa little apart. Her eyes were wide, and a bit frightened. Her fingerswere twisting the corners of her handkerchief nervously. She was lookingto the right and to the left, and everywhere she saw--herself.
Sometimes it was her full face, sometimes her profile; sometimes therewere only her eyes peeping from above a fan, or peering from out brownshadows of nothingness. Once it was merely the back of her head showingthe mass of waving hair with its high lights of burnished bronze. Againit was still the back of her head with below it the bare, slenderneck and the scarf-draped shoulders. In this picture the curve of ahalf-turned cheek showed plainly, and in the background was visiblea hand holding four playing cards, at which the pictured girl wasevidently looking. Sometimes it was a merry Billy with dancing eyes;sometimes a demure Billy with long lashes caressing a flushed cheek.Sometimes it was a wistful Billy with eyes that looked straight intoyours with peculiar appeal. But always it was--Billy.
"There, I think the tilt of this chin is perfect." It was Bertramspeaking.
Billy gave a sudden cry. Her face whitened. She stumbled forward.
"No, no, Bertram, you--you didn't mean the--the tilt of the chin," shefaltered wildly.
The man turned in amazement.
"Why--Billy!" he stammered. "Billy, what is it?"
The girl fell back at once. She tried to laugh lightly. She had seen thedismayed questioning in her lover's eyes, and in the eyes of William andthe others.
"N-nothing," she gesticulated hurriedly. "It was nothing at all, truly."
"But, Billy, it _was_ something." Bertram's eyes were still troubled."Was it the picture? I thought you liked this picture."
Billy laughed again--this time more naturally.
"Bertram, I'm ashamed of you--expecting me to say I 'like' any of this,"she scolded, with a wave of her hands toward the omnipresent Billy."Why, I feel as if I were in a room with a thousand mirrors, and thatI'd been discovered putting rouge on my cheeks and lampblack on myeyebrows!"
William laughed fondly. Aunt Hannah and Marie gave an indulgent smile.Cyril actually chuckled. Bertram only still wore a puzzled expression ashe laid aside the canvas in his hands.
Billy examined intently a sketch she had found with its back to thewall. It was not a pretty sketch; it was not even a finished one,and Billy did not in the least care what it was. But her lips criedinterestedly:
"Oh, Bertram, what is this?"
There was no answer. Bertram was still engaged, apparently, in puttingaway some sketches. Over by the doorway leading to the den Marie andAunt Hannah, followed by William and Cyril, were just disappearingbehind a huge easel. In another minute the merry chatter of their voicescame from the room beyond. Bertram hurried then straight across thestudio to the girl still bending over the sketch in the corner.
"Bertram!" gasped Billy, as a kiss brushed her cheek.
"Pooh! They're gone. Besides, what if they did see? Billy, what was thematter with the tilt of that chin?"
Billy gave an hysterical little laugh--at least, Bertram tried to assurehimself that it was a laugh, though it had sounded almost like a sob.
"Bertram, if you say another word about--about the tilt of that chin, Ishall _scream!_" she panted.
"Why, Billy!"
With a nervous little movement Billy turned and began to reverse thecanvases nearest her.
"Come, sir," she commanded gayly. "Billy has been on exhibitionquite long enough. It is high time she was turned face to the wall tomeditate, and grow more modest."
Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make a move to assist her. Hisardent gray eyes were following her slim, graceful figure admiringly.
"Billy, it doesn't seem true, yet, that you're really mine," he said atlast, in a low voice shaken with emotion.
Billy turned abruptly. A peculiar radiance shone in her eyes andglorified her face. As she stood, she was close to a picture on an easeland full in the soft glow of the shaded lights above it.
"Then you _do_ want me," she began, "--just _me!_--not to--" she stoppedshort. The man opposite had taken an eager step toward her. On hisface was the look she knew so well, the look she had come almost todread--the "painting look."
"Billy, stand just as you are," he was saying. "Don't move. Jove! Butthat effect is perfect with those dark shadows beyond, and just yourhair and face and throat showing. I declare, I've half a mind tosketch--" But Billy, with a little cry, was gone.