And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! First the itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril's on the top floor, the house was as spick-and-span as Pete's eager old hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's and studio, great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightened the sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire in the den a gray cat—adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade of the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)—winked and blinked sleepy yellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest “Face of a Girl” had made way for a group of canvases and , every one of which showed Billy Neilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's of treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a small black square on which rested a pair of Battersea mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms—usually so bare—a handsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at purchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own.
When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that was suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete's face the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were fighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's friendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped over the threshold with a cheery “Good morning, Pete.”
“Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,” the man,—delight now in sole possession.
“She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,” smiled the Henshaw, hurrying forward.
“I wish she had now,” whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick stride, had reached Billy's side first.
From the stairway came the patter of a man's feet.
“The rug has come, and the curtains, too,” called a “householder” sort of voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. “You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner.” The voice, , to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a little fearsome, but very dear.
“You know—I've never been—where you live—before,” explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, tone, when Cyril over her to take the furs from her shoulders.
In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head with .
“Well, Spunkie, come here,” commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. “Spunkie, when I am your mistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an understudy to my little !”
Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he said:
“Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.” The cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter-of-course air that was unmistakable—and to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than were 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 dreadfully upsetting 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 imagined it,” he said .
Billy shook her head.
“I'm not so sure,” she . “As I look back at it now, I think I can discern a few evidences myself—that I was upsetting. I was a bother to Bertram in his painting, I am sure.”
“You were an inspiration,” corrected Bertram. “Think of the posing you did for me.”
A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before her lover could question its meaning, it was gone.
“And I know I was a to Cyril.” Billy had turned to the musician now.
“Well, I admit you were a little—upsetting, at times,” retorted that individual, with something of his old rudeness.
“Nonsense!” cut in William, sharply. “You were never anything but a comfort in the house, Billy, my dear—and you never will be.”
“Thank you,” murmured Billy, . “I'll remember that—when Pete and I disagree about the table decorations, and Dong Ling doesn't like the 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 fifty years, while he's been growing old? I wonder if you think I'd let Pete leave 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 to find Pete in the .
“Dinner is served, sir,” announced the old butler, his eyes on his master's face.
William rose with , 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 have been otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-room doing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead of tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of with delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would have known the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where to put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billy at the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to Bertram, the Strata would have the “dearest little mistress that ever was born.” As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of the turkey or the toothsomeness of the pie mattered! To Aunt Hannah and William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it was well, of course, that the dinner was a good one.
“And now,” said Cyril, when dinner was over, “suppose you come up and see the rug.”
In with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights of stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah—Cyril's rooms were always cool.
“Oh, yes, I knew we should need it,” she nodded to Bertram, as she picked up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when she came in. “That's why I brought it.”
“Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how can you stand it?—to climb stairs like this,” panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of the last flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair—from which Marie had rescued a curtain just in time.
“Well, I'm not sure I could—if I were always to eat a Thanksgiving dinner just before,” laughed Cyril. “Maybe I ought to have waited and let 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 by daylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime.”
“Fancy Cyril any sort of a rug at any time,” 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 so much 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 . “I'm sure he said—”
“Of course I want rugs,” interrupted Cyril, . “I want them everywhere except in my own especial den. You don't suppose I want to hear other people over bare floors all day, do you?”
“Of course not!” Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turned to the little music teacher. “I hope, Miss Marie, that you wear rubber heels on your shoes,” he observed .
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 and tried . “Just let me give you a pointer. I've lived with your future husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about.”
“Bertram, be still,” 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 sleepy nocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there falls anything like a , or the of a lost spirit gone mad, better look to your soup and see if it hasn't been , or taste of your pudding and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar.”
“Bertram, will you be still?” cut in Cyril, , 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't the kind that soups or uses salt for sugar. So maybe I'd better put it to you this way: if you want a new sealskin coat or an extra diamond tiara, tackle him when he plays like this!” And with a swift turn Bertram dropped himself to the piano stool and dashed into a rollicking melody that half the newsboys of Boston were whistling.
What happened next was a surprise to every one. Bertram, very much as if he were a naughty little boy, was jerked by a wrathful brother's hand off the piano stool. The next moment the wrathful brother himself sat at the piano, and there burst on five pairs of astonished ears a crashing dissonance which was but the to music such as few of the party often heard.
Spellbound they listened while runs and harmonies filled the room to , as if under the fingers of the player there were—not the keyboard of a piano—but the violins, , cornets, trombones, viols and kettledrums of a full orchestra.
Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood. She knew that in those tripping melodies and crashing chords were Cyril's joy at the presence of Marie, his at the of Bertram, his at that for which the rug and curtains stood—the little woman sewing in the radiant circle of a shaded lamp. Billy knew that all this and more were finding voice at Cyril's finger tips. The others, too, understood in a way; but they, unlike Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few score bits of wood and ivory a for their moods and fancies.
The music was softer now. The chords and purling runs had become a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a of
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