Miss Billy Married | Page 7

week of
hurry and confusion about Aunt Hannah's future; but Aunt Hannah
knew very well how it must be. This dear little house on the side of
Corey Hill was Billy's home, and Billy would not need it any longer. It
would be sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go back to a
``second-story front'' and loneliness in some Back Bay boarding-house;
and a second story front and loneliness would not be easy now, after
these years of home--and Billy.
No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat crying and patting the little
white glove in her hand. No wonder, too, that--being Aunt Hannah--
she reached for the shawl near by and put it on, shiveringly. Even July,
to-night, was cold--to Aunt Hannah.
In yet another home that evening was the wedding of Billy Neilson and
Bertram Henshaw uppermost in thought and speech. In a certain little
South-End flat where, in two rented rooms, lived Alice Greggory and
her crippled mother, Alice was talking to Mr. M. J. Arkwright,
commonly known to his friends as ``Mary Jane,'' owing to the mystery
in which he had for so long shrouded his name.
Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill at ease.
``You're not listening. You're not listening at all,'' complained Alice
Greggory at last, reproachfully.
With a visible effort the man roused himself.
``Indeed I am,'' he maintained.
``I thought you'd be interested in the wedding. You used to be
friends--you and Billy.'' The girl's voice still vibrated with reproach.
There was a moment's silence; then, a little harshly, the man said:

``Perhaps--because I wanted to be more than--a friend--is why you're
not satisfied with my interest now.''
A look that was almost terror came to Alice Greggory's eyes. She
flushed painfully, then grew very white.
``You mean--''
``Yes,'' he nodded dully, without looking up. ``I cared too much for her.
I supposed Henshaw was just a friend--till too late.''
There was a breathless hush before, a little unsteadily, the girl
stammered:
``Oh, I'm so sorry--so very sorry! I--I didn't know.''
``No, of course you didn't. I've almost told you, though, lots of times;
you've been so good to me all these weeks.'' He raised his head now,
and looked at her, frank comradeship in his eyes.
The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes swerved a little under his level
gaze.
``Oh, but I've done nothing--n-nothing,'' she stammered. Then, at the
light tap of crutches on a bare floor she turned in obvious relief. ``Oh,
here's mother. She's been in visiting with Mrs. Delano, our landlady.
Mother, Mr. Arkwright is here.''
Meanwhile, speeding north as fast as steam could carry them, were the
bride and groom. The wondrousness of the first hour of their journey
side by side had become a joyous certitude that always it was to be like
this now.
``Bertram,'' began the bride, after a long minute of eloquent silence.
``Yes, love.''
``You know our wedding was very different from most weddings.''

``Of course it was!''
``Yes, but really it was. Now listen.'' The bride's voice grew tenderly
earnest. ``I think our marriage is going to be different, too.''
``Different?''
``Yes.'' Billy's tone was emphatic. ``There are so many common,
everyday marriages where --where-- Why, Bertram, as if you could
ever be to me like--like Mr. Carleton is, for instance!''
``Like Mr. Carleton is--to you?'' Bertram's voice was frankly puzzled.
``No, no! As Mr. Carleton is to Mrs. Carleton, I mean.''
``Oh!'' Bertram subsided in relief.
``And the Grahams and Whartons, and the Freddie Agnews, and--and a
lot of others. Why, Bertram, I've seen the Grahams and the Whartons
not even speak to each other a whole evening, when they've been at a
dinner, or something; and I've seen Mrs. Carleton not even seem to
know her husband came into the room. I don't mean quarrel, dear. Of
course we'd never _quarrel!_ But I mean I'm sure we shall never get
used to--to you being you, and I being I.''
``Indeed we sha'n't,'' agreed Bertram, rapturously.
``Ours is going to be such a beautiful marriage!''
``Of course it will be.''
``And we'll be so happy!''
``I shall be, and I shall try to make you so.''
``As if I could be anything else,'' sighed Billy, blissfully. ``And now we
_can't_ have any misunderstandings, you see.''
``Of course not. Er--what's that?''

``Why, I mean that--that we can't ever repeat hose miserable weeks of
misunderstanding. Everything is all explained up. I know, now, that you
don't love Miss Winthrop, or just girls --any girl--to paint. You love me.
Not the tilt of my chin, nor the turn of my head; but me.''
``I do--just you.'' Bertram's eyes gave the caress his lips would have
given had it not been for the presence of the man in the seat across the
aisle of the