Miss Billie's Decision [18]
men sprang to their feet. The situation, for a moment, threatened embarrassed misery for all concerned; but Arkwright, with a cheery smile, advanced straight toward Bertram, and held out a friendly hand.
``The proverbial fate of listeners,'' he said easily; ``but I don't blame you at all. No, `he' isn't going to live here,'' he went on, grasping each brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; ``and what is more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance his little joke has caused. He might add that he's heartily-ashamed of himself, as well; but if any of you--'' Arkwright turned to the three tall men still standing by their chairs-- ``if any of you had suffered what 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 of Mary 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 and Cyril laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: ``But what does the `M. J.' stand for, anyhow?'' Nobody answered this, however; perhaps because Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway.
Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met his match for wit and satire; and ``Mr. Mary Jane,'' as he was promptly called by 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 a bookcase 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 were slightly puzzled, ``Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals and the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!''
``Nonsense!'' scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his chair. ``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? I have lots of songs if you want them.''
For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose and went to the piano.
With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped to the keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test the touch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made every listener 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 with very obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was showing by his attitude the keenest appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in their chairs, were contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie in her corner was motionless with rapture. As to Billy--Billy was plainly oblivious of everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcely to 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 I could sing like that!''
``I wish I could paint a `Face of a Girl,' '' smiled the tenor as he turned from the piano.
``Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop,'' objected Billy, springing to her feet and going to her
``The proverbial fate of listeners,'' he said easily; ``but I don't blame you at all. No, `he' isn't going to live here,'' he went on, grasping each brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; ``and what is more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance his little joke has caused. He might add that he's heartily-ashamed of himself, as well; but if any of you--'' Arkwright turned to the three tall men still standing by their chairs-- ``if any of you had suffered what 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 of Mary 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 and Cyril laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: ``But what does the `M. J.' stand for, anyhow?'' Nobody answered this, however; perhaps because Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway.
Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met his match for wit and satire; and ``Mr. Mary Jane,'' as he was promptly called by 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 a bookcase 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 were slightly puzzled, ``Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals and the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!''
``Nonsense!'' scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his chair. ``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? I have lots of songs if you want them.''
For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose and went to the piano.
With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped to the keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test the touch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made every listener 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 with very obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was showing by his attitude the keenest appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in their chairs, were contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie in her corner was motionless with rapture. As to Billy--Billy was plainly oblivious of everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcely to 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 I could sing like that!''
``I wish I could paint a `Face of a Girl,' '' smiled the tenor as he turned from the piano.
``Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop,'' objected Billy, springing to her feet and going to her