Chapter 14: M. J. Makes Another Move

Billy came down-stairs on the thirteenth of December to find everywhere the peculiar flatness that always follows a day which for weeks has been the focus of one’s aims and thoughts and labor.

“It’s just as if everything had stopped at Marie’s wedding, and there wasn’t anything more to do,” she complained to Aunt Hannah at the breakfast table. “Everything seems so—queer!”

“It won’t—long, dear,” smiled Aunt Hannah, tranquilly, as she buttered her roll, “specially after Bertram comes back. How long does he stay in New York?”

“Only three days; but I’m just sure it’s going to seem three weeks, now,” sighed Billy. “But he simply had to go—else he wouldn’t have gone.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” observed Aunt Hannah. And at the meaning emphasis of her words, Billy laughed a little. After a minute she said aggrievedly:

“I had supposed that I could at least have a sort of ‘after the ball’ celebration this morning picking up and straightening things around. But John and Rosa have done it all. There isn’t so much as a rose leaf anywhere on the floor. Of course most of the flowers went to the hospital last night, anyway. As for Marie’s room—it looks as spick-and-span as if it had never seen a scrap of ribbon or an inch of tulle.”

“But—the wedding presents?”

“All carried down to the kitchen and half packed now, ready to go over to the new home. John says he’ll take them over in Peggy this afternoon, after he takes Mrs. Hartwell’s trunk to Uncle William’s.”

“Well, you can at least go over to the apartment and work,” suggested Aunt Hannah, hopefully.

“Humph! Can I?” scoffed Billy. “As if I could—when Marie left strict orders that not one thing was to be touched till she got here. They arranged everything but the presents before the wedding, anyway; and Marie wants to fix those herself after she gets back. Mercy! Aunt Hannah, if I should so much as move a plate one inch in the china closet, Marie would know it—and change it when she got home,” laughed Billy, as she rose from the table. “No, I can’t go to work over there.”

“But there’s your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some new songs after the wedding.”

“I was,” sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlessly at the bare, brown world outside; “but I can’t write songs—when there aren’t any songs in my head to write.”

“No, of course not; but they’ll come, dear, in time. You’re tired, now,” soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room.

“It’s the reaction, of course,” murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on the way up-stairs. “She’s had the whole thing on her hands—dear child!”

A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minor melody. Billy was at the piano.

Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William. It had been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization that Bertram’s trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was to be carried there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at the end of a two or three days’ visit.

It began to snow at twelve o’clock. All the morning the sky had been gray and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon in myriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blinding point, and turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylike beauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face, looked out upon it with disapproving eyes.

“I was going in town—and I believe I’ll go now,” she cried.

“Don’t, dear, please don’t,” begged Aunt Hannah. “See, the flakes are smaller now, and the wind is coming up. We’re in for a blizzard—I’m sure we are. And you know you have some cold, already.”

“All right,” sighed Billy. “Then it’s me for the knitting work and the fire, I suppose,” she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the wistful disappointment of her voice.

She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at four o’clock Rosa brought in the card.

Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little cry.

“It’s Mary Jane!” she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. “Now wasn’t he a dear to think to come to-day? You’ll be down, won’t you?”