Miss Billy
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 42: The “End of the Story”
It was two days after Billy’s new happiness had come to her that Cyril came home. He went very soon to see Billy.
The girl was surprised at the change in his appearance. He had grown thin and haggard looking, and his eyes were somber. He moved restlessly about the room for a time, finally seating himself at the piano and letting his fingers slip from one mournful little melody to another. Then, with a discordant crash, he turned.
“Billy, do you think any girl would marry—me?” he demanded.
“Why, Cyril!”
“There, now, please don’t begin that,” he begged fretfully. “I realize, of course, that I’m a very unlikely subject for matrimony. You made me understand that clearly enough last winter!”
“Last—winter?”
Cyril raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, I came to you for a little encouragement, and to make a confession,” he said. “I made the confession—but I didn’t get the encouragement.”
Billy changed color. She thought she knew what he meant, but at the same time she couldn’t understand why he should wish to refer to that conversation now.
“A—confession?” she repeated, hesitatingly.
“Yes. I told you that I’d begun to doubt my being such a woman-hater, after all. I intimated that YOU’D begun the softening process, and that then I’d found a certain other young woman who had—well, who had kept up the good work.”
“Oh!” cried Billy suddenly, with a peculiar intonation. “Oh-h!” Then she laughed softly.
“Well, that was the confession,” resumed Cyril. “Then I came out flat-footed and said that I wanted to marry her—but there is where I didn’t get the encouragement!”
“Indeed! I’m afraid I wasn’t very considerate,” stammered Billy.
“No, you weren’t,” agreed Cyril, moodily. “I didn’t know but now—” his voice softened a little—”with this new happiness of yours and Bertram’s that—you might find a little encouragement for me.”
“And I will,” cried Billy, promptly. “Tell me about her.”
“I did—last winter,” reproached the man, “and you were sure I was deceiving myself. You drew the gloomiest sort of picture of the misery I would take with a wife.”
“I did?” Billy was laughing very merrily now.
“Yes. You said she’d always be talking and laughing when I wanted to be quiet, and that she’d want to drag me out to parties and plays when I wanted to stay at home; and—oh, lots of things. I tried to make it clear to you that—that this little woman wasn’t that sort. But I couldn’t,” finished Cyril, gloomily.
“But of course she isn’t,” declared Billy, with quick sympathy. “I—I didn’t know—WHAT—I was—talking about,” she added with emphatic distinctness. Then she smiled to think how little Cyril knew how very true those words were. “Tell me about her,” she begged again. “I know she must be very lovely and brilliant, and of course a wonderful musician. YOU couldn’t choose any one else!”