CHAPTER XXI.
"Billy is coming to-day," is the first thought that occurs to me as I spring from my bed on the morning of the nineteenth and run to the window. It is a glorious day outside, sunny and warm and bright, full of that air of subdued summer that always belongs to September. The flowers below are waving gently in the soft breeze; the trees have a musical rustle they surely lacked on yesterday; the very birds in the air and among the branches are crying, "Coming, coming, coming!"
Soon I shall see him; soon I shall welcome him to my own home. Alas, alas! that so many hours must pass before he can enter my expectant arms! That detestable "Bradshaw" has decreed that no train but the half-past five shall bring him.
Bebe, who is immensely amused at my impatience, declares herself prepared to fall in love with Billy on the spot, the very moment she sees him.
"I am passionately attached to boys," she says, meeting me in the corridor about half-past three (I am in such a rambling, unsettled condition as compels me to walk from pillar to post all day); "I like their society—witness my devotion to Chips—and they like mine. But for all that, I shall be nowhere with your Billy; you have another guest in your house who will take his heart by storm."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Lady Blanche Going. I never yet saw the boy who could resist her. Is not that odd? Is she not the last person one would select as a favorite with youth?"
"I hope he will not like her," I cry, impulsively; then, feeling myself, without cause, ungracious, "that is—of course I do not mean that—only—"
"Oh, yes, you do," says Miss Beatoun, coolly; "you would be very sorry if Billy were to waste his affection on her. So would I. You detest her; so do I. Why mince matters? But for all that your boy will be her sworn slave, or I am much mistaken. If only to spite you, she will make him her friend.
"But why? What have I ever done to her?"
"Nothing; only it is intolerable somebody should admire you so much."
And with a mischievous glance, Miss Beatoun disappears round the corner.
"Marmaduke," say I, seizing my husband by the arm as the dog-cart comes round to the door for final orders, preparatory to starting for the station (it is now almost five o'clock), "is William going for Billy? I wish I could go. You don't think he will expect—-" I hesitate.
Marmaduke reads my face attentively for a minute, then ponders a little.
"You think he may be disappointed if welcomed only by a groom?" he says, with a smile. "Take that little pucker off your forehead, Phyllis: I will bring your Billy to you myself," and mounting the dog-cart, drives off to the station without another word.
As I have already said, it is now five o'clock. It will take him just half an hour to reach Carston and meet the train. Ten minutes at least must be wasted finding Billy, getting his traps together, and settling things generally; then half an hour more to drive home; so that altogether one hour and ten minutes must go by before I can hope to see them. This appears an interminable age; all the day has not seemed so long as this last hour and ten minutes.
At a quarter to six I run upstairs and get myself dressed for dinner—although we do not dine until half-past seven—hurrying through my toilet with the most exaggerated haste, as if fearing they may arrive before it is finished; and I would not miss being the first to greet my boy for all the world contains.
When I once more reach the drawing-room it still wants five minutes to the promised time. Lady Blanche Going and one or two of the men are lounging here. She raises her head as I enter, and scans me languidly.
"Do we dine earlier than usual to-night, Mrs. Carrington?" she asks, with curiosity.
"No; not earlier than usual. It was a mere whim of mine getting my dressing over so soon."
"Oh, I quite forgot your brother was coming," she says, with a faint smile, bending over her work again. She looks as though she were pitying my youthful enthusiasm I make no reply. Taking up a book, I seat myself near a front window, as far as possible from the other occupants of the room, and pretend to read.
A quarter past six. Surely they ought to be here by this. Twenty-five minutes past six! I rise, regardless of comment, and gaze up the avenue.
Oh, if anything should have prevented his coming! Are not masters always tyrants? But even in such a case ought not Marmaduke to be back by this to tell me of it?
Or, yet more sickening thought, can any accident have happened to the train, and is Marmaduke afraid to bring me home the evil tidings?
I am just picturing to myself Billy's chestnut locks be-dabbled with his gore, when something smites upon mine ear. Surely it is the sound of wheels. I flatten my nose against the window-panes and strain my eyes into the gathering twilight.
Yes, fast as the good horse can bring them they come. A moment, later, and the dog-cart in full swing rounds the corner, while in it, coated to the chin, and in full possession of the reins, sits my brother, with Marmaduke—quite a secondary person—smiling beside him.
I utter an exclamation, and, flinging my book from me—blind to the smiles my guests cannot restrain—I rush headlong from the room, and in another instant have Billy folded in my arms. Surely a year has gone by since last I saw him.
"Oh, Billy, Billy!" I cry, clinging to him, the tears in my eyes, while glad smiles fight for mastery upon my lips. "Is it really you? It seems years and years since last we were together. Oh, how tall you have grown, and how good-looking!"
"Oh, I'm all right," returns Billy, graciously giving back my kisses, warmly, it is true, but with none of the lingering tenderness that characterizes mine. "I don't think a fellow alters much in a month. Though really, now that I look at you, you appear very tall, too, and thin, I think. We had such a jolly drive over; never wanted the whip the whole way, except for the flies."
"Yes. And are you glad to see me, Billy? Were you lonely without me? I was so lonely without you! But come upstairs to your room, and I will tell you every thing."
As I am drawing him eagerly away I catch sight of Marmaduke's face, who has been silently regarding us all this time, himself unnoticed.
Something in his expression touches me with remorse. I run up to him and lay my hand upon his arm.
"Thank you for bringing him," I say, earnestly, "and for letting him have the reins. I noticed that. You have made me very happy to-day."
"Have I? It was easily done. I am glad to know I have made you happy for even one short day."
He smiles, but draws his arm gently from my grasp as he speaks, and I know by the line across his forehead some painful thought has jarred upon him.
I am feeling self-reproachful and sorry, when Billy's voice recalls me to the joy of the present hour.
"Are you coming?" says that autocrat, impatiently, from the first step of the stairs, with about six bulging brown-paper parcels in his arms, that evidently no human power could have induced to enter the portmanteau that stands beside him. "Come," he says, again; and, forgetful of everything but the fact of his presence near me, I race him up the stairs and into the bedroom my own hands have made bright for him, while the elegant Thomas and the portmanteau follow more slowly in our rear.
"What a capital room!" says my Billy, "and lots of space. I like that. I hate being cramped, as I always am at home."
"I am glad you like it," I reply, bubbling over with satisfaction. "I settled it myself, and had the carpet taken off, because I knew you would prefer the room without it. But I desired them to put that narrow piece all round the bed, lest your feet should be cold. You won't object to that?"
"Oh, no; it may remain, if you have any fancy for it."
I am about to suggest that as it is not intended for my bare feet it does not affect me one way or the other; but, knowing argument with Billy to be worse than useless, I refrain.
"Have you any dress-clothes?" I ask, presently, some-what nervously.
"No; I never had any dress-clothes in my life; where would I get them?—but I have black breeches and a black jacket (like a shell-jacket, you know), and a white shirt and a black tie. That will do, won't it? Langley says I look uncommon well in them; and you'll see when I'm dressed up and that, I'll be as fit as the best of 'em."
It is evident Billy's good opinion of himself has not been lowered since we parted. He holds a generous belief in his own personal attractions; so does Langley, whoever he may be.
"Far nicer than any of them," I respond, with enthusiasm; and he does not contradict me.
When the garments just described have been laid upon the bed, Billy discloses symptoms of a desire to get into them, I turn to leave the room. But on the threshold I be-think me of another important question, and pause to ask it in a tone not altogether free from trepidation; for Billy, at times, is a person difficult to deal with.
"Have you a clean white cambric handkerchief?" I ask, slowly.
"Well, no, I have not," confesses my brother, amicably. "You see, all the white ones mother gave me when leaving, I exchanged with another fellow for some of his. And grand handkerchiefs they are—really handsome ones, you know, Phyllis; but they have all got flags, or sailors, or fat Shahs painted in the corners and in the middle, which makes them look just a leetle conspicuous.' But it won't matter a bit," says Billy, cheerfully, "as I seldom blow my nose (indeed, never, unless I have a cold in my head); and if I don't exhibit the Shahs, they will never find me out."
"Oh, indeed that would not do," I exclaim, earnestly. "You must let me get you one of Marmaduke's, and then you will feel more easy in your mind. Just suppose you were to sneeze! I often do it, even without having a cold."
"All right; you can bring it," says Billy, and I withdraw.
When, half an hour later, the drawing-room door opens to admit him, and looking up I see my brother's well-shaped head and slight boyish figure, a strange pang of delight and admiration touches my heart.
He enters boldly, with a.. the grace and independence an English boy and especially an Eton boy, if well-bred possesses, and advancing leisurely, comes to a standstill by my side.
I introduce him to Harriet, who is nearest to me; then to Sir George Ashurst, then to Captain Jenkins; afterwards I leave him to his own devices. I am glad to hear him chatting away merrily to kind Sir Gorge, when a voice, addressing him from an opposite sofa, makes me turn.
The voice belongs to Lady Blanche Going, and she is smiling at him in her laziest, most seductive manner.
"Won't you come and speak to me?" she says, sweetly, "Mrs. Carrington will not find time to present you to every one, and I cannot wait for a formal introduction. Come here, and let me tell you I like Etonians better than anything else in the world."
Sir Mark's moustache moves slightly, just sufficient to allow his lips to form themselves into a faint sneer; while Billy, thus summoned, crosses over and falls into the seat beside her ladyship.
"Do you, really?" he says. "But I'm awfully afraid I shall destroy your good opinion of us. You see, the fact is"—he goes on, candidly—"I have so little to say for myself, I fear in a very few minutes you will vote me a bore. However, you are quite welcome to anything I have to say; and when you are tired of me please say so."
"Oh, that your elders had half your wit!" exclaims her ladyship, with an effective but bewitching shake of her beautiful head. "If they would but come to the point as you do, Mr. Vernon, what a great deal of time might be saved!"
"Oh, I say, don't call me that," says my brother, with an irresistible laugh; "every one calls me 'Billy.' I shouldn't know myself by any other name. If you insist upon calling me Mr. Vernon I shall fancy you have found reason to dislike me."
"And would that be an overwhelming calamity?"
"I should certainly regard it in that light. I like being friends with—beautiful people," returns Billy, with a faint hesitation, but all a boy's flattering warmth; and so on.
Here Sir James Handcock, wakening from one of his usual fits of somnolence, actually takes the trouble to cross the room and put a question to his wife in an audible whisper.
"Who is that handsome lad?" he asks, staring kindly at Billy. (He was absent when my brother first entered the room.)
"Mrs. Carrington's brother," returns his wife, with a sympathetic smile.
"A really charming face," says Sir James, criticisingly; "scarcely a fault. Quite a face for an artist's pencil." And I feel my heart warm towards Sir James Handcock.
When dinner is announced, Lady Blanche declares her intention of going down with no one but her new friend, and Billy, proud and enchanted, conducts her to the dining-room; while Bebe casts a "what did I tell you?" sort of look at me behind their backs. Indeed, so thorough are the fascinations she exercises upon him that before the evening is concluded he is hopelessly and entirely her slave.