"Another!"

"Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He came to me one day, put his hand on my shoulder, and said tersely: 'Will you give me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show 'em! I lost the first ten thousand I made. I didn't the next!' That's all he said.

Before I could even choke out an answer he was gone. Gorry! talk about his having a 'heart of stone'! I don't believe another man in the country would have done that--and done it in the way he did--in the face of all this talk," finished Bertram, his eyes luminous with feeling.

Billy hesitated.

"Perhaps--his daughter--influenced him--some."

"Perhaps," nodded Bertram. "She, too, has been very kind, all the way through."

Billy hesitated again.

"But I thought--it was going so splendidly," she faltered, in a half-stifled voice.

"So it was--at the first."

"Then what--ailed it, at the last, do you suppose?" Billy was holding her breath till he should answer.

The man got to his feet.

"Billy, don't--don't ask me," he begged. "Please don't let's talk of it any more. It can't do any good! I just flunked--that's all. My hand failed me. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I was tired. Maybe something--troubled me. Never mind, dear, what it was. It can do no good even to think of that--now. So just let's--drop it, please, dear," he finished, his face working with emotion.

And Billy dropped it--so far as words were concerned; but she could not drop it from her thoughts--specially after Kate's letter came.

Kate's letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking of various other matters:

"And now about poor Bertram's failure." (Billy frowned. In Billy's presence no one was allowed to say "Bertram's failure"; but a letter has a most annoying privilege of saying what it pleases without let or hindrance, unless one tears it up--and a letter destroyed unread remains always such a tantalizing mystery of possibilities! So Billy let the letter talk.) "Of course we have heard of it away out here. I do wish if Bertram _must_ paint such famous people, he would manage to flatter them up--in the painting, I mean, of course--enough so that it might pa.s.s for a success!

"The technical part of all this criticism I don't pretend to understand in the least; but from what I hear and read, he must, indeed, have made a terrible mess of it, and of course I'm very sorry--and some surprised, too, for usually he paints such pretty pictures!

"Still, on the other hand, Billy, I'm not surprised. William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an owl, for weeks past; and of course, under those circ.u.mstances, the poor boy could not be expected to do good work. Now William, being a man, is not supposed to understand what the trouble is. But I, being a woman, can see through a pane of gla.s.s when it's held right up before me; and I can guess, of course, that a woman is at the bottom of it--she always is!--and that you, being his special fancy at the moment" (Billy almost did tear the letter now--but not quite), "are that woman.

"Now, Billy, you don't like such frank talk, of course; but, on the other hand, I know you do not want to ruin the dear boy's career. So, for heaven's sake, if you two have been having one of those quarrels that lovers so delight in--do, please, for the good of the cause, make up quick, or else quarrel harder and break it off entirely--which, honestly, would be the better way, I think, all around.

"There, there, my dear child, don't bristle up! I am very fond of you, and would dearly love to have you for a sister--if you'd only take William, as you should! But, as you very well know, I never did approve of this last match at all, for either of your sakes.

"He can't make you happy, my dear, and you can't make him happy.

Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man. He's too temperamental--too thoroughly wrapped up in his Art. Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will. They can't. He's made that way. Listen! I can prove it to you. Up to this winter he's always been a care-free, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied himself to any one girl till last fall. Then you two entered into this absurd engagement.

"Now what has it been since? William wrote me himself not a fortnight ago that he'd been worried to death over Bertram for weeks past, he's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself. And his picture has _failed_ dismally. Of course William doesn't understand; but I do. I know you've probably quarrelled, or something. You know how flighty and unreliable you can be sometimes, Billy, and I don't say that to mean anything against you, either--that's _your_ way. You're just as temperamental in your art, music, as Bertram is in his. You're utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry _anybody_, it should be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be a _help_ to him. But when I think of you two flyaway flutterbudgets marrying--!

"Now, for heaven's sake, Billy, _do_ make up or something--and do it now. Don't, for pity's sake, let Bertram ever put out another such a piece of work to shame us all like this. Do you want to ruin his career?

"Faithfully yours,

"KATE HARTWELL.

"P. S. _I_ think William's the one for you. He's devoted to you, and his quiet, sensible affection is just what your temperament needs. I _always_ thought William was the one for you. Think it over.

"P. S. No. 2. You can see by the above that it isn't you I'm objecting to, my dear. It's just _you-and-Bertram_.

"K."

CHAPTER x.x.x. "I'VE HINDERED HIM"

Billy was shaking with anger and terror by the time she had finished reading Kate's letter. Anger was uppermost at the moment, and with one sweeping wrench of her trembling fingers she tore the closely written sheets straight through the middle, and flung them into the little wicker basket by her desk. Then she went down-stairs and played her noisiest, merriest Tarantella, and tried to see how fast she could make her fingers fly.

But Billy could not, of course, play tarantellas all day; and even while she did play them she could not forget that waste-basket up-stairs, and the horror it contained. The anger was still uppermost, but the terror was prodding her at every turn, and demanding to know just what it was that Kate had written in that letter, anyway. It is not strange then, perhaps, that before two hours pa.s.sed, Billy went up-stairs, took the letter from the basket, matched together the torn half-sheets and forced her shrinking eyes to read every word again-just to satisfy that terror which would not be silenced.

At the end of the second reading, Billy reminded herself with stern calmness that it was only Kate, after all; that n.o.body ought to mind what Kate said; that certainly _she_, Billy, ought not--after the experience she had already had with her unpleasant interference! Kate did not know what she was talking about, anyway. This was only another case of her trying "to manage." She did so love to manage--everything!

At this point Billy got out her pen and paper and wrote to Kate.

It was a formal, cold little letter, not at all the sort that Billy's friends usually received. It thanked Kate for her advice, and for her "kind willingness" to have Billy for a sister; but it hinted that perhaps Kate did not realize that as long as Billy was the one who would have to _live_ with the chosen man, it would be pleasanter to take the one Billy loved, which happened in this case to be Bertram--not William.

As for any "quarrel" being the cause of whatever fancied trouble there was with the new picture--the letter scouted that idea in no uncertain terms. There had been no suggestion of a quarrel even once since the engagement.

Then Billy signed her name and took the letter out to post immediately.

For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into the green box at the corner, Billy held her head high, and told herself that the matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified, conclusive, effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction of the things she had said.

Very soon, however, she began to think--not so much of what _she_ had said--but of what Kate had said. Many of Kate's sentences were unpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out in letters of flame, and they began to burn, and burn, and burn. These were some of them:

"William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past."

"A woman is at the bottom of it--... you are that woman."

"You can't make him happy."

"Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man."

"Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will."

"Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied himself to any one girl until last fall."

"Now what has it been since?"

"He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself; and his picture has failed, dismally."

"Do you want to ruin his career?"

Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate's letter at all. The matter was not closed. Her reply had been, perhaps, courteous and dignified--but it had not been conclusive nor effectual.

Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ acted strangely, of late. Bertram _had_ seemed troubled over something. His picture _had_--With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these thoughts, and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she told herself that the matter _was_ settled. Very scornfully she declared that it was "only Kate," after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate make her unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current magazine and began to read.

As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the first article she opened to was headed in huge black type: