Mr. William,” he stammered thickly; “how are you—what'll you do without—There doesn't nobody but me know so well about your tea, and the two lumps in your coffee; and there's your flannels that you never put on till I get 'em out, and the woolen socks that you'd wear all summer if I didn't hide 'em. And—and who's goin' to take care of these?” he finished, with a glance that encompassed the overflowing cabinets and shelves of curios all about him.
His master smiled sadly. An affection that had its inception in his boyhood days shone in his eyes. The hand in which the Lowestoft had shaken rested now heavily on an old man's bent shoulder—a shoulder that straightened itself in unconscious loyalty under the touch.
“Pete, you have spoiled me, and no mistake. I don't expect to find another like you. But maybe if I wear the woolen socks too late you'll come and hunt up the others for me. Eh?” And, with a smile that was meant to be quizzical, William turned and began to shift the teapots about again.
“But, Mr. William, why—that is, what will Mr. Bertram and Miss Billy do—without you?” ventured the old man.
There was a sudden tinkling crash. On the floor lay the fragments of a silver-luster teapot.
The servant exclaimed aloud in dismay, but his master did not even glance toward his once treasured possession on the floor.
“Nonsense, Pete!” he was saying in a particularly cheery voice. “Have you lived all these years and not found out that newly-married folks don't need any one else around? Come, do you suppose we could begin to pack these teapots to-night?” he added, a little feverishly. “Aren't there some boxes down cellar?”
“I'll see, sir,” said Pete, respectfully; but the expression on his face as he turned away showed that he was not thinking of teapots—nor of boxes in which to pack them.
CHAPTER III. BILLY SPEAKS HER MIND
Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw were expected home the first of September. By the thirty-first of August the old Beacon Street homestead facing the Public Garden was in spick-and-span order, with Dong Ling in the basement hovering over a well-stocked larder, and Pete searching the rest of the house for a chair awry, or a bit of dust undiscovered.
Twice before had the Strata—as Bertram long ago dubbed the home of his boyhood—been prepared for the coming of Billy, William's namesake: once, when it had been decorated with guns and fishing-rods to welcome the “boy” who turned out to be a girl; and again when with pink roses and sewing-baskets the three brothers got joyously ready for a feminine Billy who did not even come at all.
The house had been very different then. It had been, indeed, a “strata,” with its distinctive layers of fads and pursuits as represented by Bertram and his painting on one floor, William and his curios on another, and Cyril with his music on a third. Cyril was gone now. Only Pete and his humble belongings occupied the top floor. The floor below, too, was silent now, and almost empty save for a rug or two, and a few pieces of heavy furniture that William had not cared to take with him to his new quarters on top of Beacon Hill. Below this, however, came Billy's old rooms, and on these Pete had lavished all his skill and devotion.
Freshly laundered curtains were at the windows, dustless rugs were on the floor. The old work-basket had been brought down from the top-floor storeroom, and the long-closed piano stood invitingly open. In a conspicuous place, also, sat the little green god, upon whose exquisitely carved shoulders was supposed to rest the “heap plenty velly good luckee” of Dong Ling's prophecy.
On the first floor Bertram's old rooms and the drawing-room came in for their share of the general overhauling. Even Spunkie did not escape, but had to submit to the ignominy of a bath. And then dawned fair and clear the first day of September, bringing at five o'clock the bride and groom.
Respectfully lined up in the hall to meet them were Pete and Dong Ling: Pete with his wrinkled old face alight with joy and excitement; Dong Ling grinning and kotowing, and chanting in a high-pitched treble:
“Miss Billee, Miss Billee—plenty much welcome, Miss Billee!”
“Yes, welcome home, Mrs. Henshaw!” bowed Bertram, turning at the door, with an elaborate flourish that did not in the least hide his tender pride in his new wife.
Billy laughed and colored a pretty pink.
“Thank you—all of you,” she cried a little unsteadily. “And how good, good everything does look to me! Why, where's Uncle William?” she broke off, casting hurriedly anxious eyes about her.
“Well, I should say so,” echoed Bertram. “Where is he, Pete? He isn't sick, is he?”
A quick change crossed the old servant's face. He shook his head dumbly.
Billy gave a gleeful laugh.
“I know—he's asleep!” she caroled, skipping to the bottom of the stairway and looking up.
“Ho, Uncle William! Better wake up, sir. The folks have come!”
Pete cleared his throat.
“Mr. William isn't here, Miss—ma'am,” he corrected miserably.
Billy smiled, but she frowned, too.
“Not here! Well, I like that,” she pouted; “—and when I've brought him the most beautiful pair of mirror knobs he ever saw, and all the way in my bag, too, so I could give them to him the very first thing,” she added, darting over to the small bag she had brought in with her. “I'm glad I did, too, for our trunks didn't come,” she continued laughingly. “Still, if he isn't here to receive them—There, Pete, aren't they beautiful?” she cried, carefully taking from their wrappings two exquisitely decorated porcelain discs mounted on two long spikes. “They're Batterseas—the real article. I know enough for that; and they're finer than anything he's got. Won't he be pleased?”
“Yes, Miss—ma'am, I mean,” stammered the old man.
“These new titles come hard, don't they, Pete?” laughed Bertram.
Pete smiled faintly.
“Never mind, Pete,” soothed his new mistress. “You shall call me 'Miss Billy' all your life if you want to. Bertram,” she added, turning to her husband, “I'm going to just run up-stairs and put these in Uncle William's rooms so they'll be there when he comes in. We'll see how soon he discovers them!”
Before Pete could stop her she was half-way up the first flight of stairs. Even then he tried to speak to his young master, to explain that Mr. William was not living there; but the words refused to come. He could only stand dumbly waiting.
In a minute it came—Billy's sharp, startled cry.
“Bertram! Bertram!”
Bertram sprang for the stairway, but he had not reached the top when he met his wife coming down. She was white-faced and trembling.
“Bertram—those rooms—there's not so much as a teapot there! Uncle William's—gone!”
“Gone!”
