Bertram was not home to luncheon on the day following the opening night of the Bohemian Ten Club. A matter of business called him away from the house early in the morning; but he told his wife that he surely would be on hand for Miss Winthrop's call at half-past three o'clock that afternoon.
``Yes, do,'' Billy had urged. ``I think she's lovely, but you know her so much better than Ido that I want you here. Besides, you needn't think _I'm_ going to show her all those Billys of yours. I may be vain, but I'm not quite vain enough for that, sir!''
``Don't worry,'' her husband had laughed.
``I'll be here.''
As it chanced, however, something occurred an hour before half-past three o'clock that drove every thought of Miss Winthrop's call from Billy's head.
For three days, now, Pete had been at the home of his niece in South Boston. He had been forced, finally, to give up and go away. News from him the day before had been anything but reassuring, and to-day, Bertram being gone, Billy had suggested that Eliza serve a simple luncheon and go immediately afterward to South Boston to see how her uncle was. This suggestion Eliza had followed, leaving the house at one o'clock.
Shortly after two Calderwell had dropped in to bring Bertram, as he expressed it, a bunch of bouquets he had gathered at the picture show the night before. He was still in the drawing-room, chatting with Billy, when the telephone bell rang.
``If that's Bertram, tell him to come home;he's got company,'' laughed Calderwell, as Billy passed into the hall.
A moment later he heard Billy give a startled cry, followed by a few broken words at short intervals. Then, before he could surmise what had happened, she was back in the drawing-room again, her eyes full of tears.
``It's Pete,'' she choked. ``Eliza says he can't live but a few minutes. He wants to see me once more. What shall I do? John's got Peggy out with Aunt Hannah and Mrs. Greggory. It was so nice to-day I made them go. But I must get there some way--Pete is calling for me. Uncle William is going, and I told Eliza where she might reach Bertram; but what shall _I_ do? How shall I go?''
Calderwell was on his feet at once.
``I'll get a taxi. Don't worry--we'll get there. Poor old soul--of course he wants to see you! Get on your things. I'll have it here in no time,'' he finished, hurrying to the telephone.
``Oh, Hugh, I'm so glad I've got _you_ here,''
sobbed Billy, stumbling blindly toward the stairway. ``I'll be ready in two minutes.''
And she was; but neither then, nor a little later when she and Calderwell drove hurriedly away from the house, did Billy once remember that Miss Marguerite Winthrop was coming to call that afternoon to see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw and a roomful of Billy pictures.
Pete was still alive when Calderwell left Billy at the door of the modest little home where Eliza's mother lived.
``Yes, you're in time, ma'am,'' sobbed Eliza;``and, oh, I'm so glad you've come. He's been askin' and askin' for ye.''
From Eliza Billy learned then that Mr. William was there, but not Mr. Bertram. They had not been able to reach Mr. Bertram, or Mr. Cyril.
Billy never forgot the look of reverent adoration that came into Pete's eyes as she entered the room where he lay.
``Miss Billy--my Miss Billy! You were so good-to come,'' he whispered faintly.
Billy choked back a sob.
``Of course I'd come, Pete,'' she said gently, taking one of the thin, worn hands into both her soft ones.
It was more than a few minutes that Pete lived.
Four o'clock came, and five, and he was still with them. Often he opened his eyes and smiled.
Sometimes he spoke a low word to William or Billy, or to one of the weeping women at the foot of the bed. That the presence of his beloved master and mistress meant much to him was plain to be seen.
``I'm so sorry,'' he faltered once, ``about that pretty dress--I spoiled, Miss Billy. But you know--my hands--''
``I know, I know,'' soothed Billy; ``but don't worry. It wasn't spoiled, Pete. It's all fixed now.''
``Oh, I'm so glad,'' sighed the sick man. After another long interval of silence he turned to William.
``Them socks--the medium thin ones--you'd oughter be puttin' 'em on soon, sir, now. They're in the right-hand corner of the bottom drawer--you know.''
``Yes, Pete; I'll attend to it,'' William managed to stammer, after he had cleared his throat.
Eliza's turn came next.
``Remember about the coffee,'' Pete said to her, ``--the way Mr. William likes it. And always eggs, you know, for--for--'' His voice trailed into an indistinct murmur, and his eyelids drooped wearily.
One by one the minutes passed. The doctor came and went: there was nothing he could do.
At half-past five the thin old face became again alight with consciousness. There was a good-by message for Bertram, and one for Cyril. Aunt Hannah was remembered, and even little Tommy Dunn. Then, gradually, a gray shadow crept over the wasted features. The words came more brokenly. The mind, plainly, was wandering, for old Pete was young again, and around him were the lads he loved, William, Cyril, and Bertram. And then, very quietly, soon after the clock struck six, Pete fell into the beginning of his long sleep.
