A TOUGH NUT TO CRACK FOR CYRIL
It was early in the forenoon of the first day of July that Eliza told her mistress that Mrs.
Stetson was asking for her at the telephone. Eliza's face was not a little troubled.
``I'm afraid, maybe, it isn't good news,'' she stammered, as her mistress hurriedly arose.
``She's at Mr. Cyril Henshaw's--Mrs. Stetson is--and she seemed so terribly upset about something that there was no making real sense out of what she said. But she asked for you, and said to have you come quick.''
Billy, her own face paling, was already at the telephone.
``Yes, Aunt Hannah. What is it?''
``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, if you _can_, come up here, please. You must come!
_Can't_ you come?''
``Why, yes, of course. But--but--_Marie!_The--the _baby!_''
A faint groan came across the wires.
``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! It isn't _the_ baby. It's _babies!_ It's twins--boys. Cyril has them now--the nurse hasn't got here yet.''
``Twins! _Cyril_ has them!'' broke in Billy, hysterically.
``Yes, and they're crying something terrible.
We've sent for a second nurse to come, too, of course, but she hasn't got here yet, either. And those babies--if you could hear them! That's what we want you for, to--''
But Billy was almost laughing now.
``All right, I'll come out--and hear them,''
she called a bit wildly, as she hung up the receiver.
Some little time later, a palpably nervous maid admitted Billy to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Henshaw. Even as the door was opened, Billy heard faintly, but unmistakably, the moaning wails of two infants.
``Mrs. Stetson says if you will please to help Mr. Henshaw with the babies,'' stammered the maid, after the preliminary questions and answers. ``I've been in when I could, and they're all right, only they're crying. They're in his den.
We had to put them as far away as possible--their crying worried Mrs. Henshaw so.''
``Yes, I see,'' murmured Billy. ``I'll go to them at once. No, don't trouble to come. Iknow the way. Just tell Mrs. Stetson I'm here, please,'' she finished, as she tossed her hat and gloves on to the hall table, and turned to go upstairs.
Billy's feet made no sound on the soft rugs.
The crying, however, grew louder and louder as she approached the den. Softly she turned the knob and pushed open the door. She stopped short, then, at what she saw.
Cyril had not heard her, nor seen her. His back was partly toward the door. His coat was off, and his hair stood fiercely on end as if a nervous hand had ruffled it. His usually pale face was very red, and his forehead showed great drops of perspiration. He was on his feet, hovering over the couch, at each end of which lay a rumpled roll of linen, lace, and flannel, from which emerged a prodigiously puckered little face, two uncertainly waving rose-leaf fists, and a wail of protesting rage that was not uncertain in the least.
In one hand Cyril held a Teddy bear, in the other his watch, dangling from its fob chain.
Both of these he shook feebly, one after the other, above the tiny faces.
``Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,'' he begged agitatedly.
In the doorway Billy clapped her hands to her lips and stifled a laugh. Billy knew, of course, that what she should do was to go forward at once, and help this poor, distracted man; but Billy, just then, was not doing what she knew she ought to do.
With a muttered ejaculation (which Billy, to her sorrow, could not catch) Cyril laid down the watch and flung the Teddy bear aside. Then, in very evident despair, he gingerly picked up one of the rumpled rolls of flannel, lace, and linen, and held it straight out before him. After a moment's indecision he began awkwardly to jounce it, teeter it, rock it back and forth, and to pat it jerkily.
``Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,'' he begged again, frantically.
Perhaps it was the change of position; perhaps it was the novelty of the motion, perhaps it was only utter weariness, or lack of breath. Whatever the cause, the wailing sobs from the bundle in his arms dwindled suddenly to a gentle whisper, then ceased altogether.
With a ray of hope illuminating his drawn countenance, Cyril carefully laid the baby down and picked up the other. Almost confidently now he began the jouncing and teetering and rocking as before.
``There, there! Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,'' he chanted again.
This time he was not so successful. Perhaps he had lost his skill. Perhaps it was merely the world-old difference in babies. At all events, this infant did not care for jerks and jounces, and showed it plainly by emitting loud and yet louder wails of rage--wails in which his brother on the couch speedily joined.
``Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush--_confound it_, HUSH, I say!'' exploded the frightened, weary, baffled, distracted man, picking up the other baby, and trying to hold both his sons at once.
Billy hurried forward then, tearfully, remorsefully, her face all sympathy, her arms all tenderness.
``Here, Cyril, let me help you,'' she cried.
Cyril turned abruptly.
``Thank God, _some_ one's come,'' he groaned, holding out both the babies, with an exuberance of generosity. ``Billy, you've saved my life!''
Billy laughed tremulously.
``Yes, I've come, Cyril, and I'll help every bit I can; but I don't know a thing--not a single thing about them myself. Dear me, aren't they cunning? But, Cyril, do they always cry so?''
The father-of-an-hour drew himself stiffly erect.
``Cry? What do you mean? Why shouldn't they cry?'' he demanded indignantly. ``I want you to understand that Doctor Brown said those were A number I fine boys! Anyhow, I guess there's no doubt they've got lungs all right,'' he added, with a grim smile, as he pulled out his handkerchief and drew it across his perspiring brow.
