pride,” coaxed Billy. “You just wait till I get the Overflow Annex in running order. Why, Aunt Hannah, you don’t know how busy you’re going to be handing out all that extra happiness that I can’t use!”
“You dear child!” Aunt Hannah smiled mistily. The black shawl had fallen unheeded to the floor now. “As if anybody ever had any more happiness than one’s self could use!”
“I have,” avowed Billy, promptly, “and it’s going to keep growing and growing, I know.”
“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, don’t!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, lifting shocked hands of remonstrance. “Rap on wood–do! How can you boast like that?”
Billy dimpled roguishly and sprang to her feet{.??}
“Why, Aunt Hannah, I’m ashamed of you! To be superstitious like that–you, a good Presbyterian!”
Aunt Hannah subsided shamefacedly.
“Yes, I know, Billy, it is silly; but I just can’t help it.”
“Oh, but it’s worse than silly, Aunt Hannah,” teased Billy, with a remorseless chuckle. “It’s really _heathen!_ Bertram told me once that it dates ‘way back to the time of the Druids– appealing to the god of trees, or something like that –when you rap on wood, you know.”
“Ugh!” shuddered Aunt Hannah. “As if I would, Billy! How is Bertram, by the by?”
A swift shadow crossed Billy’s bright face.
“He’s lovely–only his arm.”
“His arm! But I thought that was better.”
“Oh, it is,” drooped Billy, “but it gets along so slowly, and it frets him dreadfully. You know he never can do anything with his left hand, he says, and he just hates to have things done for him–though Pete and Dong Ling are quarreling with each other all the time to do things for him, and I’m quarreling with both of them to do them for him myself! By the way, Dong Ling is going to leave us next week. Did you know it?”
“Dong Ling–leave!”
“Yes. Oh, he told Bertram long ago he should go when we were married; that he had plenty much money, and was going back to China, and not be Melican man any longer. But I don’t think Bertram thought he’d do it. William says Dong Ling went to Pete, however, after we left, and told him he wanted to go; that he liked the little Missee plenty well, but that there’d be too much hen-talk when she got back, and–”
“Why, the impudent creature!”
Billy laughed merrily.
“Yes; Pete was furious, William says, but Dong Ling didn’t mean any disrespect, I’m sure. He just wasn’t used to having petticoats around, and didn’t want to take orders from them; that’s all.”
“But, Billy, what will you do?”
“Oh, Pete’s fixed all that lovely,” returned Billy, nonchalantly. “You know his niece lives over in South Boston, and it seems she’s got a daughter who’s a fine cook and will be glad to come. Mercy! Look at the time,” she broke off, glancing at the clock. “I shall be late to dinner, and Dong Ling loathes anybody who’s late to his meals–as I found out to my sorrow the night we got home. Good-by, dear. I’ll be out soon again and fix it all up–about the Annex, you know.” And with a bright smile she was gone.
“Dear me,” sighed Aunt Hannah, stooping to pick up the black shawl; “dear me! Of course everything will be all right–there’s a girl coming, even if Dong Ling is going. But–but–
Oh, my grief and conscience, what an extraordinary child Billy is, to be sure–but what a dear one!” she added, wiping a quick tear from her eye. “An Overflow Annex, indeed, for her `extra happiness’! Now isn’t that just like Billy?”
CHAPTER V
TIGER SKINS
September passed and October came, bringing with it cool days and clear, crisp evenings royally ruled over by a gorgeous harvest moon. According to Billy everything was just perfect–except, of course, poor Bertram’s arm; and even the fact that that gained so slowly was not without its advantage (again according to Billy), for it gave Bertram more time to be with her.
“You see, dear, as long as you _can’t_ paint,” she told him earnestly, one day, “why, I’m not really hindering you by keeping you with me so much.”
“You certainly are not,” he retorted, with a smile.
“Then I may be just as happy as I like over it,” settled Billy, comfortably.
“As if you ever could hinder me,” he ridiculed.
“Oh, yes, I could,” nodded Billy, emphatically. “You forget, sir. That was what worried me so. Everybody, even the newspapers and magazines, said I _would_ do it, too. They said I’d slay your Art, stifle your Ambition, destroy your Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally. And Kate said–”
“Yes. Well, never mind what Kate said,” interrupted the man, savagely.
Billy laughed, and gave his ear a playful tweak.
“All right; but I’m not going to do it, you know–spoil your career, sir. You just wait,” she continued dramatically. “The minute your arm gets so you can paint, I myself shall conduct you to your studio, thrust the brushes into your hand, fill your palette with all the colors of the rainbow, and order you to paint, my lord, paint! But–until then I’m going to have you all I like,” she finished, with a complete change of manner, nestling into the ready curve of his good left arm.
“You witch!” laughed the man, fondly. “Why, Billy, you couldn’t hinder me. You’ll _be_ my inspiration, dear, instead of slaying it. You’ll see. _This_ time Marguerite Winthrop’s portrait is going to be a success.”
Billy turned quickly.
“Then you are–that is, you haven’t–I mean, you’re going to–paint it?”
“I just am,” avowed the artist. “And this time it’ll be a success, too, with you to help.”
Billy drew in her breath tremulously.
“I didn’t know but you’d already started it,” she faltered.
He shook his head.
“No. After the other one failed, and Mr. Winthrop asked me to try again, I couldn’t _then_. I was so troubled over you. That’s the time you did hinder me,” he smiled. “Then came your note breaking the engagement. Of course I knew too much to attempt a thing like that portrait then. But now–_now_–!” The pause and the emphasis were eloquent.
“Of course, _now_,” nodded Billy, brightly, but a little feverishly. “And when do you begin?”
“Not till January. Miss Winthrop won’t be back till then. I saw J. G. last week, and I told him I’d accept his offer to try again.”
“What did he say?”
“He gave my left hand a big grip and said: `Good!–and you’ll win out this time.’ ”
“Of course you will,” nodded Billy, again, though still a little feverishly. “And this time I sha’n’t mind a bit if you do stay to luncheon, and break engagements with me, sir,” she went on, tilting her chin archly, “for I shall know it’s the portrait and not the sitter that’s really keeping you. Oh, you’ll see what a fine artist’s wife I’ll make!”
“The very best,” declared Bertram so ardently that Billy blushed, and shook her head in reproof.
“Nonsense! I wasn’t fishing. I didn’t mean it that way,” she protested. Then, as he tried to catch her, she laughed and danced teasingly out of his reach.
Because Bertram could not paint, therefore, Billy had him quite to herself these October days; nor did she hesitate to appropriate him. Neither, on his part, was Bertram loath to be appropriated. Like two lovers they read and walked and talked together, and like two children, sometimes, they romped through the stately old rooms with Spunkie, or with Tommy Dunn, who was a frequent guest. Spunkie, be it known, was renewing her kittenhood, so potent was the influence of the dangling strings and rolling balls that she encountered everywhere; and Tommy Dunn, with Billy’s help, was learning that not even a pair of crutches need keep a lonely little lad from a frolic. Even William, roused from his after- dinner doze by peals of laughter, was sometimes inveigled into activities that left him breathless, but curiously aglow. While Pete, polishing silver in the dining-room down-stairs, smiled indulgently at the merry clatter above–and forgot
the teasing pain in his side.
But it was not all nonsense with Billy, nor gay laughter. More often it was a tender glow in the eyes, a softness in the voice, a radiant something like an aura of joy all about her, that told how happy indeed were these days for her. There was proof by word of mouth, too–long talks with Bertram in the dancing firelight when they laid dear plans for the future, and when she tried so hard to make her husband understand what a good, good wife she intended to be, and how she meant never to let anything come between them.
It was so earnest and serious a Billy by this time that Bertram would turn startled, dismayed eyes on his young wife; whereupon, with a very Billy-like change of mood, she would give him one of her rare caresses, and perhaps sigh:
“Goosey–it’s only because I’m so happy, happy, happy! Why, Bertram, if it weren’t for that Overflow Annex I believe I–I just couldn’t live!
It was Bertram who sighed then, and who prayed fervently in his heart that never might he see a real shadow cloud that dear face.
Thus far, certainly, the cares of matrimony had rested anything but heavily upon the shapely young shoulders of the new wife. Domestic affairs at the Strata moved like a piece of well-oiled machinery. Dong Ling, to be sure, was not there; but in his place reigned Pete’s grandniece, a fresh- faced, capable young woman who (Bertram
declared) cooked like an angel and minded her own business like a man. Pete, as of yore, had full charge of the house; and a casual eye would see few changes. Even the brothers themselves saw few, for that matter.
True, at the very first, Billy had donned a ruffled apron and a bewitching dust-cap, and had traversed the house from cellar to garret with a prettily important air of “managing things,” as she suggested changes right and left. She had summoned Pete, too, for three mornings in succession, and with great dignity had ordered the meals for the day. But when Bertram was
discovered one evening tugging back his favorite chair, and when William had asked if Billy were through using his pipe-tray, the young wife had concluded to let things remain about as they were. And when William ate no breakfast one morning, and Bertram aggrievedly refused dessert that night at dinner, Billy–learning through an apologetic Pete that Master William always had to have eggs for breakfast no matter what else there was, and that Master Bertram never ate boiled rice–gave up planning the meals. True, for three more mornings she summoned Pete for “orders,” but the orders were nothing more nor less than a blithe “Well, Pete, what are we going to have for dinner to-day?” By the end of a week even this ceremony was given up, and before a month had passed, Billy was little more than a guest in her own home, so far as
responsibility was concerned.
Billy was not idle, however; far from it. First, there were the delightful hours with Bertram. Then there was her music: Billy was writing a new song–the best she had ever written, Billy declared.
“Why, Bertram, it can’t help being that,” she said to her husband, one day. “The words just sang themselves to me right out of my heart; and the melody just dropped down from the sky. And now, everywhere, I’m hearing the most wonderful harmonies. The whole universe is singing to me. If only now I can put it on paper what I hear! Then I can make the whole
universe sing to some one else!”
Even music, however, had to step one side for the wedding calls which were beginning to be received, and which must be returned, in spite of the occasional rebellion of the young husband. There were the more intimate friends to be seen, also, and Cyril and Marie to be visited. And always there was the Annex.
The Annex was in fine running order now, and was a source of infinite satisfaction to its founder and great happiness to its beneficiaries. Tommy Dunn was there, learning wonderful things from books and still more wonderful things from the piano in the living-room. Alice Greggory and her mother were there, too–the result of much persuasion. Indeed, according to Bertram, Billy had been able to fill the Annex only by telling each prospective resident that he or she was absolutely necessary to the welfare and happiness of every other resident. Not that the house was full, either. There were still two unoccupied rooms.
“But then, I’m glad there are,” Billy had declared, “for there’s sure to be some one that I’ll want to send there.”
“Some _one_, did you say?” Bertram had retorted, meaningly; but his wife had disdained to answer this.
Billy herself was frequently at the Annex. She told Aunt Hannah that she had to come often to bring the happiness–it accumulated so fast. Certainly she always found plenty to do there, whenever she came. There was Aunt Hannah to be read to, Mrs. Greggory to be sung to, and Tommy Dunn to be listened to; for Tommy
Dunn was always quivering with eagerness to play her his latest “piece.”
Billy knew that some day at the Annex she would meet Mr. M. J. Arkwright; and she told herself that she hoped she should.
Billy had not seen Arkwright (except on the stage of the Boston Opera House) since the day he had left her presence in white-faced, stony- eyed misery after declaring his love for her, and learning of her engagement to Bertram. Since then, she knew, he had been much with his old friend, Alice Greggory. She did not believe, should she see him now, that he would be either white-faced, or stony-eyed. His heart, she was sure, had gone where it ought to have gone in the first place–to Alice. Such being, in her opinion, the case, she longed to get the embarrassment of a first meeting between themselves over with, for, after that, she was sure, their old friendship could be renewed, and she would be in a position to further this pretty love affair between him and Alice. Very decidedly, therefore, Billy wished to meet Arkwright. Very pleased, consequently, was she when, one day, coming into the
living-room at the Annex, she found the man sitting by the fire.
Arkwright was on his feet at once.
“Miss–Mrs. H–Henshaw,” he stammered
“Oh, Mr. Arkwright,” she cried, with just a shade of nervousness in her voice as she advanced, her hand outstretched. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Thank you. I wanted to see Miss Greggory,” he murmured. Then, as the unconscious rudeness of his reply dawned on him, he made matters infinitely worse by an attempted apology. “That is, I mean–I didn’t mean–” he began to stammer miserably.
Some girls might have tossed the floundering man a straw in the shape of a light laugh intended to turn aside all embarrassment–but not Billy. Billy held out a frankly helping hand that was meant to set the man squarely on his feet at her side.
“Mr. Arkwright, don’t, please,” she begged earnestly. “You and I don’t need to beat about the bush. I _am_ glad to see you, and I hope you’re glad to see me. We’re going to be the best of friends from now on, I’m sure; and some day, soon, you’re going to bring Alice to see me, and we’ll have some music. I left her up-stairs. She’ll be down at once, I dare say–I met Rosa going up with your card. Good-by,” she finished with a bright smile, as she turned and walked rapidly from the room.
Outside, on the steps, Billy drew a long breath.
“There,” she whispered; “that’s over–and well over!” The next minute she frowned vexedly. She had missed her glove. “Never mind!
I sha’n’t go back in there for it now, anyway,” she decided.
In the living-room, five minutes later, Alice Greggory found only a hastily scrawled note waiting for her.
“If you’ll forgive the unforgivable,” she read “you’ll forgive me for not being here when you come down. `Circumstances over which I have no control have called me away.’ May we let it go at that?
M. J. ARKWRIGHT.
As Alice Greggory’s amazed, questioning eyes left the note they fell upon the long white glove on the floor by the door. Half mechanically she crossed the room and picked it up; but almost at once she dropped it with a low cry.
“Billy! He–saw–Billy!” Then a flood of understanding dyed her face scarlet as she turned and fled to the blessedly unseeing walls of her own room.
Not ten minutes later Rosa tapped at her door with a note.
“It’s from Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He’s downstairs.” Rosa’s eyes were puzzled, and a bit
startled.
“Mr. Arkwright!”
“Yes, Miss. He’s come again. That is, I didn’t know he’d went–but he must have, for he’s come again now. He wrote something in a little book; then he tore it out and gave it to me. He said he’d wait, please, for an answer.”
“Oh, very well, Rosa.”
Miss Greggory took the note and spoke with an elaborate air of indifference that was meant to express a calm ignoring of the puzzled questioning in the other’s eyes. The next moment she read this in Arkwright’s peculiar scrawl:
“If you’ve already forgiven the unforgivable, you’ll do it again, I know, and come down-stairs. Won’t you, please? I want to see you.”
Miss Greggory lifted her head with a jerk. Her face was a painful red.
“Tell Mr. Arkwright I can’t possibly–” She came to an abrupt pause. Her eyes had encountered Rosa’s, and in Rosa’s eyes the puzzled questioning was plainly fast becoming a shrewd suspicion.
There was the briefest of hesitations; then, lightly, Miss Greggory tossed the note aside.
“Tell Mr. Arkwright I’ll be down at once, please,” she directed carelessly, as she turned back into the room.
But she was not down at once. She was not down until she had taken time to bathe her red eyes, powder her telltale nose, smoothe her ruffled hair, and whip herself into the calm, steady-eyed, self-controlled young woman that Arkwright finally rose to meet when she came into the room.
“I thought it was only women who were privileged to change their mind,” she began brightly; but Arkwright ignored her attempt to conventionalize the situation.
“Thank you for coming down,” he said, with a weariness that instantly drove the forced smile from the girl’s lips. “I–I wanted to–to talk to you.”
“Yes?” She seated herself and motioned him to a chair near her. He took the seat, and then fell silent, his eyes out the window.
“I thought you said you–you wanted to talk, she reminded him nervously, after a minute.
“I did.” He turned with disconcerting abruptness. “Alice, I’m going to tell you a story.”
I shall be glad to listen. People always like stories, don’t they?”
“Do they?” The somber pain in Arkwright’s eyes deepened. Alice Greggory did not know it, but he was thinking of another story he had once told in that same room. Billy was his listener then, while now– A little precipitately he began to speak.
“When I was a very small boy I went to visit my uncle, who, in his young days, had been quite a hunter. Before the fireplace in his library was a huge tiger skin with a particularly lifelike head. The first time I saw it I screamed, and ran and hid. I refused then even to go into the room again. My cousins urged, scolded, pleaded, and laughed at me by turns, but I was obdurate. I would not go where I could see the fearsome thing again, even though it was, as they said, `nothing but a dead old rug!’
“Finally, one day, my uncle took a hand in the matter. By sheer will-power he forced me to go with him straight up to the dreaded creature, and stand by its side. He laid one of my shrinking hands on the beast’s smooth head, and thrust the other one quite into the open red mouth with its gleaming teeth.
“ `You see,’ he said, `there’s absolutely nothing to fear. He can’t possibly hurt you. Just as if you weren’t bigger and finer and stronger in every way than that dead thing on the floor!’
“Then, when he had got me to the point where of my own free will I would walk up and touch the thing, he drew a lesson for me.
“ `Now remember,’ he charged me. `Never run and hide again. Only cowards do that. Walk straight up and face the thing. Ten to one you’ll find it’s nothing but a dead skin masquerading as the real thing. Even if it isn’t if it’s alive–face it. Find a weapon and fight it. Know that you are going to conquer it and you’ll conquer. Never run. Be a man. Men don’t run, my boy!’ ”
Arkwright paused, and drew a long breath. He did not look at the girl in the opposite chair. If he had looked he would have seen a face transfigured.
“Well,” he resumed, “I never forgot that tiger skin, nor what it stood for, after that day when Uncle Ben thrust my hand into its hideous, but harmless, red mouth. Even as a kid I began, then, to try–not to run. I’ve tried ever since But to-day–I did run.”
Arkwright’s voice had been getting lower and lower. The last three words would have been almost inaudible to ears less sensitively alert than were Alice Greggory’s. For a moment after the words were uttered, only the clock’s ticking broke the silence; then, with an obvious effort, the man roused himself, as if breaking away from some benumbing force that held him.
“Alice, I don’t need to tell you, after what I said the other night, that I loved Billy Neilson. That was bad enough, for I found she was pledged to another man. But to-day I discovered something worse: I discovered that I loved Billy _Henshaw_– another man’s wife. And–I ran. But
I’ve come back. I’m going to face the thing. Oh, I’m not deceiving myself! This love of mine is no dead tiger skin. It’s a beast, alive and alert –God pity me!–to destroy my very soul. But I’m going to fight it; and–I want you to help me.”
The girl gave a half-smothered cry. The man turned, but he could not see her face distinctly. Twilight had come, and the room was full of shadows. He hesitated, then went on, a little more quietly.
“That’s why I’ve told you all this–so you would help me. And you will, won’t you?”
There was no answer. Once again he tried to see her face, but it was turned now quite away from him.
“You’ve been a big help already, little girl. Your friendship, your comradeship–they’ve been everything to me. You’re not going to make me do without them–now?”
“No–oh, no!” The answer was low and a little breathless; but he heard it.
“Thank you. I knew you wouldn’t.” He paused, then rose to his feet. When he spoke again his voice carried a note of whimsical lightness that was a little forced. “But I must go– else you _will_ take them from me, and with good reason. And please don’t let your kind heart grieve too much–over me. I’m no deep-dyed villain in a melodrama, nor wicked lover in a ten- penny novel, you know. I’m just an everyday man in real life; and we’re going to fight this thing out in everyday living. That’s where your help is coming in. We’ll go together to see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw. She’s asked us to, and you’ll do it, I know. We’ll have music and everyday talk. We’ll see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw in her own home with her husband, where she belongs; and–I’m not going to run again. But–I’m counting on your help, you know,” he smiled a little wistfully, as he held out his hand in good-by.
One minute later Alice Greggory, alone, was hurrying up-stairs.
“I can’t–I can’t–I know I can’t,” she was whispering wildly. Then, in her own room, she faced herself in the mirror. “Yes–you–can, Alice Greggory,” she asserted, with swift change of voice and manner. “This is _your_ tiger skin, and you’re going to fight it. Do you understand? –fight it! And you’re going to win, too. Do you want that man to know you–_care_?”
CHAPTER VI
“THE PAINTING LOOK”
It was toward the last of October that Billy began to notice her husband’s growing restlessness. Twice, when she had been playing to him, she turned to find him testing the suppleness of his injured arm. Several times, failing to receive an answer to her questions, she had looked up to discover him gazing abstractedly at nothing in particular.
They read and walked and talked together, to be sure, and Bertram’s devotion to her lightest wish was beyond question; but more and more frequently these days Billy found him hovering over his sketches in his studio; and once, when he failed to respond to the dinner-bell, search revealed him buried in a profound treatise on “The Art of Foreshortening.”
Then came the day when Billy, after an hour’s vain effort to imprison within notes a tantalizing melody, captured the truant and rain down to the studio to tell Bertram of her victory.
But Bertram did not seem even to hear her. True, he leaped to his feet and hurried to meet her, his face radiantly aglow; but she had not ceased to speak before he himself was talking.
“Billy, Billy, I’ve been sketching,” he cried. “My hand is almost steady. See, some of those lines are all right! I just picked up a crayon and–” He stopped abruptly, his eyes on Billy’s face. A vaguely troubled shadow crossed his own. “Did–did you–were you saying anything in–in particular, when you came in?” he stammered.
For a short half-minute Billy looked at her husband without speaking. Then, a little queerly, she laughed.
“Oh, no, nothing at all in _particular_,” she retorted airily. The next moment, with one of her unexpected changes of manner, she darted across the room, picked up a palette, and a handful of brushes from the long box near it. Advancing toward her husband she held them out dramatically. “And now paint, my lord, paint!” she
commanded him, with stern insistence, as she thrust them into his hands.
Bertram laughed shamefacedly.
“Oh, I say, Billy,” he began; but Billy had gone.
Out in the hall Billy was speeding up-stairs, talking fiercely to herself.
“We’ll, Billy Neilson Henshaw, it’s come! Now behave yourself. _That was the painting look!_ You know what that means. Remember, he belongs to his Art before he does to you. Kate and everybody says so. And you–you expected him to tend to you and your silly little songs. Do you want to ruin his career? As if now he could spend all his time and give all his thoughts to you! But I–I just hate that Art!”
“What did you say, Billy?” asked William, in mild surprise, coming around the turn of the balustrade in the hall above. “Were you speaking to me, my dear?”
Billy looked up. Her face cleared suddenly, and she laughed–though a little ruefully.
“No, Uncle William, I wasn’t talking to you,” she sighed. “I was just–just administering first aid to the injured,” she finished, as she whisked into her own room.
“Well, well, bless the child! What can she mean by that?” puzzled Uncle William, turning to go down the stairway.
Bertram began to paint a very little the next day. He painted still more the next, and yet more again the day following. He was like a bird let out of a cage, so joyously alive was he. The old sparkle came back to his eye, the old gay smile to his lips. Now that they had come back Billy realized what she had not been conscious of before: that for several weeks past they had not been there; and she wondered which hurt the more–that they had not been there before, or that they were there now. Then she scolded herself roundly for asking the question at all.
They were not easy–those days for Billy, though always to Bertram she managed to show a cheerfully serene face. To Uncle William, also, and to Aunt Hannah she showed a smiling countenance; and because she could not talk to anybody else of her feelings, she talked to herself. This, however, was no new thing for Billy to do From earliest childhood she had fought things out in like manner.
“But it’s so absurd of you, Billy Henshaw,” she berated herself one day, when Bertram had become so absorbed in his work that he had forgotten to keep his appointment with her for a walk. “Just because you have had his constant attention almost every hour since you were married is no reason why you should have it every hour now, when his arm is better! Besides, it’s exactly what you said you wouldn’t do–object– to his giving proper time to his work.”
“But I’m not objecting,” stormed the other half of herself. “I’m _telling_ him to do it. It’s only that he’s so–so _pleased_ to do it. He doesn’t seem to mind a bit being away from me. He’s actually happy!”
“Well, don’t you want him to be happy in his work? Fie! For shame! A fine artist’s wife you are. It seems Kate was right, then; you _are_ going to spoil his career!”
“Ho!” quoth Billy, and tossed her head. Forthwith she crossed the room to her piano and plumped herself down hard on to the stool. Then, from under her fingers there fell a rollicking melody that seemed to fill the room with little dancing feet. Faster and faster sped Billy’s fingers; swifter and swifter twinkled the little dancing feet. Then a door was jerked open, and Bertram’s voice called:
“Billy!”
The music stopped instantly. Billy sprang from her seat, her eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice. Perhaps–_perhaps_ Bertram wanted her. Perhaps he was not
going to paint any longer that morning, after all. “Billy!” called the voice again. “Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while? I’m a brute, I know, dear, but my brush _will_ try to keep time with that crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady, anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig, jiggety, jig, jig–! _Do_ you mind,, darling, just–just sewing, or doing something still for a while?”
All the light fled from Billy’s face, but her voice, when she spoke, was the quintessence of cheery indifference.
“Why, no, of course not, dear.”
“Thank you. I knew you wouldn’t,” sighed Bertram. Then the door shut.
For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch and sped to the telephone.
“Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa?” she called when the operator’s ring was answered.
“Mis’ Greggory, the lame one?”
“No; _Miss_ Greggory–Miss Alice.”
“Oh! Yes’m.”
“Then won’t you ask her to come to the telephone, please.”
There was a moment’s wait, during which Billy’s small, well-shod foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor.
“Oh, is that you, Alice?” she called then. “Are you going to be home for an hour or two?”
“Why, y-yes; yes, indeed.”
“Then I’m coming over. We’ll play duets, sing–anything. I want some music.”
“Do! And–Mr. Arkwright is here. He’ll help.”
“Mr. Arkwright? You say he’s there? Then I won’t– Yes, I will, too.” Billy spoke with renewed firmness. “I’ll be there right away. Good-by.” And she hung up the receiver, and went to tell Pete to order John and Peggy at once.
“I suppose I ought to have left Alice and Mr. Arkwright alone together,” muttered the young wife feverishly, as she hurriedly prepared for departure. “But I’ll make it up to them later. I’m going to give them lots of chances. But to- day–to-day I just had to go–somewhere!”
At the Annex, with Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy sang duets and trios, and reveled in a sonorous wilderness of new music to her heart’s content. Then, rested, refreshed, and at peace with all the world, she hurried home to dinner and to Bertram.
“There! I feel better,” she sighed, as she took off her hat in her own room; “and now I’ll go find Bertram. Bless his heart–of course he didn’t want me to play when he was so busy!”
Billy went straight to the studio, but Bertram was not there. Neither was he in William’s room, nor anywhere in the house. Down-stairs in the dining-room Pete was found looking rather white, leaning back in a chair. He struggled at once to his feet, however, as his mistress entered the room.
Billy hurried forward with a startled exclamation.
“Why, Pete, what is it? Are you sick?” she cried, her glance encompassing the half-set table.
“No, ma’am; oh, no, ma’am!” The old man stumbled forward and began to arrange the knives and forks. “It’s just a pesky pain–beggin’ yer pardon–in my side. But I ain’t sick. No, Miss–ma’am.”
Billy frowned and shook her head. Her eyes were on Pete’s palpably trembling hands.
“But, Pete, you are sick,” she protested. “Let Eliza do that.”
Pete drew himself stiffly erect. The color had begun to come back to his face.
“There hain’t no one set this table much but me for more’n fifty years, an’ I’ve got a sort of notion that nobody can do it just ter suit me. Besides, I’m better now. It’s gone–that pain.”
“But, Pete, what is it? How long have you had it?”
“I hain’t had it any time, steady. It’s the comin’ an’ goin’ kind. It seems silly ter mind it at all; only, when it does come, it sort o’ takes the backbone right out o’ my knees, and they double up so’s I have ter set down. There, ye see? I’m pert as a sparrer, now!” And, with stiff celerity, Pete resumed his task.
His mistress still frowned.
“That isn’t right, Pete,” she demurred, with a slow shake of her head. “You should see a doctor.”
The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little aggressively.
“Humph! Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss–ma’am, but I don’t think much o’ them doctor chaps.”
Billy shook her head again as she smiled and turned away. Then, as if casually, she asked:
“Oh, did Mr. Bertram go out, Pete?”
“Yes, Miss; about five o’clock. He said he’d be back to dinner.”
“Oh! All right.”
From the hall the telephone jangled sharply.
“I’ll go,” said Pete’s mistress, as she turned and hurried up-stairs.
It was Bertram’s voice that answered her opening “Hullo.”
“Oh, Billy, is that you, dear? Well, you’re just the one I wanted. I wanted to say–that is, I wanted to ask you–” The speaker cleared his throat a little nervously, and began all over again. “The fact is, Billy, I’ve run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them. Would you mind–very much if I did?”
A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy’s heart. She caught her breath with a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the words came.
“Why, no–no, of course not!” Billy’s voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful.
“You sure you won’t be–lonesome?” Bertram’s voice was vaguely troubled.
“Of course not!”
“You’ve only to say the word, little girl,” came Bertram’s anxious tones again, “and I won’t stay.”
Billy swallowed convulsively. If only, only he would _stop_ and leave her to herself! As if she were going to own up that _she_ was lonesome for _him_– if _he_ was not lonesome for _her!_
“Nonsense! of course you’ll stay,” called Billy, still in that high-pitched, shaky treble. Then, before Bertram could answer, she uttered a gay “Good-by!” and hung up the receiver.
Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete’s gong sounded for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at her door, and called:
“Gone to sleep, my dear? Dinner’s ready. Didn’t you hear the gong?”
“Yes, I’m coming, Uncle William.” Billy spoke with breezy gayety, and threw open the door; but she did not meet Uncle William’s eyes. Her head was turned away. Her hands were fussing with the hang of her skirt.
“Bertram’s dining out, Pete tells me,” observed William, with cheerful nonchalance, as they went down-stairs together.
Billy bit her lip and looked up sharply. She had been bracing herself to meet with disdainful indifference this man’s pity–the pity due a poor neglected wife whose husband _preferred_ to dine with old classmates rather than with herself. Now she found in William’s face, not pity, but a calm, even jovial, acceptance of the situation as a matter of course. She had known she was going to hate that pity; but now, curiously enough, she was conscious only of anger that the pity was not there–that she might hate it.
She tossed her head a little. So even William –Uncle William–regarded this monstrous thing as an insignificant matter of everyday experience. Maybe he expected it to occur frequently–every night, or so. Doubtless he did expect it to occur every night, or so. Indeed! Very well. As if she were going to show _now_ that she cared whether Bertram were there or not! They should see.
So with head held high and eyes asparkle, Billy marched into the dining-room and took her accustomed place.
CHAPTER VII
THE BIG BAD QUARREL
It was a brilliant dinner–because Billy made it so. At first William met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort. Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his hand shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled. This threatened catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was very grave throughout the rest of the dinner.
Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in spite of the young woman’s gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair before the fire, leaving Billy with only Spunkie for company–Spunkie, who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap.
Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her watch.
Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram to be coming. He had said “dinner”; and, of course, after dinner was over he would be coming home–to her. Very well; she would show him that she had at least got along without him as well as he had without her. At all events he would not find her forlornly sitting with her nose pressed against the window-pane! And forthwith Billy established herself in a big chair (with its back carefully turned toward the door by which Bertram would enter), and opened a book.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Billy fidgeted in her chair, twisted her neck to look out into the hall–and dropped her book with a bang.
Uncle William jerked himself awake, and Spunkie opened sleepy eyes. Then both settled themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked up her book, and flounced back into her chair. But she did not read. Disconsolately she sat staring straight ahead–until a quick step on the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action. Assuming a look of absorbed interest she twitched the book open and held it before her face. . . . But the step passed by the door: and Billy saw then that her book was upside down.
Five, ten, fifteen more minutes passed. Billy still sat, apparently reading, though she had not turned a page. The book now, however, was right side up. One by one other minutes passed till the great clock in the hall struck nine long strokes.
“Well, well, bless my soul!” mumbled Uncle William, resolutely forcing himself to wake up. “What time was that?”
“Nine o’clock.” Billy spoke with tragic distinctness, yet very cheerfully.
“Eh? Only nine?” blinked Uncle William. “I thought it must be ten. Well, anyhow, I believe I’ll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually sleepy.”
Billy said nothing. “ `Only nine,’ indeed!” she was thinking wrathfully.
At the door Uncle William turned.
“You’re not going to sit up, my dear, of course,” he remarked.
For the second time that evening a cold hand seemed to clutch Billy’s heart.
_Sit up!_ Had it come already to that? Was she even now a wife who had need to _sit up_ for her husband?
“I really wouldn’t, my dear,” advised Uncle William again. “Good night.”
“Oh, but I’m not sleepy at all, yet,” Billy managed to declare brightly. “Good night.”
Then Uncle William went up-stairs.
Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William’s on “Fake Antiques.”
“ `To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the utmost care and discrimination,’ ” read Billy’s eyes. “So Uncle William _expected_ Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay to dinner!” ran Billy’s thoughts. “ `The enormous quantity of bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, is made on the Continent–and made chiefly for the American trade,’ ” continued the book.
“Well, who cares if it is,” snapped Billy, springing to her feet and tossing the volume aside. “Spunkie, come here! You’ve simply got to play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay –_gay_–GAY! He’s gay. He’s down there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he’d _rather_ be than be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over a stupid old book? Not much! I’m going to have him find me gay, too. Now, come, Spunkie; hurry–wake up! He’ll be here right away, I’m sure.” And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls, full in Spunkie’s face.
But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie would not play. She pretended to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling balls. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in her big yellow eyes. Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet, and Spunkie’s sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort. Spunkie was asleep.
Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.
“And you, too, Spunkie,” she murmured. Then she got to her feet and went back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn the leaves very fast, one after another.
Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get Spunkie, and to see that everything was all right for the night.
“Mr. Bertram is not in yet?” he began doubtfully.
Billy shook her head with a bright smile.
“No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every minute. Good night.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Good night.”
The old man picked up the sleepy cat and went down-stairs. A little later Billy heard his quiet steps coming back through the hall and ascending the stairs. She listened until from away at the top of the house she heard his door close. Then she drew a long breath.
Ten o’clock–after ten o’clock, and Bertram not there yet! And was this what he called dinner? Did one eat, then, till ten o’clock, when one dined with one’s friends?
Billy was angry now–very angry. She was too angry to be reasonable. This thing that her husband had done seemed monstrous to her, smarting, as she was, under the sting of hurt pride and grieved loneliness–the state of mind into which she had worked herself. No longer now did she wish to be gay when her husband came. No longer did she even pretend to assume indifference. Bertram had done wrong. He had been unkind, cruel, thoughtless, inconsiderate of her comfort and happiness. Furthermore he _did not_ love her as well as she did him or he never, never could have done it! She would let him see, when he came, just how hurt and grieved she was –and how disappointed, too.
Billy was walking the floor now, back and forth, back and forth.
Half-past ten came, then eleven. As the eleven long strokes reverberated through the silent house Billy drew in her breath and held it suspended. A new look came to her eyes. A growing
terror crept into them and culminated in a frightened stare at the clock.
Billy ran then to the great outer door and pulled it open. A cold wind stung her face, and caused her to shut the door quickly. Back and forth she began to pace the floor again; but in five minutes she had run to the door once more. This time she wore a heavy coat of Bertram’s which she caught up as she passed the hall-rack.
Out on to the broad top step Billy hurried, and peered down the street. As far as she could see not a person was in sight. Across the street in the Public Garden the wind stirred the gray tree-branches and set them to casting weird shadows on the bare, frozen ground. A warning something behind her sent Billy scurrying into the house just in time to prevent the heavy door’s closing and shutting her out, keyless, in the cold.
Half-past eleven came, and again Billy ran to the door. This time she put the floor-mat against the casing so that the door could not close. Once more she peered wildly up and down the street, and across into the deserted, wind-swept Garden.
There was only terror now in Billy’s face. The anger was all gone. In Billy’s mind there was not a shadow of doubt–something had happened to Bertram.
Bertram was ill–hurt–dead! And he was so good, so kind, so noble; such a dear, dear husband! If only she could see him once. If only she could ask his forgiveness for those wicked, unkind, accusing thoughts. If only she could tell him again that she did love him. If only–
Far down the street a step rang sharply on the frosty air. A masculine figure was hurrying toward the house. Retreating well into the shadow of the doorway, Billy watched it, her heart pounding against her side in great suffocating throbs. Nearer and nearer strode the approaching figure until Billy had almost sprung to meet it with a glad cry–almost, but not quite; for the figure neither turned nor paused, but marched straight on–and Billy saw then, under the arc light, a brown-bearded man who was not Bertram at all.
Three times during the next few minutes did the waiting little bride on the doorstep watch with palpitating yearning a shadowy form appear, approach–and pass by. At the third
heart-breaking disappointment, Billy wrung her hands helplessly.
“I don’t see how there can be–so many– utterly _useless_ people in the world!” she choked. Then, thoroughly chilled and sick at heart, she went into the house and closed the door.
Once again, back and forth, back and forth, Billy took up her weary vigil. She still wore the heavy coat. She had forgotten to take it off. Her face was pitifully white and drawn. Her eyes were wild. One of her hands was nervously caressing the rough sleeve of the coat as it hung from her shoulder.
One–two–three–
Billy gave a sharp cry and ran into the hall.
Yes, it was twelve o’clock. And now, always, all the rest of the dreary, useless hours that that clock would tick away through an endless existence, she would have to live–without Bertram. If only she could see him once more! But she could not. He was dead. He must be dead, now. Here it was twelve o’clock, and–
There came a quick step, the click of a key in the lock, then the door swung back and Bertram, big, strong, and merry-eyed, stood before her.
“Well, well, hullo,” he called jovially. Why, Billy, what’s the matter?” he broke off, in quite a different tone of voice.
And then a curious thing happened. Billy, who, a minute before, had been seeing only a dear, noble, adorable, _lost_ Bertram, saw now suddenly only the man that had stayed _happily_ till midnight with two friends, while she–she–
“Matter! Matter!” exclaimed Billy sharply, then. “Is this what you call staying to dinner, Bertram Henshaw?”
Bertram stared. A slow red stole to his forehead. It was his first experience of coming home to meet angry eyes that questioned his behavior –and he did not like it. He had been, perhaps, a little conscience-smitten when he saw how late he had stayed; and he had intended to say he was sorry, of course. But to be thus sharply called to account for a perfectly innocent good time with a couple of friends–! To come home and find Billy making a ridiculous scene like this–! He–he would not stand for it! He–
Bertram’s lips snapped open. The angry retort was almost spoken when something in the piteously quivering chin and white, drawn face opposite stopped it just in time.
“Why, Billy–darling!” he murmured instead.
It was Billy’s turn to change. All the anger melted away before the dismayed tenderness in those dear eyes and the grieved hurt in that dear voice.
“Well, you–you–I–” Billy began to cry.
It was all right then, of course, for the next minute she was crying on Bertram’s big, broad shoulder; and in the midst of broken words, kisses, gentle pats, and inarticulate croonings, the Big, Bad Quarrel, that had been all ready to materialize, faded quite away into nothingness.
“I didn’t have such an awfully good time, anyhow, avowed Bertram, when speech became
rational. “I’d rather have been home with you.”
“Nonsense!” blinked Billy, valiantly. “Of course you had a good time; and it was perfectly right you should have it, too! And I–I hope you’ll have it again.”
“I sha’n’t,” emphasized Bertram, promptly, “–not and leave you!”
Billy regarded him with adoring eyes.
“I’ll tell you; we’ll have ’em come here,” she proposed gayly.
“Sure we will,” agreed Bertram.
“Yes; sure we will,” echoed Billy, with a contented sigh. Then, a little breathlessly, she added: “Anyhow, I’ll know–where you are. I won’t think you’re–dead!”
“You–blessed–little-goose!” scolded Bertram, punctuating each word with a kiss.
Billy drew a long sigh.
“If this is a quarrel I’m going to have them often,” she announced placidly.
“Billy!” The young husband was plainly aghast.
“Well, I am–because I like the making-up, dimpled Billy, with a mischievous twinkle as she broke from his clasp and skipped ahead up the stairway.
CHAPTER VIII
BILLY CULTIVATES A “COMFORTABLE INDIFFERENCE”
The next morning, under the uncompromising challenge of a bright sun, Billy began to be uneasily suspicious that she had been just a bit unreasonable and exacting the night before. To make matters worse she chanced to run across a newspaper criticism of a new book bearing the ominous title: “When the Honeymoon Wanes A Talk to Young Wives.”
Such a title, of course, attracted her supersensitive attention at once; and, with a curiously faint feeling, she picked up the paper and began to read.
As the most of the criticism was taken up with quotations from the book, it was such sentences as these that met her startled eyes:
“Perhaps the first test comes when the young wife awakes to the realization that while her husband loves her very much, he can still make
plans with his old friends which do not include herself. . . . Then is when the foolish wife lets her husband see how hurt she is that he can want to be with any one but herself. . . . Then is when the husband–used all his life to independence, perhaps–begins to chafe under these new bonds that hold him so fast. . . . No man likes to be held up at the end of a threatened scene and made to give an account of himself. . . . Before a woman has learned to cultivate a comfortable indifference to her husband’s comings and goings, she is apt to be tyrannical and exacting.”
“ `Comfortable indifference,’ indeed!” stormed Billy to herself. “As if I ever could be comfortably indifferent to anything Bertram did!”
She dropped the paper; but there were still other quotations from the book there, she knew; and in a moment she was back at the table reading them.
“No man, however fondly he loves his wife, likes to feel that she is everlastingly peering into the recesses of his mind, and weighing his every act to find out if he does or does not love her to- day as well as he did yesterday at this time. . . . Then, when spontaneity is dead, she is the chief mourner at its funeral. . . . A few couples never leave the Garden of Eden. They grow old hand in hand. They are the ones who bear and forbear; who have learned to adjust themselves to the intimate relationship of living together. . . . A certain amount of liberty, both of action and thought, must be allowed on each side. . . . The family shut in upon itself grows so narrow that all interest in the outside world is lost. . . . No two people are ever fitted to fill each other’s lives entirely. They ought not to try to do it. If they do try, the process is belittling to each, and the result, if it is successful, is nothing less than a tragedy; for it could not mean the highest ideals, nor the truest devotion. . . . Brushing up against other interests and other personalities is good for both husband and wife. Then to each other they bring the best of what they have found, and each to the other continues to be new and interesting. . . . The young wife, however, is apt to be jealous of everything that turns her husband’s attention for one moment away from herself. She is jealous of his thoughts, his words, his friends, even his business. . . . But the wife who has learned to be the clinging vine when her husband wishes her to cling, and to be the sturdy oak when clinging vines would be tiresome, has solved a tremendous problem.”
At this point Billy dropped the paper. She flung it down, indeed, a bit angrily. There were still a few more words in the criticism, mostly the critic’s own opinion of the book; but Billy did not care for this. She had read quite enough– boo much, in fact. All that sort of talk might be very well, even necessary, perhaps (she told herself), for ordinary husbands and wives! but for her and Bertram–
Then vividly before her rose those initial quoted words:
“Perhaps the first test comes when the young wife awakes to the realization that while her husband loves her very much, he can still make
plans with his old friends which do not include herself.”
Billy frowned, and put her finger to her lips. Was that then, last night, a “test”? Had she been “tyrannical and exacting”? Was she “everlastingly peering into the recesses” of Bertram’s mind and “weighing his every act”?
Was Bertram already beginning to “chafe” under these new bonds that held him?
No, no, never that! She could not believe that. But what if he should sometime begin to chafe? What if they two should, in days to come, degenerate into just the ordinary, everyday married folk, whom she saw about her everywhere, and for whom just such horrid books as this must be written? It was unbelievable, unthinkable. And yet, that man had said–
With a despairing sigh Billy picked up the paper once more and read carefully every word again. When she had finished she stood soberly thoughtful, her eyes out of the window.
After all, it was nothing but the same old story. She was exacting. She did want her husband’s every thought. She _gloried_ in peering into every last recess of his mind if she had half a chance. She was jealous of his work. She had almost hated his painting–at times. She had held him up with a threatened scene only the night before and demanded that he should give an account of himself. She had, very likely, been the clinging vine when she should have been the sturdy oak.
Very well, then. (Billy lifted her head and threw back her shoulders.) He should have no further cause for complaint. She would be an oak. She would cultivate that comfortable indifference to his comings and goings. She would brush up against other interests and personalities so as to be “new” and “interesting” to her husband. She would not be tyrannical, exacting, or jealous. She would not threaten scenes, nor peer into recesses. Whatever happened, she would not let Bertram begin to chafe against those bonds!
Having arrived at this heroic and (to her) eminently satisfactory state of mind, Billy turned from the window and fell to work on a piece of manuscript music.
“ `Brush up against other interests,’ ” she admonished herself sternly, as she reached for her pen.
Theoretically it was beautiful; but practically–
Billy began at once to be that oak. Not an hour after she had first seen the fateful notice of “When the Honeymoon Wanes,” Bertram’s ring sounded at the door down-stairs.
Bertram always let himself in with his latchkey; but, from the first of Billy’s being there, he had given a peculiar ring at the bell which would bring his wife flying to welcome him if she were anywhere in the house. To-day, when the bell sounded, Billy sprang as usual to her feet, with a joyous “There’s Bertram!” But the next moment she fell back.
“Tut, tut, Billy Neilson Henshaw! Learn to cultivate a comfortable indifference to your husband’s comings and goings,” she whispered fiercely. Then she sat down and fell to work again.
A moment later she heard her husband’s voice talking to some one–Pete, she surmised. “Here? You say she’s here?” Then she heard Bertram’s quick step on the stairs. The next minute, very quietly, he came to her door.
“Ho!” he ejaculated gayly, as she rose to receive his kiss. “I thought I’d find you asleep, when you didn’t hear my ring.”
Billy reddened a little.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t asleep.”
“But you didn’t hear–” Bertram stopped abruptly, an odd look in his eyes. “Maybe you did hear it, though,” he corrected.
Billy colored more confusedly. The fact that she looked so distressed did not tend to clear Bertram’s face.
“Why, of course, Billy, I didn’t mean to insist on your coming to meet me,” he began a little stiffly; but Billy interrupted him.
“Why, Bertram, I just love to go to meet you,” she maintained indignantly. Then, remembering just in time, she amended: “That is, I did love to meet you, until–” With a sudden realization that she certainly had not helped matters any, she came to an embarrassed pause.
A puzzled frown showed on Bertram’s face.
“You did love to meet me until–” he repeated after her; then his face changed. “Billy, you aren’t–you _can’t_ be laying up last night against me!” he reproached her a little irritably.
“Last night? Why, of course not,” retorted Billy, in a panic at the bare mention of the “test” which–according to “When the Honeymoon Wanes”–was at the root of all her misery. Already she thought she detected in Bertram’s voice signs that he was beginning to chafe against those “bonds.” “It is a matter of– of the utmost indifference to me what time you come home at night, my dear,” she finished airily, as she sat down to her work again.
Bertram stared; then he frowned, turned on his heel and left the room. Bertram, who knew nothing of the “Talk to Young Wives” in the newspaper at Billy’s feet, was surprised, puzzled, and just a bit angry.
Billy, left alone, jabbed her pen with such force against her paper that the note she was making became an unsightly blot.
“Well, if this is what that man calls being `comfortably indifferent,’ I’d hate to try the _un_comfortable kind,” she muttered with emphasis.
CHAPTER IX
THE DINNER BILLY TRIED TO GET
Notwithstanding what Billy was disposed to regard as the non-success of her first attempt to profit by the “Talk to Young Wives;” she still frantically tried to avert the waning of her honeymoon. Assiduously she cultivated the prescribed “indifference,” and with at least apparent enthusiasm she sought the much-to-be-desired “outside interests.” That is, she did all this when she thought of it when something reminded her of the sword of destruction hanging over her happiness. At other times, when she was just being happy without question, she was her old self impulsive, affectionate, and altogether adorable.
Naturally, under these circumstances, her conduct was somewhat erratic. For three days, perhaps, she would fly to the door at her husband’s ring, and hang upon his every movement. Then, for the next three, she would be a veritable will-o’- the-wisp for elusiveness, caring, apparently, not one whit whether her husband came or went until poor Bertram, at his wit’s end, scourged himself with a merciless catechism as to what he had done to vex her. Then, perhaps, just when he had nerved himself almost to the point of asking her what was the trouble, there would come another change, bringing back to him the old Billy, joyous, winsome, and devoted, plainly caring nothing for anybody or anything but himself. Scarcely, however, would he become sure that it was his Billy back again before she was off once more, quite beyond his reach, singing with Arkwright and Alice Greggory, playing with Tommy Dunn, plunging into some club or church work–anything but being with him.
That all this was puzzling and disquieting to Bertram, Billy not once suspected. Billy, so far as she was concerned, was but cultivating a comfortable indifference, brushing up against outside interests, and being an oak.
December passed, and January came, bringing Miss Marguerite Winthrop to her Boston home. Bertram’s arm was “as good as ever” now, according to its owner; and the sittings for the new portrait began at once. This left Billy even more to her own devices, for Bertram entered into his new work with an enthusiasm born of a glad relief from forced idleness, and a consuming eagerness to prove that even though he had failed the first time, he could paint a portrait of Marguerite Winthrop that would be a credit to himself, a conclusive retort to his critics, and a source of pride to his once mortified friends. With his whole heart, therefore, he threw himself into the work before him, staying sometimes well into the afternoon on the days Miss Winthrop could find time between her social engagements to give him a sitting.
It was on such a day, toward the middle of the month, that Billy was called to the telephone at half-past twelve o’clock to speak to her husband.
“Billy, dear,” began Bertram at once, “if you don’t mind I’m staying to luncheon at Miss Winthrop’s kind request. We’ve changed the pose–
neither of us was satisfied, you know–but we haven’t quite settled on the new one. Miss Winthrop has two whole hours this afternoon that she can give me if I’ll stay; and, of course, under the circumstances, I want to do it.”
“Of course,” echoed Billy. Billy’s voice was indomitably cheerful.
“Thank you, dear. I knew you’d understand,” sighed Bertram, contentedly. “You see, really, two whole hours, so–it’s a chance I can’t afford to lose.”
“Of course you can’t,” echoed Billy, again.
“All right then. Good-by till to-night,” called the man.
“Good-by,” answered Billy, still cheerfully. As she turned away, however, she tossed her head. “A new pose, indeed!” she muttered, with some asperity. “Just as if there could be a _new_ pose after all those she tried last year!”
Immediately after luncheon Pete and Eliza started for South Boston to pay a visit to Eliza’s mother, and it was soon after they left the house that Bertram called his wife up again.
“Say, dearie, I forgot to tell you,” he began, “but I met an old friend in the subway this morning, and I–well, I remembered what you said about bringing ’em home to dinner next time, so I asked him for to-night. Do you mind? It’s–”
“Mind? Of course not! I’m glad you did,” plunged in Billy, with feverish eagerness. (Even now, just the bare mention of anything connected with that awful “test” night was enough to set Billy’s nerves to tingling.) “I want you to always bring them home, Bertram.”
“All right, dear. We’ll be there at six o’clock then. It’s–it’s Calderwell, this time. You remember Calderwell, of course.”
“Not–_Hugh_ Calderwell?” Billy’s question was a little faint.
“Sure!” Bertram laughed oddly, and lowered his voice. “I suspect _once_ I wouldn’t have brought him home to you. I was too jealous. But now–well, now maybe I want him to see what he’s lost.”
“_Bertram!_”
But Bertram only laughed mischievously, and called a gay “Good-by till to-night, then!”
Billy, at her end of the wires, hung up the receiver and backed against the wall a little palpitatingly.
Calderwell! To dinner–Calderwell! Did she remember Calderwell? Did she, indeed! As if one could easily forget the man that, for a year or two, had proposed marriage as regularly (and almost as lightly!) as he had torn a monthly leaf from his calendar! Besides, was it not he, too, who had said that Bertram would never love any girl, _really_; that it would be only the tilt of her chin or the turn of her head that he loved–to paint? And now he was coming to dinner–and with Bertram.
Very well, he should see! He should see that Bertram _did_ love her; _her_–not the tilt of her chin nor the turn of her head. He should see how happy they were, what a good wife she made, and how devoted and _satisfied_ Bertram was in his home. He should see! And forthwith Billy picked up her skirts and tripped up-stairs to select her very prettiest house-gown to do honor to the occasion. Up-stairs, however, one thing and another delayed her, so that it was four o’clock when she turned her attention to her toilet; and it was while she was hesitating whether to be stately and impressive in royally sumptuous blue velvet and ermine, or cozy and tantalizingly homy{sic} in bronze-gold cr
that the telephone bell rang again.
Eliza and Pete had not yet returned; so, as before, Billy answered it. This time Eliza’s shaking voice came to her.
“Is that you, ma’am?”
“Why, yes, Eliza?”
“Yes’m, it’s me, ma’am. It’s about Uncle Pete. He’s give us a turn that’s ‘most scared us out of our wits.”
“Pete! You mean he’s sick?”
“Yes, ma’am, he was. That is, he is, too– only he’s better, now, thank goodness,” panted Eliza. “But he ain’t hisself yet. He’s that white and shaky! Would you–could you–that is, would you mind if we didn’t come back till into the evenin’, maybe?”
“Why, of course not,” cried Pete’s mistress, quickly. “Don’t come a minute before he’s able, Eliza. Don’t come until to-morrow.”
Eliza gave a trembling little laugh.
“Thank you, ma’am; but there wouldn’t be no keepin’ of Uncle Pete here till then. If he could take five steps alone he’d start now. But he can’t. He says he’ll be all right pretty quick, though. He’s had ’em before–these spells– but never quite so bad as this, I guess; an’ he’s worryin’ somethin’ turrible ’cause he can’t start for home right away.”
“Nonsense!” cut in Mrs. Bertram Henshaw.
“Yes’m. I knew you’d feel that way,” stammered Eliza, gratefully. “You see, I couldn’t leave him to come alone, and besides, anyhow, I’d have to stay, for mother ain’t no more use than a wet dish-rag at such times, she’s that scared herself. And she ain’t very well, too. So if–if you _could_ get along–”
“Of course we can! And tell Pete not to worry one bit. I’m so sorry he’s sick!”
“Thank you, ma’am. Then we’ll be there some time this evenin’,” sighed Eliza.
From the telephone Billy turned away with a troubled face.
“Pete _is_ ill,” she was saying to herself. “I don’t like the looks of it; and he’s so faithful he’d come if–” With a little cry Billy stopped short. Then, tremblingly, she sank into the nearest chair. “Calderwell–and he’s coming to _dinner!_” she moaned.
For two benumbed minutes Billy sat staring at nothing. Then she ran to the telephone and called the Annex.
Aunt Hannah answered.
“Aunt Hannah, for heaven’s sake, if you love me,” pleaded Billy, “send Rosa down instanter! Pete is sick over to South Boston, and Eliza is with him; and Bertram is bringing Hugh Calderwell home to dinner. _Can_ you spare Rosa?”
“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! Of course I can–I mean I could–but Rosa isn’t here, dear child! It’s her day out, you know.”
“O dear, of course it is! I might have known, if I’d thought; but Pete and Eliza have spoiled me. They never take days out at meal time– both together, I mean–until to-night.”
“But, my dear child, what will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to think. I _must_ do something!”
“Of course you must! I’d come over myself if it wasn’t for my cold.”
“As if I’d let you!”
“There isn’t anybody here, only Tommy. Even Alice is gone. Oh, Billy, Billy, this only goes to prove what I’ve always said, that _no_ woman _ought_ to be a wife until she’s an efficient housekeeper; and–”
“Yes, yes, Aunt Hannah, I know,” moaned Billy, frenziedly. “But I am a wife, and I’m not an efficient housekeeper; and Hugh Calderwell won’t wait for me to learn. He’s coming to-night. _To-night!_ And I’ve got to do something. Never mind. I’ll fix it some way. Good-by!”
“But, Billy, Billy! Oh, my grief and conscience,” fluttered Aunt Hannah’s voice across
the wires as Billy snapped the receiver into place.
For the second time that day Billy backed palpitatingly against the wall. Her eyes sought the clock fearfully.
Fifteen minutes past four. She had an hour and three quarters. She could, of course, telephone Bertram to dine Calderwell at a club or some hotel. But to do this now, the very first time, when it had been her own suggestion that he “bring them home”–no, no, she could not do that! Anything but that! Besides, very likely she could not reach Bertram, anyway. Doubtless he had left the Winthrops’ by this time.
There was Marie. She could telephone Marie. But Marie could not very well come just now, she knew; and then, too, there was Cyril to be taken into consideration. How Cyril would gibe at the wife who had to call in all the neighbors just because her husband was bringing home a friend to dinner! How he would– Well, he shouldn’t! He should not have the chance. So, there!
With a jerk Mrs. Bertram Henshaw pulled herself away from the wall and stood erect. Her eyes snapped, and the very poise of her chin spelled determination.
Very well, she would show them. Was not Bertram bringing this man home because he was proud of her? Mighty proud he would be if she had to call in half of Boston to get his dinner for him! Nonsense! She would get it herself. Was not this the time, if ever, to be an oak? A vine, doubtless, would lean and cling and telephone, and whine “I can’t!” But not an oak. An oak would hold up its head and say “I can!” An oak would go ahead and get that dinner. She would be an oak. She would get that dinner.
What if she didn’t know how to cook bread and cake and pies and things? One did not have to cook bread and cake and pies just to get a dinner –meat and potatoes and vegetables! Besides, she _could_ make peach fritters. She knew she could. She would show them!
And with actually a bit of song on her lips, Billy skipped up-stairs for her ruffled apron and dust- cap–two necessary accompaniments to this dinner-getting, in her opinion.
Billy found the apron and dust-cap with no