“Then I think–I’ll–go,” breathed Billy, tremulously, plainly showing what a momentous concession she thought she was making. “I do love `Romeo and Juliet,’ and I haven’t seen it for ages!”
“Good! Then I’ll find out about the tickets,” cried Bertram, so elated at the prospect of having an old-time evening out with his wife that even the half-hourly telephones did not seem too great a price to pay.
When the time came, they were a little late in starting. Baby was fretful, and though Billy usually laid him in his crib and unhesitatingly left the room, insisting that he should go to sleep by himself in accordance with the most approved rules in her Scientific Training; yet to-night she could not bring herself to the point of leaving the house until he was quiet. Hurried as they were when they did start, Billy was conscious of Bertram’s frowning disapproval of her frock.
“You don’t like it, of course, dear, and I don’t blame you,” she smiled remorsefully.
“Oh, I like it–that is, I did, when it was new,” rejoined her husband, with apologetic frankness. “But, dear, didn’t you have anything else? This looks almost–well, mussy,
you know.”
“No–well, yes, maybe there were others,” admitted Billy; “but this was the quickest and easiest to get into, and it all came just as I was getting Baby ready for bed, you know. I am a fright, though, I’ll acknowledge, so far as clothes go. I haven’t had time to get a thing since Baby came. I must get something right away, I suppose.”
“Yes, indeed,” declared Bertram, with emphasis, hurrying his wife into the waiting automobile.
Billy had to apologize again at the theater, for the curtain had already risen on the ancient quarrel between the houses of Capulet and Montague, and Billy knew her husband’s special abhorrence of tardy arrivals. Later, though, when well established in their seats, Billy’s mind was plainly not with the players on the stage.
“Do you suppose Baby _is_ all right?” she whispered, after a time.
“Sh-h! Of course he is, dear!”
There was a brief silence, during which Billy peered at her program in the semi-darkness. Then she nudged her husband’s arm ecstatically.
“Bertram, I couldn’t have chosen a better play if I’d tried. There are _five_ acts! I’d forgotten there were so many. That means you can
telephone four times!”
“Yes, dear.” Bertram’s voice was sternly cheerful.
“You must be sure they tell you exactly how Baby is.”
“All right, dear. Sh-h! Here’s Romeo.”
Billy subsided. She even clapped a little in spasmodic enthusiasm. Presently she peered at her program again.
“There wouldn’t be time, I suppose, to telephone between the scenes,” she hazarded wistfully. “There are sixteen of those!”
“Well, hardly! Billy, you aren’t paying one bit of attention to the play!”
“Why, of course I am,” whispered Billy, indignantly. “I think it’s perfectly lovely, and I’m perfectly contented, too–since I found out about those five acts, and as long as I _can’t_ have the sixteen scenes,” she added, settling back in her seat.
As if to prove that she was interested in the play, her next whisper, some time later, had to do with one of the characters on the stage.
“Who’s that–the nurse? Mercy! We
wouldn’t want her for Baby, would we?”
In spite of himself Bertram chuckled this time. Billy, too, laughed at herself. Then, resolutely, she settled into her seat again.
The curtain was not fairly down on the first act before Billy had laid an urgent hand on her husband’s arm.
“Now, remember; ask if he’s waked up, or anything,” she directed. “And be sure to say I’ll come right home if they need me. Now hurry.”
“Yes, dear.” Bertram rose with alacrity. “I’ll be back right away.”
“Oh, but I don’t want you to hurry _too_ much,” she called after him, softly. “I want you to take plenty of time to ask questions.”
“All right,” nodded Bertram, with a quizzical smile, as he turned away.
Obediently Bertram asked all the question she could think of, then came back to his wife. There was nothing in his report that even Billy could disapprove of, or worry about; and with almost a contented look on her face she turned toward the stage as the curtain went up on the second act.
“I love this balcony scene,” she sighed happily.
Romeo, however, had not half finished his impassioned love-making when Billy clutched her husband’s arm almost fiercely.
“Bertram,” she fairly hissed in a tragic whisper, “I’ve just happened to think! Won’t it be awful when Baby falls in love? I know I shall just hate that girl for taking him away from me!”
“Sh-h! _Billy!_” expostulated her husband, choking with half-stifled laughter. “That woman in front heard you, I know she did!”
“Well, I shall,” sighed Billy, mournfully, turning back to the stage.
“ `Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night, till it be morrow,”’
sighed Juliet passionately to her Romeo.
“Mercy! I hope not,” whispered Billy flippantly in Bertram’s ear. “I’m sure I don’t want to stay here till to-morrow! I want to go home and see Baby.”
“_Billy!_” pleaded Bertram so despairingly, that Billy, really conscience-smitten, sat back in her seat and remained, for the rest of the act, very quiet indeed.
Deceived by her apparent tranquillity, Bertram turned as the curtain went down.
“Now, Billy, surely you don’t think it’ll be necessary to telephone so soon as this again,” he ventured.
Billy’s countenance fell.
“But, Bertram, you _said_ you would! Of course if you aren’t willing to–but I’ve been counting on hearing all through this horrid long act, and–”
“Goodness me, Billy, I’ll telephone every minute for you, of course, if you want me to,” cried Bertram, springing to his feet, and trying not to show his impatience.
He was back more promptly this time.
“Everything 0. K.,” he smiled reassuringly into Billy’s anxious eyes. “Delia said she’d just been up, and the little chap was sound asleep.”
To the man’s unbounded surprise, his wife grew actually white.
“Up! Up!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean that Delia went down-stairs to _stay_, and left my baby up there alone?”
“But, Billy, she said he was all right,” murmured Bertram, softly, casting uneasy sidelong glances at his too interested neighbors.
“ `All right’! Perhaps he was, _then_–but he may not be, later. Delia should stay in the next room all the time, where she could hear the least thing.”
“Yes, dear, she will, I’m sure, if you tell her to,” soothed Bertram, quickly. “It’ll be all right next time.”
Billy shook her head. She was obviously near to crying.
“But, Bertram, I can’t stand it to sit here enjoying myself all safe and comfortable, and know that Baby is _alone_ up there in that great big room! Please, _please_ won’t you go and telephone Delia to go up _now_ and stay there?”
Bertram, weary, sorely tried, and increasingly aware of those annoyingly interested neighbors, was on the point of saying a very decided no; but a glance into Billy’s pleading eyes settled it. Without a word he went back to the telephone.
The curtain was up when he slipped into his seat, very red of face. In answer to Billy’s hurried whisper he shook his head; but in the short pause between the first and second scenes he said, in a low voice:
“I’m sorry, Billy, but I couldn’t get the house at all.”
“Couldn’t get them! But you’d just been talking with them!”
“That’s exactly it, probably. I had just telephoned, so they weren’t watching for the bell. Anyhow, I couldn’t get them.”
“Then you didn’t get Delia at all!”
“Of course not.”
“And Baby is still–all alone!”
“But he’s all right, dear. Delia’s keeping watch of him.”
For a moment there was silence; then, with clear decisiveness carne Billy’s voice.
“Bertram, I am going home.”
“Billy!”
“I am.”
“Billy, for heaven’s sake don’t be a silly goose! The play’s half over already. We’ll soon be going, anyway.”
Billy’s lips came together in a thin little determined line.
“Bertram, I am going home now, please,” she said. “You needn’t come with me; I can go alone.”
Bertram said two words under his breath which it was just as well, perhaps, that Billy–and the neighbors–did not hear; then he gathered up their wraps and, with Billy, stalked out of the theater.
At home everything was found to be absolutely as it should be. Bertram, Jr., was peacefully sleeping, and Delia, who had come up from downstairs, was sewing in the next room.
“There, you see,” observed Bertram, a little sourly.
Billy drew a long, contented sigh.
“Yes, I see; everything is all right. But that’s exactly what I wanted to do, Bertram, you know –to _see for myself_,” she finished happily.
And Bertram, looking at her rapt face as she hovered over the baby’s crib, called himself a brute and a beast to mind _anything_ that could make Billy look like that.
CHAPTER XXV
“SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT”
Bertram did not ask Billy very soon again to go to the theater. For some days, indeed, he did not ask her to do anything. Then, one evening, he did beg for some music.
“Billy, you haven’t played to me or sung to me since I could remember,” he complained. “I want some music.”
Billy gave a merry laugh and wriggled her fingers experimentally.
“Mercy, Bertram! I don’t believe I could play a note. You know I’m all out of practice.”
“But why _don’t_ you practice?”
“Why, Bertram, I can’t. In the first place I don’t seem to have any time except when Baby’s asleep; and I can’t play then-I’d wake him up.”
Bertram sighed irritably, rose to his feet, and began to walk up and down the room. He came to a pause at last, his eyes bent a trifle disapprovingly on his wife.
“Billy, dear, _don’t_ you wear anything but those wrapper things nowadays?” he asked plaintively.
Again Billy laughed. But this time a troubled frown followed the laugh.
“I know, Bertram, I suppose they do look dowdy, sometimes,” she confessed; “but, you see, I hate to wear a really good dress–Baby rumples them up so; and I’m usually in a hurry to get to him mornings, and these are so easy to slip into, and so much more comfortable for me to handle him in!”
“Yes, of course, of course; I see,” mumbled Bertram, listlessly taking up his walk again.
Billy, after a moment’s silence, began to talk animatedly. Baby had done a wonderfully cunning thing that morning, and Billy had not had a chance yet to tell Bertram. Baby was growing more and more cunning anyway, these days, and there were several things she believed she had not told him; so she told them now.
Bertram listened politely, interestedly. He told himself that he _was_ interested, too. Of course he was interested in the doings of his own child! But he still walked up and down the room a little restlessly, coming to a halt at last by the window, across which the shade had not been drawn.
“Billy,” he cried suddenly, with his old boyish eagerness, “there’s a glorious moon. Come on! Let’s take a little walk–a real fellow-and- his-best-girl walk! Will you?”
“Mercy! dear, I couldn’t,” cried Billy springing to her feet. “I’d love to, though, if I could,” she added hastily, as she saw disappointment cloud her husband’s face. “But I told Delia she might go out. It isn’t her regular evening, of course, but I told her I didn’t mind staying with Baby a bit. So I’ll have to go right up now. She’ll be going soon. But, dear, you go and take your walk. It’ll do you good. Then you can come back and tell me all about it–only you must come in quietly, so not to wake the baby,” she finished, giving her husband an affectionate kiss, as she left the room.
After a disconsolate five minutes of solitude, Bertram got his hat and coat and went out for his walk–but he told himself he did not expect to enjoy it.
Bertram Henshaw knew that the old rebellious jealousy of the summer had him fast in its grip. He was heartily ashamed of himself, but he could not help it. He wanted Billy, and he wanted her then. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her about a new portrait commission he had just obtained; and he wanted to ask her what she thought of the idea of a brand-new “Face of a Girl” for the Bohemian Ten Exhibition next March. He wanted–but then, what would be the use? She would listen, of course, but he would know by the very looks of her face that she would not be really thinking of what he was saying; and he would be willing to wager his best canvas that in the very first pause she would tell about the baby’s newest tooth or latest toy. Not but that he liked to hear about the little fellow, of course; and not but that he was proud as Punch of him, too; but that he would like sometimes to hear Billy talk of something else. The sweetest melody in the world, if dinned into one’s ears day and night, became something to be fled from.
And Billy ought to talk of something else, too! Bertram, Jr., wonderful as he was, really was not the only thing in the world, or even the only baby; and other people–outsiders, their friends– had a right to expect that sometimes other matters might be considered–their own, for instance. But Billy seemed to have forgotten this. No matter whether the subject of conversation had to do with the latest novel or a trip to Europe, under Billy’s guidance it invariably led straight to Baby’s Jack-and-Jill book, or to a perambulator journey in the Public Garden. If it had not been so serious, it would have been really funny the way all roads led straight to one goal. He himself, when alone with Billy, had started the most unusual and foreign subjects, sometimes, just to see if there were not somewhere a little bypath that did not bring up in his own nursery. He never, however, found one.
But it was not funny; it was serious. Was this glorious gift on parenthood to which he had looked forward as the crowning joy of his existence, to be nothing but a tragedy that would finally wreck his domestic happiness? It could not be. It must not be. He must he patient, and wait. Billy loved him. He was sure she did. By and by this obsession of motherhood, which had her so fast in its grasp, would relax. She would remember that her husband had rights as well as her child. Once again she would give him the companionship, love, and sympathetic interest so dear to him. Meanwhile there was his work. He must bury himself in that. And fortunate, indeed, he was, he told himself, that he had something so absorbing.
It was at this point in his meditations that Bertram rounded a corner and came face to face with a man who stopped him short with a
jovial:
“Isn’t it–by George, it is Bertie Henshaw! Well, what do you think of that for luck?–and me only two days home from `Gay Paree’!”
“Oh, Seaver! How are you? You _are_ a stranger!” Bertram’s voice and handshake were a bit more cordial than they would have been had he not at the moment been feeling so abused and forlorn. In the old days he had liked this Bob Seaver well. Seaver was an artist like himself, and was good company always. But Seaver and his crowd were a little too Bohemian for William’s taste; and after Billy came, she, too, had objected to what she called “that horrid Seaver man.” In his heart, Bertram knew that there was good foundation for their objections, so he had avoided Seaver for a time; and for some years, now, the man had been abroad, somewhat to Bertram’s relief. To-night, however, Seaver’s genial smile and hearty friendliness were like a sudden burst of sunshine on a rainy day–and Bertram detested rainy days. He was feeling now, too, as
if he had just had a whole week of them.
“Yes, I am something of a stranger here,” nodded Seaver. “But I tell you what, little old Boston looks mighty good to me, all the same. Come on! You’re just the fellow we want. I’m on my way now to the old stamping ground. Come–right about face, old chap, and come with me!”
Bertram shook his head.
“Sorry–but I guess I can’t, to-night,” he sighed. Both gesture and words were unhesitating, but the voice carried the discontent of a small boy, who, while the sun is still shining, has been told to come into the house.
“Oh, rats! Yes, you can, too. Come on! Lots of the old crowd will be there–Griggs, Beebe, Jack Jenkins, and Tully. We need you to complete the show.”
“Jack Jenkins? Is he here?” A new eagerness had come into Bertram’s voice.
“Sure! He came on from New York last night. Great boy, Jenkins! Just back from Paris fairly covered with medals, you know.”
“Yes, so I hear. I haven’t seen him for four years.”
“Better come to-night then.”
“No-o,” began Bertram, with obvious reluctance. “It’s already nine o’clock, and–”
“Nine o’clock!” cut in Seaver, with a broad grin. “Since when has your limit been nine o’clock? I’ve seen the time when you didn’t mind nine o’clock in the morning, Bertie! What’s got– Oh, I remember. I met another friend of yours in Berlin; chap named Arkwright– and say, he’s some singer, you bet! You’re going to hear of him one of these days. Well, he told me all about how you’d settled down now– son and heir, fireside bliss, pretty wife, and all the fixings. But, I say, Bertie, doesn’t she let you out–_any_?”
“Nonsense, Seaver!” flared Bertram in annoyed wrath.
“Well, then, why don’t you come to-night? If you want to see Jenkins you’ll have to; he’s going back to New York to-morrow.”
For only a brief minute longer did Bertram hesitate; then he turned squarely about with an air of finality.
“Is he? Well, then, perhaps I will,” he said. “I’d hate to miss Jenkins entirely.”
“Good!” exclaimed his companion, as they fell into step. “Have a cigar?”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
If Bertram’s chin was a little higher and his step a little more decided than usual, it was all merely by way of accompaniment to his thoughts.
Certainly it was right that he should go, and it was sensible. Indeed, it was really almost imperative–due to Billy, as it were–after that disagreeable taunt of Seaver’s. As if she did not want him to go when and where he pleased! As if she would consent for a moment to figure in the eyes of his friends as a tyrannical wife who objected to her husband’s passing a social evening with his friends! To be sure, in this particular case, she might not favor Seaver’s presence, but even she would not mind this once–
and, anyhow, it was Jenkins that was the attraction, not Seaver. Besides, he himself was no
undeveloped boy now. He was a man, presumedly able to take care of himself. Besides, again, had not Billy herself told him to go out and enjoy the evening without her, as she had to stay with the baby? He would telephone her, of course, that he had met some old friends, and that he might be late; then she would not worry.
And forthwith, having settled the matter in his mind, and to his complete satisfaction, Bertram gave his undivided attention to Seaver, who had already plunged into an account of a recent Art Exhibition he had attended in Paris.
CHAPTER XXVI
GHOSTS THAT WALKED FOR BERTRAM
October proved to be unusually mild, and about the middle of the month, Bertram, after much unselfish urging on the part of Billy, went to a friend’s camp in the Adirondacks for a week’s stay. He came back with an angry, lugubrious face–and a broken arm.
“Oh, Bertram! And your right one, too– the same one you broke before!” mourned Billy, tearfully.
“Of course,” retorted Bertram, trying in vain to give an air of jauntiness to his reply. “Didn’t want to be too changeable, you know!”
“But how did you do it, dear?”
“Fell into a silly little hole covered with underbrush. But–oh, Billy, what’s the use? I did it, and I can’t undo it–more’s the pity!”
“Of course you can’t, you poor boy,” sympathized Billy; “and you sha’n’t be tormented with questions. We’ll just be thankful ’twas no worse. You can’t paint for a while, of course; but we won’t mind that. It’ll just give Baby and me a chance to have you all to ourselves for a time, and we’ll love that!’
“Yes, of course,” sighed Bertram, so abstractedly that Billy bridled with pretty resentment.
“Well, I like your enthusiasm, sir,” she frowned. “I’m afraid you don’t appreciate the blessings you do have, young man! Did you realize what I said? I remarked that you could be with _Baby_ and _me_,” she emphasized.
Bertram laughed, and gave his wife an affectionate kiss.
“Indeed I do appreciate my blessings, dear– when those blessings are such treasures as you and Baby, but–” Only his doleful eyes fixed on his injured arm finished his sentence.
“I know, dear, of course, and I understand,” murmured Billy, all tenderness at once.
They were not easy for Bertram–those following days. Once again he was obliged to accept the little intimate personal services that he so disliked. Once again he could do nothing but read, or wander disconsolately into his studio and gaze at his half-finished “Face of a Girl.” Occasionally, it is true, driven nearly to desperation by the haunting vision in his mind’s eye, he picked up a brush and attempted to make his left hand serve his will; but a bare half-dozen irritating, ineffectual strokes were usually enough to make him throw down his brush in disgust. He never could do anything with his left hand, he told himself dejectedly.
Many of his hours, of course, he spent with Billy and his son, and they were happy hours, too; but they always came to be restless ones before the day was half over. Billy was always devotion itself to him–when she was not attending to the baby; he had no fault to find with Billy. And the baby was delightful–he could find no fault with the baby. But the baby _was_ fretful–he was teething, Billy said–and he needed a great deal of attention; so, naturally, Bertram drifted out of the nursery, after a time, and went down into his studio, where were his dear, empty palette, his orderly brushes, and his tantalizing “Face of a Girl.” From the studio, generally, Bertram went out on to the street.
Sometimes he dropped into a fellow-artist’s studio. Sometimes he strolled into a club or caf
Particularly was this the case when, after the splints were removed, Bertram found, as the days passed, that his arm was not improving as it should improve. This not only disappointed and annoyed him, but worried him. He remembered sundry disquieting warnings given by the physician at the time of the former break–warnings concerning the probable seriousness of a repetition of the injury. To Billy, of course, Bertram said nothing of all this; but just before Christmas he went to see a noted specialist.
An hour later, almost in front of the learned surgeon’s door, Bertram met Bob Seaver.
“Great Scott, Bertie, what’s up?” ejaculated Seaver. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“I have,” answered Bertram, with grim bitterness. “I’ve seen the ghost of–of every `Face of a Girl’ I ever painted.”
“Gorry! So bad as that? No wonder you look as if you’d been disporting in graveyards,” chuckled Seaver, laughing at his own joke “What’s the matter–arm on a rampage to day?”
He paused for reply, but as Bertram did not answer at once, he resumed, with gay insistence: “Come on! You need cheering up. Suppose we go down to Trentini’s and see who’s
there.”
“All right,” agreed Bertram, dully. “Suit yourself.”
Bertram was not thinking of Seaver, Trentini’s, or whom he might find there. Bertram was thinking of certain words he had heard less than half an hour ago. He was wondering, too, if ever again he could think of anything but those words.
“The truth?” the great surgeon had said. “Well, the truth is–I’m sorry to tell you the truth, Mr. Henshaw, but if you will have it– you’ve painted the last picture you’ll ever paint with your right hand, I fear. It’s a bad case. This break, coming as it did on top of the serious injury of two or three years ago, was bad enough; but, to make matters worse, the bone was imperfectly set and wrongly treated, which could not be helped, of course, as you were miles away from skilled surgeons at the time of the injury. We’ll do the best we can, of course; but–well, you asked for the truth, you remember; so I had to give it to you.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE MOTHER–THE WIFE
Bertram made up his mind at once that, for the present, at least, he would tell no one what the surgeon had said to him. He had placed himself under the man’s care, and there was nothing to do but to take the prescribed treatment and await results as patiently as he could. Meanwhile there was no need to worry Billy, or William, or anybody else with the matter.
Billy was so busy with her holiday plans that she was only vaguely aware of what seemed to be an increase of restlessness on the part of her husband during those days just before Christmas.
“Poor dear, is the arm feeling horrid to-day?” she asked one morning, when the gloom on her husband’s face was deeper than usual.
Bertram frowned and did not answer directly.
“Lots of good I am these days!” he exclaimed, his moody eyes on the armful of many-shaped, many-sized packages she carried. “What are those for-the tree?”
“Yes; and it’s going to be so pretty, Bertram,” exulted Billy. “And, do you know, Baby
positively acts as if he suspected things–little as he is,” she went on eagerly. “He’s as nervous as a witch. I can’t keep him still a minute!”
“How about his mother?” hinted Bertram, with a faint smile.
Billy laughed.
“Well, I’m afraid she isn’t exactly calm herself,” she confessed, as she hurried out of the room with her parcels.
Bertram looked after her longingly, despondently.
“I wonder what she’d say if she–knew,” he muttered. “But she sha’n’t know–till she just has to,” he vowed suddenly, under his breath, striding into the hall for his hat and coat.
Never had the Strata known such a Christmas as this was planned to be. Cyril, Marie, and the twins were to be there, also Kate, her husband and three children, Paul, Egbert, and little Kate, from the West. On Christmas Day there was to be a big family dinner, with Aunt Hannah down from the Annex. Then, in concession to the extreme youth of the young host and his twin cousins, there was to be an afternoon tree. The shades were to be drawn and the candles lighted, however, so that there might be no loss of effect. In the evening the tree was to be once more loaded with fascinating packages and candy-bags, and this time the Greggorys, Tommy Dunn, and all the rest from the Annex were to have the fun all over again.
From garret to basement the Strata was aflame with holly, and aglitter with tinsel. Nowhere did there seem to be a spot that did not have its bit of tissue paper or its trail of red ribbon. And everything–holly, ribbon, tissue, and tinsel– led to the mysteriously closed doors of the great front drawing-room, past which none but Billy and her accredited messengers might venture. No wonder, indeed, that even Baby scented excitement, and that Baby’s mother was not exactly calm. No wonder, too, that Bertram, with his helpless right arm, and his heavy heart, felt peculiarly forlorn and “out of it.” No wonder, also, that he took himself literally out of it with growing frequency.
Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell and little Kate were to stay at the Strata. The boys, Paul and Egbert, were to go to Cyril’s. Promptly at the appointed time, two days before Christmas, they arrived. And from that hour until two days after Christmas, when the last bit of holly, ribbon, tissue, and tinsel disappeared from the floor, Billy moved in a whirl of anxious responsibility that was yet filled with fun, frolic, and laughter.
It was a great success, the whole affair. Everybody seemed pleased and happy–that is, everybody but Bertram; and he very plainly tried to seem pleased and happy. Even Cyril unbent to the extent of not appearing to mind the noise one bit; and Sister Kate (Bertram said) found only the extraordinarily small number of four details to change in the arrangements. Baby obligingly let his teeth-getting go, for the occasion, and he and the twins, Franz and Felix, were the admiration and delight of all. Little Kate, to be sure, was a trifle disconcerting once or twice, but everybody was too absorbed to pay much attention to her. Billy did, however, remember her opening remarks.
“Well, little Kate, do you remember me?” Billy had greeted her pleasantly.
“Oh, yes,” little Kate had answered, with a winning smile. “You’re my Aunt Billy what married my Uncle Bertram instead of Uncle William as you said you would first.”
Everybody laughed, and Billy colored, of course; but little Kate went on eagerly:
“And I’ve been wanting just awfully to see you,” she announced.
“Have you? I’m glad, I’m sure. I feel highly flattered,” smiled Billy.
“Well, I have. You see, I wanted to ask you something. Have you ever wished that you _had_ married Uncle William instead of Uncle Bertram, or that you’d tried for Uncle Cyril before Aunty Marie got him?”
“Kate!” gasped her horrified mother. “I told you– You see,” she broke off, turning to Billy despairingly. “She’s been pestering me with questions like that ever since she knew she was coming. She never has forgotten the way you changed from one uncle to the other. You may remember; it made a great impression on her at the time.”
“Yes, I–I remember,” stammered Billy, trying to laugh off her embarrassment.
“But you haven’t told me yet whether you did wish you’d married Uncle William, or Uncle Cyril,” interposed little Kate, persistently.
“No, no, of course not!” exclaimed Billy, with a vivid blush, casting her eyes about for a door of escape, and rejoicing greatly when she spied Delia with the baby coming toward them. “There, look, my dear, here’s your new cousin, little Bertram!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you want to see him?”
Little Kate turned dutifully.
“Yes’m, Aunt Billy, but I’d rather see the twins. Mother says _they’re_ real pretty and cunning.”
“Er–y-yes, they are,” murmured Billy, on whom the emphasis of the “they’re” had not been lost.
Naturally, as may be supposed, therefore, Billy had not forgotten little Kate’s opening remarks.
Immediately after Christmas Mr. Hartwell and the boys went back to their Western home, leaving Mrs. Hartwell and her daughter to make a round of visits to friends in the East. For almost a week after Christmas they remained at the Strata; and it was on the last day of their stay that little Kate asked the question that proved so momentous in results.
Billy, almost unconsciously, had avoided t
“Aunt Billy,” began the little girl, after a meditative gaze into the other’s face, “you _are_ married to Uncle Bertram, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am, my dear,” smiled Billy, trying to speak unconcernedly.
“Well, then, what makes you forget it?”
“What makes me forget– Why, child, what a question! What do you mean? I don’t forget it!” exclaimed Billy, indignantly.
“Then what _did_ mother mean? I heard her tell Uncle William myself–she didn’t know I heard, though–that she did wish you’d remember you were Uncle Bertram’s wife as well as Cousin Bertram’s mother.”
Billy flushed scarlet, then grew very white. At that moment Mrs. Hartwell came into the room. Little Kate turned triumphantly.
“There, she hasn’t forgotten, and I knew she hadn’t, mother! I asked her just now, and she said she hadn’t.”
“Hadn’t what?” questioned Mrs. Hartwell, looking a little apprehensively at her sister-in- law’s white face and angry eyes.
“Hadn’t forgotten that she was Uncle Bertram’s wife.”
“Kate,” interposed Billy, steadily meeting her sister-in-law’s gaze, “will you be good enough to tell me what this child is talking about?”
Mrs. Hartwell sighed, and gave an impatient gesture.
“Kate, I’ve a mind to take you home on the next train,” she said to her daughter. “Run away, now, down-stairs. Your Aunt Billy and I want to talk. Come, come, hurry! I mean what I say,” she added warningly, as she saw unmistakable signs of rebellion on the small young
face.
“I wish,” pouted little Kate, rising reluctantly, and moving toward the door, “that you
didn’t always send me away just when I wanted most to stay!”
“Well, Kate?” prompted Billy, as the door closed behind the little girl.
“Yes, I suppose I’ll have to say it now, as long as that child has put her finger in the pie. But I hadn’t intended to speak, no matter what I saw. I promised myself I wouldn’t, before I came. I know, of course, how Bertram and Cyril, and William, too, say that I’m always interfering in affairs that don’t concern me–though, for that matter, if my own brother’s affairs don’t concern me, I don’t know whose should!
“But, as I said, I wasn’t going to speak this time, no matter what I saw. And I haven’t– except to William, and Cyril, and Aunt Hannah; but I suppose somewhere little Kate got
hold of it. It’s simply this, Billy. It seems to me it’s high time you began to realize that you’re Bertram’s wife as well as the baby’s mother.”
“That, I am– I don’t think I quite understand,” said Billy, unsteadily.
“No, I suppose you don’t,” sighed Kate, “though where your eyes are, I don’t see–or, rather, I do see: they’re on the baby, _always_. It’s all very well and lovely, Billy, to be a devoted mother, and you certainly are that. I’ll say that much for you, and I’ll admit I never thought you would be. But _can’t_ you see what you’re doing to Bertram?”
“_Doing to Bertram!_–by being a devoted mother to his son!”
“Yes, doing to Bertram. Can’t you see what a change there is in the boy? He doesn’t act like himself at all. He’s restless and gloomy and entirely out of sorts.”
“Yes, I know; but that’s his arm,” pleaded Billy. “Poor boy–he’s so tired of it!”
Kate shook her head decisively.
“It’s more than his arm, Billy. You’d see it yourself if you weren’t blinded by your absorption in that baby. Where is Bertram every evening? Where is he daytimes? Do you realize that he’s been at home scarcely one evening since I came? And as for the days–he’s almost never here.”
“But, Kate, he can’t paint now, you know, so of course he doesn’t need to stay so closely at home,” defended Billy. “He goes out to find distraction from himself.”
“Yes, `distraction,’ indeed,” sniffed Kate. “And where do you suppose he finds it? Do you _know_ where he finds it? I tell you, Billy, Bertram Henshaw is not the sort of man that should find too much `distraction’ outside his home. His tastes and his temperament are altogether too Bohemian, and–”
Billy interrupted with a peremptorily upraised hand.
“Please remember, Kate, you are speaking of my husband to his wife; and his wife has perfect confidence in him, and is just a little particular as to what you say.”
“Yes; well, I’m speaking of my brother, too, whom I know very well,” shrugged Kate. “All is, you may remember sometime that I warned you–that’s all. This trusting business is all very pretty; but I think ‘twould be a lot prettier, and a vast deal more sensible, if you’d give him a little attention as well as trust, and see if you can’t keep him at home a bit more. At least you’ll know whom he’s with, then. Cyril says he saw him last week with Bob Seaver.”
“With–Bob–Seaver?” faltered Billy, changing color.
“Yes. I see you remember him,” smiled Kate, not quite agreeably. “Perhaps now you’ll take some stock in what I’ve said, and remember it.”
“I’ll remember it, certainly,” returned Billy, a little proudly. “You’ve said a good many things to me, in the past, Mrs. Hartwell, and I’ve remembered them all–every one.”
It was Kate’s turn to flush, and she did it.
“Yes, I know. And I presume very likely sometimes there _hasn’t_ been much foundation for what I’ve said. I think this time, however, you’ll find there is,” she finished, with an air of hurt dignity.
Billy made no reply, perhaps because Delia, at that moment, brought in the baby.
Mrs. Hartwell and little Kate left the Strata the next morning. Until then Billy contrived to keep, before them, a countenance serene, and a manner free from unrest. Even when, after dinner that evening, Bertram put on his hat and coat and went out, Billy refused to meet her sister- in-law’s meaning gaze. But in the morning, after they had left the house, Billy did not attempt to deceive herself. Determinedly, then, she set herself to going over in her mind the past months since the baby came; and she was appalled at what she found. Ever in her ears, too, was that feared name, “Bob Seaver”; and ever before her eyes was that night years ago when, as an eighteen-year-old girl, she had followed Bertram and Bob Seaver into a glittering caf
at eleven o’clock at night, because Bertram had been drinking and was not himself. She remembered Bertram’s face when he had seen her, and what he had said when she begged him to come home. She remembered, too, what the family had said afterward. But she remembered, also, that years later Bertram had told her what that escapade of hers had really done for him, and that he believed he had actually loved her from that moment. After that night, at all events, he had had little to do with Bob Seaver.
And now Seaver was back again, it seemed– and with Bertram. They had been seen together. But if they had, what could she do? Surely she could hardly now follow them into a public caf
and demand that Seaver let her husband come home! But she could keep him at home, perhaps. (Billy quite brightened at this thought.) Kate had said that she was so absorbed in Baby that her husband received no attention at all. Billy did not believe this was true; but if it were true, she could at least rectify that mistake. If it were attention that he wanted–he should want no more. Poor Bertram! No wonder that he had sought distraction outside! When one had a horrid broken arm that would not let one do anything, what else could one do?
Just here Billy suddenly remembered the book, “A Talk to Young Wives.” If she recollected rightly, there was a chapter that covered the very claim Kate had been making. Billy had not thought of the book for months, but she went at once to get it now. There might be, after all, something in it that would help her.
“The Coming of the First Baby.” Billy found the chapter without difficulty and settled herself to read, her countenance alight with interest. In a surprisingly short time, however, a new expression came to her face; and at last a little gasp of dismay fell from her lips. She looked up then, with a startled gaze.
_Had_ her walls possessed eyes and ears all these past months, only to give instructions to an unseen hand that it might write what the eyes and ears had learned? For it was such sentences as these that the conscience-smitten Billy read:
“Maternity is apt to work a miracle in a woman’s life, but sometimes it spells disaster so far as domestic bliss is concerned. The young mother, wrapped up in the delights and duties of motherhood, utterly forgets that she has a husband. She lives and moves and has her being in the nursery. She thinks baby, talks baby, knows only baby. She refuses to dress up, because it is easier to take care of baby in a frowzy wrapper. She will not go out with her husband for fear something might happen to the baby. She gives up her music because baby won’t let her practice. In vain her husband tries to interest her in his own affairs. She has neither eyes nor ears for him, only for baby.
“Now no man enjoys having his nose put out of joint, even by his own child. He loves his child devotedly, and is proud of him, of course; but that does not keep him from wanting the society of his wife occasionally, nor from longing for her old-time love and sympathetic interest. It is an admirable thing, certainly, for a woman to be a devoted mother; but maternal affection can be carried too far. Husbands have some rights as well as offspring; and the wife who neglects her husband for her babies does so at her peril. Home, with the wife eternally in the nursery, is apt to be a dull and lonely thing to the average husband, so he starts out to find amusement for himself–and he finds it. Then is the time when the new little life that is so precious, and that should have bound the two more closely together, becomes the wedge that drives them apart.”
Billy did not read any more. With a little sobbing cry she flung the book back into her desk, and began to pull off her wrapper. Her fingers shook. Already she saw herself a Monster, a Wicked Destroyer of Domestic Bliss with her thoughtless absorption in Baby, until he had become that Awful Thing–a _Wedge_. And Bertram– poor Bertram, with his broken arm! She
had not played to him, nor sung to him, nor gone out with him. And when had they had one of their good long talks about Bertram’s work and plans?
But it should all be changed now. She would play, and sing, and go out with him. She would dress up, too. He should see no more wrappers. She would ask about his work, and seem
interested. She _was_ interested. She remembered now, that just before he was hurt, he had told her of a new portrait, and of a new “Face of a Girl” that he had planned to do. Lately he had said nothing about these. He had seemed
discouraged–and no wonder, with his broken arm! But she would change all that. He should see! And forthwith Billy hurried to her closet to pick out her prettiest house frock.
Long before dinner Billy was ready, waiting in the drawing-room. She had on a pretty little blue silk gown that she knew Bertram liked, and she watched very anxiously for Bertram to come up the steps. She remembered now, with a pang, that he had long since given up his peculiar ring; but she meant to meet him at the door just the same.
Bertram, however, did not come. At a quarter before six he telephoned that he had met some friends, and would dine at the club.
“My, my, how pretty we are!” exclaimed Uncle William, when they went down to dinner together. “New frock?”
“Why, no, Uncle William,” laughed Billy, a little tremulously. “You’ve seen it dozens of times!”
“Have I?” murmured the man. “I don’t seem to remember it. Too bad Bertram isn’t here to see you. Somehow, you look unusually pretty to-night.”
And Billy’s heart ached anew.
Billy spent the evening practicing–softly, to be sure, so as not to wake Baby–but _practicing_.
As the days passed Billy discovered that it was much easier to say she would “change things” than it was really to change them. She changed herself, it is true–her clothes, her habits, her words, and her thoughts; but it was more difficult to change Bertram. In the first place, he was there so little. She was dismayed when she saw how very little, indeed, he was at home–and she did not like to ask him outright to stay. That was not in accordance with her plans. Besides, the “Talk to Young Wives” said that indirect influence was much to be preferred, always, to direct persuasion–which last, indeed, usually failed to produce results.
So Billy “dressed up,” and practiced, and talked (of anything but the baby), and even hinted shamelessly once or twice that she would like to go to the theater; but all to little avail. True, Bertram brightened up, for a minute, when he came home and found her in a new or a favorite dress, and he told her how pretty she looked. He appeared to like to have her play to him, too, even declaring once or twice that it was quite like old times, yes, it was. But he never noticed her hints about the theater, and he did not seem to like to talk about his work, even a little bit.
Billy laid this last fact to his injured arm. She decided that he had become blue and discouraged, and that he needed cheering up, especially about his work; so she determinedly and
systematically set herself to doing it.
She talked of the fine work he had done, and of the still finer work he would yet do, when his arm was well. She told him how proud she was of him, and she let him see how dear his Art was to her, and how badly she would feel if she thought he had really lost all his interest in his work and would never paint again. She questioned him about the new portrait he was to begin as soon as his arm would let him; and she tried to arouse his enthusiasm in the picture he had planned to show in the March Exhibition of the Bohemian Ten, telling him that she was sure his arm would allow him to complete at least one canvas to hang.
In none of this, however, did Bertram appear in the least interested. The one thing, indeed, which he seemed not to want to talk about, was his work; and he responded to her overtures on the subject with only moody silence, or else with almost irritable monosyllables; all of which not only grieved but surprised Billy very much. For, according to the “Talk to Young Wives,” she was doing exactly what the ideal, sympathetic, interested-in-her-husband’s-work wife should do.
When February came, bringing with it no change for the better, Billy was thoroughly frightened. Bertram’s arm plainly was not improving. He was more gloomy and restless than ever. He seemed not to want to stay at home at all; and Billy knew now for a certainty that he was spending more and more time with Bob Seaver and “the boys.”
Poor Billy! Nowhere could she look these days and see happiness. Even the adored baby seemed, at times, almost to give an added pang. Had he not become, according to the “Talk to Young Wives” that awful thing, a _Wedge_? The Annex, too, carried its sting; for where was the need of an overflow house for happiness now, when there was no happiness to overflow? Even the little jade idol on Billy’s mantel Billy could not bear to see these days, for its once bland smile had become a hideous grin, demanding, “Where, now, is your heap plenty velly good luckee?”
But, before Bertram, Billy still carried a bravely smiling face, and to him still she talked earnestly and enthusiastically of his work–which last, as it happened, was the worst course she could have pursued; for the one thing poor Bertram wished to forget, just now, was–his work.
CHAPTER XXVIII
CONSPIRATORS
Early in February came Arkwright’s appearance at the Boston Opera House–the first since he had sung there as a student a few years before. He was an immediate and an unquestioned success. His portrait adorned the front page of almost every Boston newspaper the next morning, and captious critics vied with each other to do him honor. His full history, from boyhood up, was featured, with special emphasis on his recent triumphs in New York and foreign capitals. He was interviewed as to his opinion on everything from vegetarianism to woman’s suffrage; and his preferences as to pies and pastimes were given headline prominence. There was no doubt of it. Mr. M. J. Arkwright was a star.
All Arkwright’s old friends, including Billy, Bertram, Cyril, Marie, Calderwell, Alice Greggory, Aunt Hannah, and Tommy Dunn, went to
hear him sing; and after the performance he held a miniature reception, with enough adulation to turn his head completely around, he declared deprecatingly. Not until the next evening, however, did he have an opportunity for what he
called a real talk with any of his friends; then, in Calderwell’s room, he settled back in his chair with a sigh of content.
For a time his own and Calderwell’s affairs occupied their attention; then, after a short pause, the tenor asked abruptly:
“Is there anything–wrong with the Henshaws, Calderwell?”
Calderwell came suddenly erect in his chair.
“Thank you! I hoped you’d introduce that subject; though, for that matter, if you hadn’t, I should. Yes, there is–and I’m looking to you, old man, to get them out of it.”
“I?” Arkwright sat erect now.
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“In a way, the expected has happened– though I know now that I didn’t really expect it to happen, in spite of my prophecies. You may remember I was always skeptical on the subject of Bertram’s settling down to a domestic hearthstone. I insisted ‘twould be the turn of a girl’s head and the curve of her cheek that he wanted to paint.”
Arkwright looked up with a quick frown.
“You don’t mean that Henshaw has been cad enough to find another–”
Calderwell threw up his hand.
“No, no, not that! We haven’t that to deal with–yet, thank goodness! There’s no woman in it. And, really, when you come right down to it, if ever a fellow had an excuse to seek diversion, Bertram Henshaw has–poor chap! It’s just this. Bertram broke his arm again last October.”
“Yes, so I hear, and I thought he was looking badly.”
“He is. It’s a bad business. ‘Twas improperly set in the first place, and it’s not doing well now. In fact, I’m told on pretty good authority that the doctor says he probably will never use it again.”
“Oh, by George! Calderwell!”
“Yes. Tough, isn’t it? ‘Specially when you think of his work, and know–as I happen to– that he’s particularly dependent on his right hand for everything. He doesn’t tell this generally, and I understand Billy and the family know nothing of it–how hopeless the case is, I mean. Well, naturally, the poor fellow has been pretty thoroughly discouraged, and to get away from himself he’s gone back to his old Bohemian habits, spending much of his time with some of his old cronies that are none too good for him–Seaver, for instance.”
“Bob Seaver? Yes, I know him.” Arkwright’s lips snapped together crisply.
“Yes. He said he knew you. That’s why I’m counting on your help.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I want you to get Henshaw away from him, and keep him away.”
Arkwright’s face darkened with an angry flush.
“Great Scott, Calderwell! What are you talking about? Henshaw is no kid to be toted home, and I’m no nursery governess to do the toting!”
Calderwell laughed quietly.
“No; I don’t think any one would take you for a nursery governess, Arkwright, in spite of the fact that you are still known to some of your friends as `Mary Jane.’ But you can sing a song, man, which will promptly give you a through ticket to their innermost sacred circle. In fact, to my certain knowledge, Seaver is already planning a jamboree with you at the right hand of the toastmaster. There’s your chance. Once in, stay in–long enough to get Henshaw
out.”
“But, good heavens, Calderwell, it’s impossible! What can I do?” demanded Arkwright,
savagely. “I can’t walk up to the man, take him by the ear, and say: `Here, you, sir–march home!’ Neither can I come the `I-am-holier- than-thou’ act, and hold up to him the mirror of his transgressions.”
“No, but you can get him out of it _some_ way. You can find a way–for Billy’s sake.”
There was no answer, and, after a moment, Calderwell went on more quietly.
“I haven’t seen Billy but two or three times since I came back to Boston–but I don’t need to, to know that she’s breaking her heart over something. And of course that something is– Bertram.”
There was still no answer. Arkwright got up suddenly, and walked to the window.
“You see, I’m helpless,” resumed Calderwell. “I don’t paint pictures, nor sing songs, nor write stories, nor dance jigs for a living–and you have to do one or another to be in with that set. And it’s got to be a Johnny-on-the-spot with Bertram. All is, something will have to be done to get him out of the state of mind and body he’s in now, or–”
Arkwright wheeled sharply.
“When did you say this jamboree was going to be?” he demanded.
“Next week, some time. The date is not settled. They were going to consult you.”
“Hm-m,” commented Arkwright. And,
though his next remark was a complete change of subject, Calderwell gave a contented sigh.
If, when the proposition was first made to him, Arkwright was doubtful of his ability to be a successful “Johnny-on-the-spot,” he was even more doubtful of it as the days passed, and he was attempting to carry out the suggestion.
He had known that he was undertaking a most difficult and delicate task, and he soon began to fear that it was an impossible one, as well. With a dogged persistence, however, he adhered to his purpose, ever on the alert to be more watchful, more tactful, more efficient in emergencies.
Disagreeable as was the task, in a way, in another way it was a great pleasure to him. He was glad of the opportunity to do anything for Billy; and then, too, he was glad of something absorbing enough to take his mind off his own affairs. He told himself, sometimes, that this helping another man to fight his tiger skin was assisting himself to fight his own.
Arkwright was trying very hard not to think of Alice Greggory these days. He had come back hoping that he was in a measure “cured” of his “folly,” as he termed it; but the first look into Alice Greggory’s blue-gray eyes had taught him the fallacy of that idea. In that very first meeting with Alice, he feared that he had revealed his secret, for she was plainly so nervously distant and ill at ease with him that he could but construe her embarrassment and chilly dignity as pity for him and a desire to show him that she had nothing but friendship for him. Since then he had seen but little of her, partly because he did not wish to see her, and partly because his time was so fully occupied. Then, too, in a round- about way he had heard a rumor that Calderwell was engaged to be married; and, though no feminine name had been mentioned in connection
with the story, Arkwright had not hesitated to supply in his own mind that of Alice Greggory.
Beginning with the “jamboree,” which came off quite in accordance with Calderwell’s prophecies, Arkwright spent the most of such time as was not given to his professional duties in deliberately cultivating the society of Bertram and his friends. To this extent he met with no difficulty, for he found that M. J. Arkwright, the
new star in the operatic firmament, was obviously a welcome comrade. Beyond this it was not so easy. Arkwright wondered, indeed, sometimes, if he were making any progress at all. But still he persevered.
He walked with Bertram, he talked with Bertram, unobtrusively he contrived to be near Bertram almost always, when they were together
with “the boys.” Gradually he won from him the story of what the surgeon had said to him, and of how black the future looked in
consequence. This established a new bond between them, so potent that Arkwright ventured to test it one day by telling Bertram the story of the tiger skin–the first tiger skin in his uncle’s library years ago, and of how, since then, any difficulty he had encountered he had tried to treat as a tiger skin. In telling the story he was careful to draw no moral for his listener, and to preach no sermon. He told the tale, too, with all possible whimsical lightness of touch, and immediately at its conclusion he changed the subject. But that he had not failed utterly in his design was evidenced a few days later when Bertram grimly declared that he guessed _his_ tiger skin was a lively beast, all right.
The first time Arkwright went home with Bertram, his presence was almost a necessity. Bertram was not quite himself that night. Billy admitted them. She had plainly been watching and waiting. Arkwright never forgot the look on her face as her eyes met his. There was a curious mixture of terror, hurt pride, relief, and shame, overtopped by a fierce loyalty which almost seemed to say aloud the words: “Don’t
you dare to blame him!”
Arkwright’s heart ached with sympathy and admiration at the proudly courageous way in which Billy carried off the next few painful minutes. Even when he bade her good night a little later, only her eyes said “thank you.” Her lips were dumb.
Arkwright often went home with Bertram after that. Not that it was always necessary– far from it. Some time, indeed, elapsed before he had quite the same excuse again for his presence. But he had found that occasionally he
could get Bertram home earlier by adroit suggestions of one kind or another; and more and more frequently he was succeeding in getting him home for a game of chess.
Bertram liked chess, and was a fine player. Since breaking his arm he had turned to games with the feverish eagerness of one who looks for something absorbing to fill an unrestful mind. It was Seaver’s skill in chess that had at first attracted Bertram to the man long ago; but Bertram could beat him easily–too easily for much pleasure in it now. So they did not play chess often these days. Bertram had found that, in spite of his injury, he could still take part in other games, and some of them, if not so intricate as chess, were at least more apt to take his mind off himself, especially if there were a bit of money up to add zest and interest.
As it happened, however, Bertram learned one day that Arkwright could play chess–and play well, too, as he discovered after their first game together. This fact contributed not a little to such success as Arkwright was having in his efforts to wean Bertram from his undesirable companions; for Bertram soon found out
that Arkwright was more than a match for himself, and the occasional games he did succeed in winning only whetted his appetite for more. Many an evening now, therefore, was spent by the two men in Bertram’s den, with Billy anxiously hovering near, her eyes longingly watching either her husband’s absorbed face or the pretty little red and white ivory figures, which seemed to possess so wonderful a power to hold his attention. In spite of her joy at the chessmen’s efficacy in keeping Bertram at home, however, she was almost jealous of them.
“Mr. Arkwright, couldn’t you show _me_ how to play, sometime?” she said wistfully, one evening, when the momentary absence of Bertram
had left the two alone together. “I used to watch Bertram and Marie play years ago; but I never knew how to play myself. Not that I can see where the fun is in just sitting staring at a chessboard for half an hour at a time, though! But Bertram likes it, and so I–I want to learn to stare with him. Will you teach me?”
“I should be glad to,” smiled Arkwright.
“Then will you come, maybe, sometimes when Bertram is at the doctor’s? He goes every Tuesday and Friday at three o’clock for treatment. I’d rather you came then for two reasons: first, because I don’t want Bertram to know I’m learning, till I can play _some_; and, secondly, because–because I don’t want to take you away–from him.”
The last words were spoken very low, and were accompanied by a painful blush. It was the first time Billy had ever hinted to Arkwright, in words, that she understood what he was trying to do.
“I’ll come next Tuesday,” promised Arkwright, with a cheerfully unobservant air. Then Bertram came in, bringing the book of Chess Problems, for which he had gone up-stairs.
CHAPTER XXIX
CHESS
Promptly at three o’clock Tuesday afternoon Arkwright appeared at the Strata, and for the next hour Billy did her best to learn the names and the moves of the pretty little ivory men. But at the end of the hour she was almost ready to give up in despair.
“If there weren’t so many kinds, and if they didn’t all insist on doing something different, it wouldn’t be so bad,” she sighed. “But how can you be expected to remember which goes diagonal, and which crisscross, and which can’t go but one square, and which can skip ‘way across the board, ‘specially when that little pawn-thing can go straight ahead _two_ squares sometimes, and the next minute only one (except when it takes things, and then it goes crooked one square) and when that tiresome little horse tries to go all ways at once, and can jump ’round and hurdle over _anybody’s_ head, even the king’s–how can you expect folks to remember? But, then, Bertram remembers,” she added, resolutely, “so I guess I can.”
Whenever possible, after that, Arkwright came on Tuesdays and Fridays, and, in spite of her doubts, Billy did very soon begin to “remember.” Spurred by her great desire to play with Bertram and surprise him, Billy spared no pains to learn well her lessons. Even among the baby’s books and playthings these days might be found a “Manual of Chess,” for Billy pursued her study at all hours; and some nights even her dreams were of ruined, castles where kings and queens and bishops disported themselves, with pawns for servants, and where a weird knight on horseback used the castle’s highest tower for a hurdle, landing always a hundred yards to one side of where he would be expected to come down.
It was not long, of course, before Billy could play a game of chess, after a fashion, but she knew just enough to realize that she actually knew nothing; and she knew, too, that until she could play a really good game, her moves would not hold Bertram’s attention for one minute. Not at present, therefore, was she willing Bertram should know what she was attempting to do.
Billy had not yet learned what the great surgeon had said to Bertram. She knew only that his arm was no better, and that he never voluntarily spoke of his painting. Over her now seemed to be hanging a vague horror. Something was the matter. She knew that. But what it was she could not fathom. She realized that Arkwright was trying to help, and her gratitude,
though silent, knew no bounds. Not even to Aunt Hannah or Uncle William could she speak of this thing that was troubling her. That they, too, understood, in a measure, she realized. But still she said no word. Billy was wearing a proud little air of aloofness these days that was heart- breaking to those who saw it and read it aright for what it was: loyalty to Bertram, no matter what happened. And so Billy pored over her chessboard feverishly, tirelessly, having ever before her longing eyes the dear time when Bertram, across the table from her, should sit happily staring for half an hour at a move she had made.
Whatever Billy’s chess-playing was to signify, however, in her own life, it was destined to play a part in the lives of two friends of hers that was most unexpected.
During Billy’s very first lesson, as it chanced, Alice Greggory called and found Billy and Arkwright so absorbed in their game that they did
not at first hear Eliza speak her name.
The quick color that flew to Arkwright’s face at sight of herself was construed at once by Alice as embarrassment on his part at being found t
she did not like it. She was not pleased that he was there. She was less pleased that he blushed for being there.
It so happened that Alice found him there again several times. Alice gave a piano lesson at two o’clock every Tuesday and Friday afternoon to a little Beacon Street neighbor of Billy’s, and she had fallen into the habit of stepping in to see Billy for a few minutes afterward, which brought her there at a little past three, just after the chess lesson was well started.
If, the first time that Alice Greggory found Arkwright opposite Billy at the chess-table, she was surprised and displeased, the second and third times she was much more so. When it finally came to her one day with sickening illumination, that always the t
hour at the doctor’s, she was appalled.
What could it mean? Had Arkwright given up his fight? Was he playing false to himself and to Bertram by trying thus, on the sly, to win the love of his friend’s wife? Was this man, whom she had so admired for his brave stand, and to whom all unasked she had given her heart’s best love (more the pity of it!)–was this idol of hers to show feet of clay, after all? She could not believe it. And yet–
Sick at heart, but imbued with the determination of a righteous cause, Alice Greggory resolved, for Billy’s sake, to watch and wait. If
necessary she should speak to some one–though to whom she did not know. Billy’s happiness should not be put in jeopardy if she could help it. Indeed, no!
As the weeks passed, Alice came to be more and more uneasy, distressed, and grieved. Of Billy she could believe no evil; but of Arkwright she was beginning to think she could believe everything that was dishonorable and despicable. And to believe that of the man she still loved– no wonder that Alice did not look nor act like herself these days.
Incensed at herself because she did love him, angry at him because he seemed to be proving himself so unworthy of that love, and genuinely frightened at what she thought was the fast- approaching wreck of all happiness for her dear friend, Billy, Alice did not know which way to turn. At the first she had told herself confidently that she would “speak to somebody.” But, as time passed, she saw the impracticability of that idea. Speak to somebody, indeed! To whom? When? Where? What should she say? Where
was her right to say anything? She was not dealing with a parcel of naughty children who had pilfered the cake jar! She was dealing with grown men and women, who, presumedly, knew their own affairs, and who, certainly, would resent any interference from her. On the other hand, could she stand calmly by and see Bertram lose his wife, Arkwright his honor, Billy her happiness, and herself her faith in human nature, all because to do otherwise would be to meddle in other people’s business? Apparently she could, and should. At least that seemed to be the r
she was expected to play.
It was when Alice had reached this unhappy frame of mind that Arkwright himself unexpectedly opened the door for her.
The two were alone together in Bertram Henshaw’s den. It was Tuesday afternoon. Alice had called to find Billy and Arkwright deep in their usual game of chess. Then a matter of domestic affairs had taken Billy from the room.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to be gone ten minutes, or more,” she had said, as she rose from the table reluctantly. “But you might be showing Alice the moves, Mr. Arkwright,” she had added, with a laugh, as she disappeared.
“Shall I teach you the moves?” he had smiled, when they were alone together.
Alice’s reply had been so indignantly short and sharp that Arkwright, after a moment’s pause, had said, with a whimsical smile that yet carried a touch of sadness:
“I am forced to surmise from your answer that you think it is _you_ who should be teaching _me_ moves. At all events, I seem to have been making some moves lately that have not suited you, judging by your actions. Have I offended you in any way, Alice?”
The girl turned with a quick lifting of her head. Alice knew that if ever she were to speak, it must be now. Never again could she hope for such an opportunity as this. Suddenly throwing circumspect caution quite aside, she determined that she would speak. Springing to her feet she crossed the room and seated herself in Billy’s chair at the chess-table.
“Me! Offend me!” she exclaimed, in a low voice. “As if I were the one you were offending!”
“Why, _Alice!_” murmured the man, in obvious stupefaction.
Alice raised her hand, palm outward.
“Now don’t, _please_ don’t pretend you don’t know,” she begged, almost piteously. “Please don’t add that to all the rest. Oh, I understand, of course, it’s none of my affairs, and I wasn’t going to speak,” she choked; “but, to-day, when you gave me this chance, I had to. At first I couldn’t believe it,” she plunged on, plainly hurrying against Billy’s return. “After all you’d told me of how you meant to fight it–your tiger skin. And I thought it merely _happened_ that you were here alone with her those days I came. Then, when I found out they were _always_ the days Mr. Henshaw was away at the doctor’s, I had to believe.”
She stopped for breath. Arkwright, who, up to this moment had shown that he was completely mystified as to what she was talking
about, suddenly flushed a painful red. He was obviously about to speak, but she prevented him with a quick gesture.
“There’s a little more I’ve got to say, please. As if it weren’t bad enough to do what you’re doing _at all_, but you must needs take it at such a time as this when–when her husband _isn’t_ doing just what he ought to do, and we all know it–it’s so unfair to take her now, and try to– to win– And you aren’t even fair with him,” she protested tremulously. “You pretend to be his friend. You go with him everywhere. It’s just as if you were _helping_ to–to pull him down. You’re one with the whole bunch.” (The blood suddenly receded from Arkwright’s face, leaving it very white; but if Alice saw it, she paid no heed.) “Everybody says you are. Then to come here like this, on the sly, when you know he can’t be here, I– Oh, can’t you see what you’re doing?”
There was a moment’s pause, then Arkwright spoke. A deep pain looked from his eyes. He was still very pale, and his mouth had settled into sad lines.
“I think, perhaps, it may be just as well if I tell you what I _am_ doing–or, rather, trying to do,” he said quietly.
Then he told her.
“And so you see,” he added, when he had finished the tale, “I haven’t really accomplished much, after all, and it seems the little I have accomplished has only led to my being misjudged by you, my best friend.”
Alice gave a sobbing cry. Her face was scarlet. Horror, shame, and relief struggled for mastery in her countenance.
“Oh, but I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” she moaned, twisting her hands nervously. “And now, when you’ve been so brave, so true–for me to accuse you of– Oh, can you _ever_ forgive me? But you see, knowing that you _did_ care for her, it did look–” She choked into silence, and turned away her head.
He glanced at her tenderly, mournfully.
“Yes,” he said, after a minute, in a low voice. “I can see how it did look; and so I’m going to tell you now something I had meant never to tell you. There really couldn’t have been anything in that, you see, for I found out long ago that it was gone–whatever love there had been for– Billy.”
“But your–tiger skin!”
“Oh, yes, I thought it was alive,” smiled Arkwright, sadly, “when I asked you to help me fight it. But one day, very suddenly, I discovered that it was nothing but a dead skin of dreams and memories. But I made another discovery, too. I found that just beyond lay another one, and that was very much alive.”
“Another one?” Alice turned to him in wonder. “But you never asked me to help you fight –that one!”
He shook his head.
“No; I couldn’t, you see. You couldn’t have helped me. You’d only have hindered me.”
“Hindered you?”
“Yes. You see, it was my love for–you, that I was fighting–then.”
Alice gave a low cry and flushed vividly; but Arkwright hurried on, his eyes turned away.
“Oh, I understand. I know. I’m not asking