CHAPTER XIII. PETE
Bertram Henshaw had no disquieting forebodings this time concerning his portrait of Marguerite Winthrop when the doors of the Bohemian Ten Club Exhibition were thrown open to members and invited guests. Just how great a popular success it was destined to be, he could not know, of course, though he might have suspected it when he began to receive the admiring and hearty congratulations of his friends and fellow-artists on that first evening.
Nor was the Winthrop portrait the only jewel in his crown on that occasion. His marvelously exquisite “The Rose,” and his smaller ideal picture, “Expectation,” came in for scarcely less commendation. There was no doubt now. The originator of the famous “Face of a Girl” had come into his own again. On all sides this was the verdict, one long-haired critic of international fame even claiming openly that Henshaw had not only equaled his former best work, but had gone beyond it, in both artistry and technique.
It was a brilliant gathering. Society, as usual, in costly evening gowns and correct swallow-tails rubbed elbows with names famous in the world of Art and Letters. Everywhere were gay laughter and sparkling repartee. Even the austere-faced J. G. Winthrop unbent to the extent of grim smiles in response to the laudatory comments bestowed upon the pictured image of his idol, his beautiful daughter.
As to the great financier's own opinion of the work, no one heard him express it except, perhaps, the artist; and all that he got was a grip of the hand and a “Good! I knew you'd fetch it this time, my boy!” But that was enough. And, indeed, no one who knew the stern old man needed to more than look into his face that evening to know of his entire satisfaction in this portrait soon to be the most recent, and the most cherished addition to his far-famed art collection.
As to Bertram—Bertram was pleased and happy and gratified, of course, as was natural; but he was not one whit more so than was Bertram's wife. Billy fairly radiated happiness and proud joy. She told Bertram, indeed, that if he did anything to make her any prouder, it would take an Annex the size of the Boston Opera House to hold her extra happiness.
“Sh-h, Billy! Some one will hear you,” protested Bertram, tragically; but, in spite of his horrified voice, he did not look displeased.
For the first time Billy met Marguerite Winthrop that evening. At the outset there was just a bit of shyness and constraint in the young wife's manner. Billy could not forget her old insane jealousy of this beautiful girl with the envied name of Marguerite. But it was for only a moment, and soon she was her natural, charming self.
Miss Winthrop was fascinated, and she made no pretense of hiding it. She even turned to Bertram at last, and cried:
“Surely, now, Mr. Henshaw, you need never go far for a model! Why don't you paint your wife?”
Billy colored. Bertram smiled.
“I have,” he said. “I have painted her many times. In fact, I have painted her so often that she once declared it was only the tilt of her chin and the turn of her head that I loved—to paint,” he said merrily, enjoying Billy's pretty confusion, and not realizing that his words really distressed her. “I have a whole studio full of 'Billys' at home.”
“Oh, have you, really?” questioned Miss Winthrop, eagerly. “Then mayn't I see them? Mayn't I, please, Mrs. Henshaw? I'd so love to!”
“Why, of course you may,” murmured both the artist and his wife.
“Thank you. Then I'm coming right away. May I? I'm going to Washington next week, you see. Will you let me come to-morrow at—at half-past three, then? Will it be quite convenient for you, Mrs. Henshaw?”
“Quite convenient. I shall be glad to see you,” smiled Billy. And Bertram echoed his wife's cordial permission.
“Thank you. Then I'll be there at half-past three,” nodded Miss Winthrop, with a smile, as she turned to give place to an admiring group, who were waiting to pay their respects to the artist and his wife.
There was, after all, that evening, one fly in Billy's ointment.
It fluttered in at the behest of an old acquaintance—one of the “advice women,” as Billy termed some of her too interested friends.
“Well, they're lovely, perfectly lovely, of course, Mrs. Henshaw,” said this lady, coming up to say good-night. “But, all the same, I'm glad my husband is just a plain lawyer. Look out, my dear, that while Mr. Henshaw is stealing all those pretty faces for his canvases—just look out that the fair ladies don't turn around and steal his heart before you know it. Dear me, but you must be so proud of him!”
“I am,” smiled Billy, serenely; and only the jagged split that rent the glove on her hand, at that moment, told of the fierce anger behind that smile.
“As if I couldn't trust Bertram!” raged Billy passionately to herself, stealing a surreptitious glance at her ruined glove. “And as if there weren't ever any perfectly happy marriages—even if you don't ever hear of them, or read of them!”
Bertram was not home to luncheon on the day following the opening night of the Bohemian Ten Club. A matter of business called him away from the house early in the morning; but he told his wife that he surely would be on hand for Miss Winthrop's call at half-past three o'clock that afternoon.
“Yes, do,” Billy had urged. “I think she's lovely, but you know her so much better than I do that I want you here. Besides, you needn't think I'm going to show her all those Billys of yours. I may be vain, but I'm not quite vain enough for that, sir!”
“Don't worry,” her husband had laughed. “I'll be here.”
As it chanced, however, something occurred an hour before half-past three o'clock that drove every thought of Miss Winthrop's call from Billy's head.
For three days, now, Pete had been at the home of his niece in South Boston. He had been forced, finally, to give up and go away. News from him the day before had been anything but reassuring, and to-day, Bertram being gone, Billy had suggested that Eliza serve a simple luncheon and go immediately afterward to South Boston to see how her uncle was. This suggestion Eliza had followed, leaving the house at one o'clock.
Shortly after two Calderwell had dropped in to bring Bertram, as he expressed it, a bunch of bouquets he had gathered at the picture show the night before. He was still in the drawing-room, chatting with Billy, when the telephone bell rang.
“If that's Bertram, tell him to come home; he's got company,” laughed Calderwell, as Billy passed into the hall.
A moment later he heard Billy give a startled cry, followed by a few broken words at short intervals. Then, before he could surmise what had happened, she was back in the drawing-room again, her eyes full of tears.
“It's Pete,” she choked. “Eliza says he can't live but a few minutes. He wants to see me once more. What shall I do? John's got Peggy out with Aunt Hannah and Mrs. Greggory. It was so nice to-day I made them go. But I must get there some way—Pete is calling for me. Uncle William is going, and I told Eliza where she might reach Bertram; but what shall I do? How shall I go?”
Calderwell was on his feet at once.
“I'll get a taxi. Don't worry—we'll get there. Poor old soul—of course he wants to see you! Get on your things. I'll have it here in no time,” he finished, hurrying to the telephone.
“Oh, Hugh, I'm so glad I've got you here,” sobbed Billy, stumbling blindly toward the stairway. “I'll be ready in two minutes.”
And she was; but neither then, nor a little later when she and Calderwell drove hurriedly away from the house, did Billy once remember that Miss Marguerite Winthrop was coming to call that afternoon to see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw and a roomful of Billy pictures.
Pete was still alive when Calderwell left Billy at the door of the modest little home where Eliza's mother lived.
“Yes, you're in time, ma'am,” sobbed Eliza; “and, oh, I'm so glad you've come. He's been askin' and askin' for ye.”
From Eliza Billy learned then that Mr. William was there, but not Mr. Bertram. They had not been able to reach Mr. Bertram, or Mr. Cyril.
Billy never forgot the look of reverent adoration that came into Pete's eyes as she entered the room where he lay.
“Miss Billy—my Miss Billy! You were so good-to come,” he whispered faintly.
Billy choked back a sob.
“Of course I'd come, Pete,” she said gently, taking one of the thin, worn hands into both her soft ones.
It was more than a few minutes that Pete lived. Four o'clock came, and five, and he was still with them. Often he opened his eyes and smiled. Sometimes he spoke a low word to William or Billy, or to one of the weeping women at the foot of the bed. That the presence of his beloved master and mistress meant much to him was plain to be seen.
“I'm so sorry,” he faltered once, “about that pretty dress—I spoiled, Miss Billy. But you know—my hands—”
“I know, I know,” soothed Billy; “but don't worry. It wasn't spoiled, Pete. It's all fixed now.”
“Oh, I'm so glad,” sighed the sick man. After another long interval of silence he turned to William.
“Them socks—the medium thin ones—you'd oughter be puttin' 'em on soon, sir, now. They're in the right-hand corner of the bottom drawer—you know.”
“Yes, Pete; I'll attend to it,” William managed to stammer, after he had cleared his throat.
Eliza's turn came next.
“Remember about the coffee,” Pete said to her, “—the way Mr. William likes it. And always eggs, you know, for—for—” His voice trailed into an indistinct murmur, and his eyelids drooped wearily.
One by one the minutes passed. The doctor came and went: there was nothing he could do. At half-past five the thin old face became again alight with consciousness. There was a good-by message for Bertram, and one for Cyril. Aunt Hannah was remembered, and even little Tommy Dunn. Then, gradually, a gray shadow crept over the wasted features. The words came more brokenly. The mind, plainly, was wandering, for old Pete was young again, and around him were the lads he loved, William, Cyril, and Bertram. And then, very quietly, soon after the clock struck six, Pete fell into the beginning of his long sleep.
CHAPTER XIV. WHEN BERTRAM CAME HOME
It was a little after half-past three o'clock that afternoon when Bertram Henshaw hurried up Beacon Street toward his home. He had been delayed, and he feared that Miss Winthrop would already have reached the house. Mindful of what Billy had said that morning, he knew how his wife would fret if he were not there when the guest arrived. The sight of what he surmised to be Miss Winthrop's limousine before his door hastened his steps still more. But as he reached the house, he was surprised to find Miss Winthrop herself turning away from the door.
“Why, Miss Winthrop,” he cried, “you're not going now! You can't have been here any—yet!”
“Well, no, I—I haven't,” retorted the lady, with heightened color and a somewhat peculiar emphasis. “My ring wasn't answered.”
“Wasn't answered!” Bertram reddened angrily. “Why, what can that mean? Where's the maid? Where's my wife? Mrs. Henshaw must be here! She was expecting you.”
Bertram, in his annoyed amazement, spoke loudly, vehemently. Hence he was quite plainly heard by the group of small boys and girls who had been improving the mild weather for a frolic on the sidewalk, and who had been attracted to his door a moment before by the shining magnet of the Winthrop limousine with its resplendently liveried chauffeur. As Bertram spoke, one of the small girls, Bessie Bailey, stepped forward and piped up a shrill reply.
“She ain't, Mr. Henshaw! She ain't here. I saw her go away just a little while ago.”
Bertram turned sharply.
“You saw her go away! What do you mean?”
Small Bessie swelled with importance. Bessie was thirteen, in spite of her diminutive height. Bessie's mother was dead, and Bessie's caretakers were gossiping nurses and servants, who frequently left in her way books that were much too old for Bessie to read—but she read them.
“I mean she ain't here—your wife, Mr. Henshaw. She went away. I saw her. I guess likely she's eloped, sir.”
“Eloped!”
Bessie swelled still more importantly. To her experienced eyes the situation contained all the necessary elements for the customary flight of the heroine in her story-books, as here, now, was the irate, deserted husband.
“Sure! And 'twas just before you came—quite a while before. A big shiny black automobile like this drove up—only it wasn't quite such a nice one—an' Mrs. Henshaw an' a man came out of your house an' got in, an' drove right away quick! They just ran to get into it, too—didn't they?” She appealed to her young mates grouped about her.
A chorus of shrill exclamations brought Mr. Bertram Henshaw suddenly to his senses. By a desperate effort he hid his angry annoyance as he turned to the manifestly embarrassed young woman who was already descending the steps.
“My dear Miss Winthrop,” he apologized contritely, “I'm sure you'll forgive this seeming great rudeness on the part of my wife. Notwithstanding the lurid tales of our young friends here, I suspect nothing more serious has happened than that my wife has been hastily summoned to Aunt Hannah, perhaps. Or, of course, she may not have understood that you were coming to-day at half-past three—though I thought she did. But I'm so sorry—when you were so kind as to come—” Miss Winthrop interrupted with a quick gesture.
“Say no more, I beg of you,” she entreated. “Mrs. Henshaw is quite excusable, I'm sure. Please don't give it another thought,” she finished, as with a hurried direction to the man who was holding open the door of her car, she stepped inside and bowed her good-byes.
Bertram, with stern self-control, forced himself to walk nonchalantly up his steps, leisurely take out his key, and open his door, under the interested eyes of Bessie Bailey and her friends; but once beyond their hateful stare, his demeanor underwent a complete change. Throwing aside his hat and coat, he strode to the telephone.
“Oh, is that you, Aunt Hannah?” he called crisply, a moment later. “Well, if Billy's there will you tell her I want to speak to her, please?”
“Billy?” answered Aunt Hannah's slow, gentle tones. “Why, my dear boy, Billy isn't here!”
“She isn't? Well, when did she leave? She's been there, hasn't she?”
“Why, I don't think so, but I'll see, if you like. Mrs. Greggory and I have just this minute come in from an automobile ride. We would have stayed longer, but it began to get chilly, and I forgot to take one of the shawls that I'd laid out.”
“Yes; well, if you will see, please, if Billy has been there, and when she left,” said Bertram, with grim self-control.
“All right. I'll see,” murmured Aunt Hannah. In a few moments her voice again sounded across the wires. “Why, no, Bertram, Rosa says she hasn't been here since yesterday. Isn't she there somewhere about the house? Didn't you know where she was going?”
“Well, no, I didn't—else I shouldn't have been asking you,” snapped the irate Bertram and hung up the receiver with most rude haste, thereby cutting off an astounded “Oh, my grief and conscience!” in the middle of it.
The next ten minutes Bertram spent in going through the whole house, from garret to basement. Needless to say, he found nothing to enlighten him, or to soothe his temper. Four o'clock came, then half-past, and five. At five Bertram began to look for Eliza, but in vain. At half-past five he watched for William; but William, too, did not come.
Bertram was pacing the floor now, nervously. He was a little frightened, but more mortified and angry. That Billy should have allowed Miss Winthrop to call by appointment only to find no hostess, no message, no maid, even, to answer her ring—it was inexcusable! Impulsiveness, unconventionality, and girlish irresponsibility were all very delightful, of course—at times; but not now, certainly. Billy was not a girl any longer. She was a married woman. Something was due to him, her husband! A pretty picture he must have made on those steps, trying to apologize for a truant wife, and to laugh off that absurd Bessie Bailey's preposterous assertion at the same time! What would Miss Winthrop think? What could she think? Bertram fairly ground his teeth with chagrin, at the situation in which he found himself.
Nor were matters helped any by the fact that Bertram was hungry. Bertram's luncheon had been meager and unsatisfying. That the kitchen down-stairs still remained in silent, spotless order instead of being astir with the sounds and smells of a good dinner (as it should have been) did not improve his temper. Where Billy was he could not imagine. He thought, once or twice, of calling up some of her friends; but something held him back from that—though he did try to get Marie, knowing very well that she was probably over to the new house and would not answer. He was not surprised, therefore, when he received no reply to his ring.
That there was the slightest truth in Bessie Bailey's absurd “elopement” idea, Bertram did not, of course, for an instant believe. The only thing that rankled about that was the fact that she had suggested such a thing, and that Miss Winthrop and those silly children had heard her. He recognized half of Bessie's friends as neighborhood youngsters, and he knew very well that there would be many a quiet laugh at his expense around various Beacon Street dinner-tables that night. At the thought of those dinner-tables, he scowled again. He had no dinner-table—at least, he had no dinner on it!
Who the man might be Bertram thought he could easily guess. It was either Arkwright or Calderwell, of course; and probably that tiresome Alice Greggory was mixed up in it somehow. He did wish Billy—
Six o'clock came, then half-past. Bertram was indeed frightened now, but he was more angry, and still more hungry. He had, in fact, reached that state of blind unreasonableness said to be peculiar to hungry males from time immemorial.
At ten minutes of seven a key clicked in the lock of the outer door, and William and Billy entered the hall.
It was almost dark. Bertram could not see their faces. He had not lighted the hall at all.
“Well,” he began sharply, “is this the way you receive your callers, Billy? I came home and found Miss Winthrop just leaving—no one here to receive her! Where've you been? Where's Eliza? Where's my dinner? Of course I don't mean to scold, Billy, but there is a limit to even my patience—and it's reached now. I can't help suggesting that if you would tend to your husband and your home a little more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice Greggory a little less, that—Where is Eliza, anyway?” he finished irritably, switching on the lights with a snap.
There was a moment of dead silence. At Bertram's first words Billy and William had stopped short. Neither had moved since. Now William turned and began to speak, but Billy interrupted. She met her husband's gaze steadily.
“I will be down at once to get your dinner,” she said quietly. “Eliza will not come to-night. Pete is dead.”
Bertram started forward with a quick cry.
“Dead! Oh, Billy! Then you were—there! Billy!”
But his wife did not apparently hear him. She passed him without turning her head, and went on up the stairs, leaving him to meet the sorrowful, accusing eyes of William.
CHAPTER XV. AFTER THE STORM
The young husband's apologies were profuse and abject. Bertram was heartily ashamed of himself, and was man enough to acknowledge it. Almost on his knees he begged Billy to forgive him; and in a frenzy of self-denunciation he followed her down into the kitchen that night, piteously beseeching her to speak to him, to just look at him, even, so that he might know he was not utterly despised—though he did, indeed, deserve to be more than despised, he moaned.
At first Billy did not speak, or even vouchsafe a glance in his direction. Very quietly she went about her preparations for a simple meal, paying apparently no more attention to Bertram than as if he were not there. But that her ears were only seemingly, and not really deaf, was shown very clearly a little later, when, at a particularly abject wail on the part of the babbling shadow at her heels, Billy choked into a little gasp, half laughter, half sob. It was all over then. Bertram had her in his arms in a twinkling, while to the floor clattered and rolled a knife and a half-peeled baked potato.
Naturally, after that, there could be no more dignified silences on the part of the injured wife. There were, instead, half-smiles, tears, sobs, a tremulous telling of Pete's going and his messages, followed by a tearful listening to Bertram's story of the torture he had endured at the hands of Miss Winthrop, Bessie Bailey, and an empty, dinnerless house. And thus, in one corner of the kitchen, some time later, a hungry, desperate William found them, the half-peeled, cold baked potato still at their feet.
Torn between his craving for food and his desire not to interfere with any possible peace-making, William was obviously hesitating what to do, when Billy glanced up and saw him. She saw, too, at the same time, the empty, blazing gas-stove burner, and the pile of half-prepared potatoes, to warm which the burner had long since been lighted. With a little cry she broke away from her husband's arms.
“Mercy! and here's poor Uncle William, bless his heart, with not a thing to eat yet!”
They all got dinner then, together, with many a sigh and quick-coming tear as everywhere they met some sad reminder of the gentle old hands that would never again minister to their comfort.
It was a silent meal, and little, after all, was eaten, though brave attempts at cheerfulness and naturalness were made by all three. Bertram, especially, talked, and tried to make sure that the shadow on Billy's face was at least not the one his own conduct had brought there.
“For you do—you surely do forgive me, don't you?” he begged, as he followed her into the kitchen after the sorry meal was over.
“Why, yes, dear, yes,” sighed Billy, trying to smile.
“And you'll forget?”
There was no answer.
“Billy! And you'll forget?” Bertram's voice was insistent, reproachful.
Billy changed color and bit her lip. She looked plainly distressed.
“Billy!” cried the man, still more reproachfully.
“But, Bertram, I can't forget—quite yet,” faltered Billy.
Bertram frowned. For a minute he looked as if he were about to take up the matter seriously and argue it with her; but the next moment he smiled and tossed his head with jaunty playfulness—Bertram, to tell the truth, had now had quite enough of what he privately termed “scenes” and “heroics”; and, manlike, he was very ardently longing for the old easy-going friendliness, with all unpleasantness banished to oblivion.
“Oh, but you'll have to forget,” he claimed, with cheery insistence, “for you've promised to forgive me—and one can't forgive without forgetting. So, there!” he finished, with a smilingly determined “now-everything-is-just-as-it-was-before” air.
Billy made no response. She turned hurriedly and began to busy herself with the dishes at the sink. In her heart she was wondering: could she ever forget what Bertram had said? Would anything ever blot out those awful words: “If you would tend to your husband and your home a little more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice Greggory a little less—“? It seemed now that always, for evermore, they would ring in her ears; always, for evermore, they would burn deeper and deeper into her soul. And not once, in all Bertram's apologies, had he referred to them—those words he had uttered. He had not said he did not mean them. He had not said he was sorry he spoke them. He had ignored them; and he expected that now she, too, would ignore them. As if she could!” If you would tend to your husband and your home a little more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice Greggory a little less—” Oh, if only she could, indeed,—forget!
When Billy went up-stairs that night she ran across her “Talk to Young Wives” in her desk. With a half-stifled cry she thrust it far back out of sight.
“I hate you, I hate you—with all your old talk about 'brushing up against outside interests'!” she whispered fiercely. “Well, I've 'brushed'—and now see what I've got for it!”
Later, however, after Bertram was asleep, Billy crept out of bed and got the book. Under the carefully shaded lamp in the adjoining room she turned the pages softly till she came to the sentence: “Perhaps it would be hard to find a more utterly unreasonable, irritable, irresponsible creature than a hungry man.” With a long sigh she began to read; and not until some minutes later did she close the book, turn off the light, and steal back to bed.
During the next three days, until after the funeral at the shabby little South Boston house, Eliza spent only about half of each day at the Strata. This, much to her distress, left many of the household tasks for her young mistress to perform. Billy, however, attacked each new duty with a feverish eagerness that seemed to make the performance of it very like some glad penance done for past misdeeds. And when—on the day after they had laid the old servant in his last resting place—a despairing message came from Eliza to the effect that now her mother was very ill, and would need her care, Billy promptly told Eliza to stay as long as was necessary; that they could get along all right without her.
“But, Billy, what are we going to do?” Bertram demanded, when he heard the news. “We must have somebody!”
“I'm going to do it.”
“Nonsense! As if you could!” scoffed Bertram.
Billy lifted her chin.
“Couldn't I, indeed,” she retorted. “Do you realize, young man, how much I've done the last three days? How about those muffins you had this morning for breakfast, and that cake last night? And didn't you yourself say that you never ate a better pudding than that date puff yesterday noon?”
Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear love, I'm not questioning your ability to do it,” he soothed quickly. “Still,” he added, with a whimsical smile, “I must remind you that Eliza has been here half the time, and that muffins and date puffs, however delicious, aren't all there is to running a big house like this. Besides, just be sensible, Billy,” he went on more seriously, as he noted the rebellious gleam coming into his young wife's eyes; “you'd know you couldn't do it, if you'd just stop to think. There's the Carletons coming to dinner Monday, and my studio Tea to-morrow, to say nothing of the Symphony and the opera, and the concerts you'd lose because you were too dead tired to go to them. You know how it was with that concert yesterday afternoon which Alice Greggory wanted you to go to with her.”
“I didn't—want—to go,” choked Billy, under her breath.
“And there's your music. You haven't done a thing with that for days, yet only last week you told me the publishers were hurrying you for that last song to complete the group.”
“I haven't felt like—writing,” stammered Billy, still half under her breath.
“Of course you haven't,” triumphed Bertram. “You've been too dead tired. And that's just what I say. Billy, you can't do it all yourself!”
“But I want to. I want to—to tend to things,” faltered Billy, with a half-fearful glance into her husband's face.
Billy was hearing very loudly now that accusing “If you'd tend to your husband and your home a little more—” Bertram, however, was not hearing it, evidently. Indeed, he seemed never to have heard it—much less to have spoken it.
“'Tend to things,'” he laughed lightly. “Well, you'll have enough to do to tend to the maid, I fancy. Anyhow, we're going to have one. I'll just step into one of those—what do you call 'em?—intelligence offices on my way down and send one up,” he finished, as he gave his wife a good-by kiss.
An hour later Billy, struggling with the broom and the drawing-room carpet, was called to the telephone. It was her husband's voice that came to her.
“Billy, for heaven's sake, take pity on me. Won't you put on your duds and come and engage your maid yourself?”
“Why, Bertram, what's the matter?”
“Matter? Holy smoke! Well, I've been to three of those intelligence offices—though why they call them that I can't imagine. If ever there was a place utterly devoid of intelligence-but never mind! I've interviewed four fat ladies, two thin ones, and one medium with a wart. I've cheerfully divulged all our family secrets, promised every other half-hour out, and taken oath that our household numbers three adult members, and no more; but I simply can't remember how many handkerchiefs we have in the wash each week. Billy, will you come? Maybe you can do something with them. I'm sure you can!”
“Why, of course I'll come,” chirped Billy. “Where shall I meet you?”
Bertram gave the street and number.
“Good! I'll be there,” promised Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Quite forgetting the broom in the middle of the drawing-room floor, Billy tripped up-stairs to change her dress. On her lips was a gay little song. In her heart was joy.
“I rather guess now I'm tending to my husband and my home!” she was crowing to herself.
Just as Billy was about to leave the house the telephone bell jangled again.
It was Alice Greggory.
“Billy, dear,” she called, “can't you come out? Mr. Arkwright and Mr. Calderwell are here, and they've brought some new music. We want you. Will you come?”
“I can't, dear. Bertram wants me. He's sent for me. I've got some housewifely duties to perform to-day,” returned Billy, in a voice so curiously triumphant that Alice, at her end of the wires, frowned in puzzled wonder as she turned away from the telephone.
CHAPTER XVI. INTO TRAINING FOR MARY ELLEN
Bertram told a friend afterwards that he never knew the meaning of the word “chaos” until he had seen the Strata during the weeks immediately following the laying away of his old servant.
“Every stratum was aquiver with apprehension,” he declared; “and there was never any telling when the next grand upheaval would rock the whole structure to its foundations.”
Nor was Bertram so far from being right. It was, indeed, a chaos, as none knew better than did Bertram's wife.
Poor Billy! Sorry indeed were these days for Billy; and, as if to make her cup of woe full to overflowing, there were Sister Kate's epistolary “I told you so,” and Aunt Hannah's ever recurring lament: “If only, Billy, you were a practical housekeeper yourself, they wouldn't impose on you so!”
Aunt Hannah, to be sure, offered Rosa, and Kate, by letter, offered advice—plenty of it. But Billy, stung beyond all endurance, and fairly radiating hurt pride and dogged determination, disdained all assistance, and, with head held high, declared she was getting along very well, very well indeed!
And this was the way she “got along.”
First came Nora. Nora was a blue-eyed, black-haired Irish girl, the sixth that the despairing Billy had interviewed on that fateful morning when Bertram had summoned her to his aid. Nora stayed two days. During her reign the entire Strata echoed to banged doors, dropped china, and slammed furniture. At her departure the Henshaws' possessions were less by four cups, two saucers, one plate, one salad bowl, two cut glass tumblers, and a teapot—the latter William's choicest bit of Lowestoft.
Olga came next. Olga was a Treasure. She was low-voiced, gentle-eyed, and a good cook. She stayed a week. By that time the growing frequency of the disappearance of sundry small articles of value and convenience led to Billy's making a reluctant search of Olga's room—and to Olga's departure; for the room was, indeed, a treasure house, the Treasure having gathered unto itself other treasures.
Following Olga came a period of what Bertram called “one night stands,” so frequently were the dramatis personæ below stairs changed. Gretchen drank. Christine knew only four words of English: salt, good-by, no, and yes; and Billy found need occasionally of using other words. Mary was impertinent and lazy. Jennie could not even boil a potato properly, much less cook a dinner. Sarah (colored) was willing and pleasant, but insufferably untidy. Bridget was neatness itself, but she had no conception of the value of time. Her meals were always from thirty to sixty minutes late, and half-cooked at that. Vera sang—when she wasn't whistling—and as she was generally off the key, and always off the tune, her almost frantic mistress dismissed her before twenty-four hours had passed. Then came Mary Ellen.
Mary Ellen began well. She was neat, capable, and obliging; but it did not take her long to discover just how much—and how little—her mistress really knew of practical housekeeping. Matters and things were very different then. Mary Ellen became argumentative, impertinent, and domineering. She openly shirked her work, when it pleased her so to do, and demanded perquisites and privileges so insolently that even William asked Billy one day whether Mary Ellen or Billy herself were the mistress of the Strata: and Bertram, with mock humility, inquired how soon Mary Ellen would be wanting the house. Billy, in weary despair, submitted to this bullying for almost a week; then, in a sudden accession of outraged dignity that left Mary Ellen gasping with surprise, she told the girl to go.
And thus the days passed. The maids came and the maids went, and, to Billy, each one seemed a little worse than the one before. Nowhere was there comfort, rest, or peacefulness. The nights were a torture of apprehension, and the days an even greater torture of fulfilment. Noise, confusion, meals poorly cooked and worse served, dust, disorder, and uncertainty. And this was home, Billy told herself bitterly. No wonder that Bertram telephoned more and more frequently that he had met a friend, and was dining in town. No wonder that William pushed back his plate almost every meal with his food scarcely touched, and then wandered about the house with that hungry, homesick, homeless look that nearly broke her heart. No wonder, indeed!
And so it had come. It was true. Aunt Hannah and Kate and the “Talk to Young Wives” were right. She had not been fit to marry Bertram. She had not been fit to marry anybody. Her honeymoon was not only waning, but going into a total eclipse. Had not Bertram already declared that if she would tend to her husband and her home a little more—
Billy clenched her small hands and set her round chin squarely.
Very well, she would show them. She would tend to her husband and her home. She fancied she could learn to run that house, and run it well! And forthwith she descended to the kitchen and told the then reigning tormentor that her wages would be paid until the end of the week, but that her services would be immediately dispensed with.
Billy was well aware now that housekeeping was a matter of more than muffins and date puffs. She could gauge, in a measure, the magnitude of the task to which she had set herself. But she did not falter; and very systematically she set about making her plans.
With a good stout woman to come in twice a week for the heavier work, she believed she could manage by herself very well until Eliza could come back. At least she could serve more palatable meals than the most of those that had appeared lately; and at least she could try to make a home that would not drive Bertram to club dinners, and Uncle William to hungry wanderings from room to room. Meanwhile, all the time, she could be learning, and in due course she would reach that shining goal of Housekeeping Efficiency, short of which—according to Aunt Hannah and the “Talk to Young Wives”—no woman need hope for a waneless honeymoon.
So chaotic and erratic had been the household service, and so quietly did Billy slip into her new role, that it was not until the second meal after the maid's departure that the master of the house discovered what had happened. Then, as his wife rose to get some forgotten article, he questioned, with uplifted eyebrows:
“Too good to wait upon us, is my lady now, eh?”
“My lady is waiting on you,” smiled Billy.
“Yes, I see this lady is,” retorted Bertram, grimly; “but I mean our real lady in the kitchen. Great Scott, Billy, how long are you going to stand this?”
Billy tossed her head airily, though she shook in her shoes. Billy had been dreading this moment.
“I'm not standing it. She's gone,” responded Billy, cheerfully, resuming her seat. “Uncle William, sha'n't I give you some more pudding?”
“Gone, so soon?” groaned Bertram, as William passed his plate, with a smiling nod. “Oh, well,” went on Bertram, resignedly, “she stayed longer than the last one. When is the next one coming?”
“She's already here.”
Bertram frowned.
“Here? But—you served the dessert, and—” At something in Billy's face, a quick suspicion came into his own. “Billy, you don't mean that you—you—”
“Yes,” she nodded brightly, “that's just what I mean. I'm the next one.”
“Nonsense!” exploded Bertram, wrathfully. “Oh, come, Billy, we've been all over this before. You know I can't have it.”
“Yes, you can. You've got to have it,” retorted Billy, still with that disarming, airy cheerfulness. “Besides, 'twon't be half so bad as you think. Wasn't that a good pudding to-night? Didn't you both come back for more? Well, I made it.”
“Puddings!” ejaculated Bertram, with an impatient gesture. “Billy, as I've said before, it takes something besides puddings to run this house.”
“Yes, I know it does,” dimpled Billy, “and I've got Mrs. Durgin for that part. She's coming twice a week, and more, if I need her. Why, dearie, you don't know anything about how comfortable you're going to be! I'll leave it to Uncle William if—”
But Uncle William had gone. Silently he had slipped from his chair and disappeared. Uncle William, it might be mentioned in passing, had never quite forgotten Aunt Hannah's fateful call with its dire revelations concerning a certain unwanted, superfluous, third-party husband's brother. Remembering this, there were times when he thought absence was both safest and best. This was one of the times.
“But, Billy, dear,” still argued Bertram, irritably, “how can you? You don't know how. You've had no experience.”
Billy threw back her shoulders. An ominous light came to her eyes. She was no longer airily playful.
“That's exactly it, Bertram. I don't know how—but I'm going to learn. I haven't had experience—but I'm going to get it. I can't make a worse mess of it than we've had ever since Eliza went, anyway!”
“But if you'd get a maid—a good maid,” persisted Bertram, feebly.
“I had one—Mary Ellen. She was a good maid—until she found out how little her mistress knew; then—well, you know what it was then. Do you think I'd let that thing happen to me again? No, sir! I'm going into training for—my next Mary Ellen!” And with a very majestic air Billy rose from the table and began to clear away the dishes.