CHAPTER VI. “THE PAINTING LOOK”
It was toward the last of October that Billy began to notice her husband's growing restlessness. Twice, when she had been playing to him, she turned to find him testing the suppleness of his injured arm. Several times, failing to receive an answer to her questions, she had looked up to discover him gazing abstractedly at nothing in particular.
They read and walked and talked together, to be sure, and Bertram's devotion to her lightest wish was beyond question; but more and more frequently these days Billy found him hovering over his sketches in his studio; and once, when he failed to respond to the dinner-bell, search revealed him buried in a profound treatise on “The Art of Foreshortening.”
Then came the day when Billy, after an hour's vain effort to imprison within notes a tantalizing melody, captured the truant and rain down to the studio to tell Bertram of her victory.
But Bertram did not seem even to hear her. True, he leaped to his feet and hurried to meet her, his face radiantly aglow; but she had not ceased to speak before he himself was talking.
“Billy, Billy, I've been sketching,” he cried. “My hand is almost steady. See, some of those lines are all right! I just picked up a crayon and—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes on Billy's face. A vaguely troubled shadow crossed his own. “Did—did you—were you saying anything in—in particular, when you came in?” he stammered.
For a short half-minute Billy looked at her husband without speaking. Then, a little queerly, she laughed.
“Oh, no, nothing at all in particular,” she retorted airily. The next moment, with one of her unexpected changes of manner, she darted across the room, picked up a palette, and a handful of brushes from the long box near it. Advancing toward her husband she held them out dramatically. “And now paint, my lord, paint!” she commanded him, with stern insistence, as she thrust them into his hands.
Bertram laughed shamefacedly.
“Oh, I say, Billy,” he began; but Billy had gone.
Out in the hall Billy was speeding up-stairs, talking fiercely to herself.
“We'll, Billy Neilson Henshaw, it's come! Now behave yourself. That was the painting look! You know what that means. Remember, he belongs to his Art before he does to you. Kate and everybody says so. And you—you expected him to tend to you and your silly little songs. Do you want to ruin his career? As if now he could spend all his time and give all his thoughts to you! But I—I just hate that Art!”
“What did you say, Billy?” asked William, in mild surprise, coming around the turn of the balustrade in the hall above. “Were you speaking to me, my dear?”
Billy looked up. Her face cleared suddenly, and she laughed—though a little ruefully.
“No, Uncle William, I wasn't talking to you,” she sighed. “I was just—just administering first aid to the injured,” she finished, as she whisked into her own room.
“Well, well, bless the child! What can she mean by that?” puzzled Uncle William, turning to go down the stairway.
Bertram began to paint a very little the next day. He painted still more the next, and yet more again the day following. He was like a bird let out of a cage, so joyously alive was he. The old sparkle came back to his eye, the old gay smile to his lips. Now that they had come back Billy realized what she had not been conscious of before: that for several weeks past they had not been there; and she wondered which hurt the more—that they had not been there before, or that they were there now. Then she scolded herself roundly for asking the question at all.
They were not easy—those days for Billy, though always to Bertram she managed to show a cheerfully serene face. To Uncle William, also, and to Aunt Hannah she showed a smiling countenance; and because she could not talk to anybody else of her feelings, she talked to herself. This, however, was no new thing for Billy to do From earliest childhood she had fought things out in like manner.
“But it's so absurd of you, Billy Henshaw,” she berated herself one day, when Bertram had become so absorbed in his work that he had forgotten to keep his appointment with her for a walk. “Just because you have had his constant attention almost every hour since you were married is no reason why you should have it every hour now, when his arm is better! Besides, it's exactly what you said you wouldn't do—object—to his giving proper time to his work.”
“But I'm not objecting,” stormed the other half of herself. “I'm telling him to do it. It's only that he's so—so pleased to do it. He doesn't seem to mind a bit being away from me. He's actually happy!”
“Well, don't you want him to be happy in his work? Fie! For shame! A fine artist's wife you are. It seems Kate was right, then; you are going to spoil his career!”
“Ho!” quoth Billy, and tossed her head. Forthwith she crossed the room to her piano and plumped herself down hard on to the stool. Then, from under her fingers there fell a rollicking melody that seemed to fill the room with little dancing feet. Faster and faster sped Billy's fingers; swifter and swifter twinkled the little dancing feet. Then a door was jerked open, and Bertram's voice called:
“Billy!”
The music stopped instantly. Billy sprang from her seat, her eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice. Perhaps—perhaps Bertram wanted her. Perhaps he was not going to paint any longer that morning, after all. “Billy!” called the voice again. “Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while? I'm a brute, I know, dear, but my brush will try to keep time with that crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady, anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig, jiggety, jig, jig—! Do you mind, darling, just—just sewing, or doing something still for a while?”
All the light fled from Billy's face, but her voice, when she spoke, was the quintessence of cheery indifference.
“Why, no, of course not, dear.”
“Thank you. I knew you wouldn't,” sighed Bertram. Then the door shut.
For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch and sped to the telephone.
“Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa?” she called when the operator's ring was answered.
“Mis' Greggory, the lame one?”
“No; Miss Greggory—Miss Alice.”
“Oh! Yes'm.”
“Then won't you ask her to come to the telephone, please.”
There was a moment's wait, during which Billy's small, well-shod foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor.
“Oh, is that you, Alice?” she called then. “Are you going to be home for an hour or two?”
“Why, y-yes; yes, indeed.”
“Then I'm coming over. We'll play duets, sing—anything. I want some music.”
“Do! And—Mr. Arkwright is here. He'll help.”
“Mr. Arkwright? You say he's there? Then I won't—Yes, I will, too.” Billy spoke with renewed firmness. “I'll be there right away. Good-by.” And she hung up the receiver, and went to tell Pete to order John and Peggy at once.
“I suppose I ought to have left Alice and Mr. Arkwright alone together,” muttered the young wife feverishly, as she hurriedly prepared for departure. “But I'll make it up to them later. I'm going to give them lots of chances. But to-day—to-day I just had to go—somewhere!”
At the Annex, with Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy sang duets and trios, and reveled in a sonorous wilderness of new music to her heart's content. Then, rested, refreshed, and at peace with all the world, she hurried home to dinner and to Bertram.
“There! I feel better,” she sighed, as she took off her hat in her own room; “and now I'll go find Bertram. Bless his heart—of course he didn't want me to play when he was so busy!”
Billy went straight to the studio, but Bertram was not there. Neither was he in William's room, nor anywhere in the house. Down-stairs in the dining-room Pete was found looking rather white, leaning back in a chair. He struggled at once to his feet, however, as his mistress entered the room.
Billy hurried forward with a startled exclamation.
“Why, Pete, what is it? Are you sick?” she cried, her glance encompassing the half-set table.
“No, ma'am; oh, no, ma'am!” The old man stumbled forward and began to arrange the knives and forks. “It's just a pesky pain—beggin' yer pardon—in my side. But I ain't sick. No, Miss—ma'am.”
Billy frowned and shook her head. Her eyes were on Pete's palpably trembling hands.
“But, Pete, you are sick,” she protested. “Let Eliza do that.”
Pete drew himself stiffly erect. The color had begun to come back to his face.
“There hain't no one set this table much but me for more'n fifty years, an' I've got a sort of notion that nobody can do it just ter suit me. Besides, I'm better now. It's gone—that pain.”
“But, Pete, what is it? How long have you had it?”
“I hain't had it any time, steady. It's the comin' an' goin' kind. It seems silly ter mind it at all; only, when it does come, it sort o' takes the backbone right out o' my knees, and they double up so's I have ter set down. There, ye see? I'm pert as a sparrer, now!” And, with stiff celerity, Pete resumed his task.
His mistress still frowned.
“That isn't right, Pete,” she demurred, with a slow shake of her head. “You should see a doctor.”
The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little aggressively.
“Humph! Beggin' yer pardon, Miss—ma'am, but I don't think much o' them doctor chaps.”
Billy shook her head again as she smiled and turned away. Then, as if casually, she asked:
“Oh, did Mr. Bertram go out, Pete?”
“Yes, Miss; about five o'clock. He said he'd be back to dinner.”
“Oh! All right.”
From the hall the telephone jangled sharply.
“I'll go,” said Pete's mistress, as she turned and hurried up-stairs.
It was Bertram's voice that answered her opening “Hullo.”
“Oh, Billy, is that you, dear? Well, you're just the one I wanted. I wanted to say—that is, I wanted to ask you—” The speaker cleared his throat a little nervously, and began all over again. “The fact is, Billy, I've run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them. Would you mind—very much if I did?”
A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart. She caught her breath with a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the words came.
“Why, no—no, of course not!” Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful.
“You sure you won't be—lonesome?” Bertram's voice was vaguely troubled.
“Of course not!”
“You've only to say the word, little girl,” came Bertram's anxious tones again, “and I won't stay.”
Billy swallowed convulsively. If only, only he would stop and leave her to herself! As if she were going to own up that she was lonesome for him—if he was not lonesome for her!
“Nonsense! of course you'll stay,” called Billy, still in that high-pitched, shaky treble. Then, before Bertram could answer, she uttered a gay “Good-by!” and hung up the receiver.
Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete's gong sounded for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at her door, and called:
“Gone to sleep, my dear? Dinner's ready. Didn't you hear the gong?”
“Yes, I'm coming, Uncle William.” Billy spoke with breezy gayety, and threw open the door; but she did not meet Uncle William's eyes. Her head was turned away. Her hands were fussing with the hang of her skirt.
“Bertram's dining out, Pete tells me,” observed William, with cheerful nonchalance, as they went down-stairs together.
Billy bit her lip and looked up sharply. She had been bracing herself to meet with disdainful indifference this man's pity—the pity due a poor neglected wife whose husband preferred to dine with old classmates rather than with herself. Now she found in William's face, not pity, but a calm, even jovial, acceptance of the situation as a matter of course. She had known she was going to hate that pity; but now, curiously enough, she was conscious only of anger that the pity was not there—that she might hate it.
She tossed her head a little. So even William—Uncle William—regarded this monstrous thing as an insignificant matter of everyday experience. Maybe he expected it to occur frequently—every night, or so. Doubtless he did expect it to occur every night, or so. Indeed! Very well. As if she were going to show now that she cared whether Bertram were there or not! They should see.
So with head held high and eyes asparkle, Billy marched into the dining-room and took her accustomed place.
CHAPTER VII. THE BIG BAD QUARREL
It was a brilliant dinner—because Billy made it so. At first William met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort. Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his hand shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled. This threatened catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was very grave throughout the rest of the dinner.
Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in spite of the young woman's gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair before the fire, leaving Billy with only Spunkie for company—Spunkie, who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap.
Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her watch.
Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram to be coming. He had said “dinner”; and, of course, after dinner was over he would be coming home—to her. Very well; she would show him that she had at least got along without him as well as he had without her. At all events he would not find her forlornly sitting with her nose pressed against the window-pane! And forthwith Billy established herself in a big chair (with its back carefully turned toward the door by which Bertram would enter), and opened a book.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Billy fidgeted in her chair, twisted her neck to look out into the hall—and dropped her book with a bang.
Uncle William jerked himself awake, and Spunkie opened sleepy eyes. Then both settled themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked up her book, and flounced back into her chair. But she did not read. Disconsolately she sat staring straight ahead—until a quick step on the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action. Assuming a look of absorbed interest she twitched the book open and held it before her face.... But the step passed by the door: and Billy saw then that her book was upside down.
Five, ten, fifteen more minutes passed. Billy still sat, apparently reading, though she had not turned a page. The book now, however, was right side up. One by one other minutes passed till the great clock in the hall struck nine long strokes.
“Well, well, bless my soul!” mumbled Uncle William, resolutely forcing himself to wake up. “What time was that?”
“Nine o'clock.” Billy spoke with tragic distinctness, yet very cheerfully.
“Eh? Only nine?” blinked Uncle William. “I thought it must be ten. Well, anyhow, I believe I'll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually sleepy.”
Billy said nothing. “'Only nine,' indeed!” she was thinking wrathfully.
At the door Uncle William turned.
“You're not going to sit up, my dear, of course,” he remarked.
For the second time that evening a cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart.
Sit up! Had it come already to that? Was she even now a wife who had need to sit up for her husband?
“I really wouldn't, my dear,” advised Uncle William again. “Good night.”
“Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet,” Billy managed to declare brightly. “Good night.”
Then Uncle William went up-stairs.
Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William's on “Fake Antiques.”
“'To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the utmost care and discrimination,'” read Billy's eyes. “So Uncle William expected Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay to dinner!” ran Billy's thoughts. “'The enormous quantity of bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, is made on the Continent—and made chiefly for the American trade,'” continued the book.
“Well, who cares if it is,” snapped Billy, springing to her feet and tossing the volume aside. “Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay—gay—GAY! He's gay. He's down there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd rather be than be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too. Now, come, Spunkie; hurry—wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure.” And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls, full in Spunkie's face.
But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie would not play. She pretended to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling balls. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in her big yellow eyes. Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet, and Spunkie's sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort. Spunkie was asleep.
Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.
“And you, too, Spunkie,” she murmured. Then she got to her feet and went back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn the leaves very fast, one after another.
Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get Spunkie, and to see that everything was all right for the night.
“Mr. Bertram is not in yet?” he began doubtfully.
Billy shook her head with a bright smile.
“No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every minute. Good night.”
“Thank you, ma'am. Good night.”
The old man picked up the sleepy cat and went down-stairs. A little later Billy heard his quiet steps coming back through the hall and ascending the stairs. She listened until from away at the top of the house she heard his door close. Then she drew a long breath.
Ten o'clock—after ten o'clock, and Bertram not there yet! And was this what he called dinner? Did one eat, then, till ten o'clock, when one dined with one's friends?
Billy was angry now—very angry. She was too angry to be reasonable. This thing that her husband had done seemed monstrous to her, smarting, as she was, under the sting of hurt pride and grieved loneliness—the state of mind into which she had worked herself. No longer now did she wish to be gay when her husband came. No longer did she even pretend to assume indifference. Bertram had done wrong. He had been unkind, cruel, thoughtless, inconsiderate of her comfort and happiness. Furthermore he did not love her as well as she did him or he never, never could have done it! She would let him see, when he came, just how hurt and grieved she was—and how disappointed, too.
Billy was walking the floor now, back and forth, back and forth.
Half-past ten came, then eleven. As the eleven long strokes reverberated through the silent house Billy drew in her breath and held it suspended. A new look came to her eyes. A growing terror crept into them and culminated in a frightened stare at the clock.
Billy ran then to the great outer door and pulled it open. A cold wind stung her face, and caused her to shut the door quickly. Back and forth she began to pace the floor again; but in five minutes she had run to the door once more. This time she wore a heavy coat of Bertram's which she caught up as she passed the hall-rack.
Out on to the broad top step Billy hurried, and peered down the street. As far as she could see not a person was in sight. Across the street in the Public Garden the wind stirred the gray tree-branches and set them to casting weird shadows on the bare, frozen ground. A warning something behind her sent Billy scurrying into the house just in time to prevent the heavy door's closing and shutting her out, keyless, in the cold.
Half-past eleven came, and again Billy ran to the door. This time she put the floor-mat against the casing so that the door could not close. Once more she peered wildly up and down the street, and across into the deserted, wind-swept Garden.
There was only terror now in Billy's face. The anger was all gone. In Billy's mind there was not a shadow of doubt—something had happened to Bertram.
Bertram was ill—hurt—dead! And he was so good, so kind, so noble; such a dear, dear husband! If only she could see him once. If only she could ask his forgiveness for those wicked, unkind, accusing thoughts. If only she could tell him again that she did love him. If only—
Far down the street a step rang sharply on the frosty air. A masculine figure was hurrying toward the house. Retreating well into the shadow of the doorway, Billy watched it, her heart pounding against her side in great suffocating throbs. Nearer and nearer strode the approaching figure until Billy had almost sprung to meet it with a glad cry—almost, but not quite; for the figure neither turned nor paused, but marched straight on—and Billy saw then, under the arc light, a brown-bearded man who was not Bertram at all.
Three times during the next few minutes did the waiting little bride on the doorstep watch with palpitating yearning a shadowy form appear, approach—and pass by. At the third heart-breaking disappointment, Billy wrung her hands helplessly.
“I don't see how there can be—so many—utterly useless people in the world!” she choked. Then, thoroughly chilled and sick at heart, she went into the house and closed the door.
Once again, back and forth, back and forth, Billy took up her weary vigil. She still wore the heavy coat. She had forgotten to take it off. Her face was pitifully white and drawn. Her eyes were wild. One of her hands was nervously caressing the rough sleeve of the coat as it hung from her shoulder.
One—two—three—
Billy gave a sharp cry and ran into the hall.
Yes, it was twelve o'clock. And now, always, all the rest of the dreary, useless hours that that clock would tick away through an endless existence, she would have to live—without Bertram. If only she could see him once more! But she could not. He was dead. He must be dead, now. Here it was twelve o'clock, and—
There came a quick step, the click of a key in the lock, then the door swung back and Bertram, big, strong, and merry-eyed, stood before her.
“Well, well, hullo,” he called jovially. “Why, Billy, what's the matter?” he broke off, in quite a different tone of voice.
And then a curious thing happened. Billy, who, a minute before, had been seeing only a dear, noble, adorable, lost Bertram, saw now suddenly only the man that had stayed happily till midnight with two friends, while she—she—
“Matter! Matter!” exclaimed Billy sharply, then. “Is this what you call staying to dinner, Bertram Henshaw?”
Bertram stared. A slow red stole to his forehead. It was his first experience of coming home to meet angry eyes that questioned his behavior—and he did not like it. He had been, perhaps, a little conscience-smitten when he saw how late he had stayed; and he had intended to say he was sorry, of course. But to be thus sharply called to account for a perfectly innocent good time with a couple of friends—! To come home and find Billy making a ridiculous scene like this—! He—he would not stand for it! He—
Bertram's lips snapped open. The angry retort was almost spoken when something in the piteously quivering chin and white, drawn face opposite stopped it just in time.
“Why, Billy—darling!” he murmured instead.
It was Billy's turn to change. All the anger melted away before the dismayed tenderness in those dear eyes and the grieved hurt in that dear voice.
“Well, you—you—I—” Billy began to cry.
It was all right then, of course, for the next minute she was crying on Bertram's big, broad shoulder; and in the midst of broken words, kisses, gentle pats, and inarticulate croonings, the Big, Bad Quarrel, that had been all ready to materialize, faded quite away into nothingness.
“I didn't have such an awfully good time, anyhow,” avowed Bertram, when speech became rational. “I'd rather have been home with you.”
“Nonsense!” blinked Billy, valiantly. “Of course you had a good time; and it was perfectly right you should have it, too! And I—I hope you'll have it again.”
“I sha'n't,” emphasized Bertram, promptly, “—not and leave you!”
Billy regarded him with adoring eyes.
“I'll tell you; we'll have 'em come here,” she proposed gayly.
“Sure we will,” agreed Bertram.
“Yes; sure we will,” echoed Billy, with a contented sigh. Then, a little breathlessly, she added: “Anyhow, I'll know—where you are. I won't think you're—dead!”
“You—blessed—little-goose!” scolded Bertram, punctuating each word with a kiss.
Billy drew a long sigh.
“If this is a quarrel I'm going to have them often,” she announced placidly.
“Billy!” The young husband was plainly aghast.
“Well, I am—because I like the making-up,” dimpled Billy, with a mischievous twinkle as she broke from his clasp and skipped ahead up the stairway.
CHAPTER VIII. BILLY CULTIVATES A “COMFORTABLE INDIFFERENCE”
The next morning, under the uncompromising challenge of a bright sun, Billy began to be uneasily suspicious that she had been just a bit unreasonable and exacting the night before. To make matters worse she chanced to run across a newspaper criticism of a new book bearing the ominous title: “When the Honeymoon Wanes A Talk to Young Wives.”
Such a title, of course, attracted her supersensitive attention at once; and, with a curiously faint feeling, she picked up the paper and began to read.
As the most of the criticism was taken up with quotations from the book, it was such sentences as these that met her startled eyes:
“Perhaps the first test comes when the young wife awakes to the realization that while her husband loves her very much, he can still make plans with his old friends which do not include herself.... Then is when the foolish wife lets her husband see how hurt she is that he can want to be with any one but herself.... Then is when the husband—used all his life to independence, perhaps—begins to chafe under these new bonds that hold him so fast.... No man likes to be held up at the end of a threatened scene and made to give an account of himself.... Before a woman has learned to cultivate a comfortable indifference to her husband's comings and goings, she is apt to be tyrannical and exacting.”
“'Comfortable indifference,' indeed!” stormed Billy to herself. “As if I ever could be comfortably indifferent to anything Bertram did!”
She dropped the paper; but there were still other quotations from the book there, she knew; and in a moment she was back at the table reading them.
“No man, however fondly he loves his wife, likes to feel that she is everlastingly peering into the recesses of his mind, and weighing his every act to find out if he does or does not love her to-day as well as he did yesterday at this time.... Then, when spontaneity is dead, she is the chief mourner at its funeral.... A few couples never leave the Garden of Eden. They grow old hand in hand. They are the ones who bear and forbear; who have learned to adjust themselves to the intimate relationship of living together.... A certain amount of liberty, both of action and thought, must be allowed on each side.... The family shut in upon itself grows so narrow that all interest in the outside world is lost.... No two people are ever fitted to fill each other's lives entirely. They ought not to try to do it. If they do try, the process is belittling to each, and the result, if it is successful, is nothing less than a tragedy; for it could not mean the highest ideals, nor the truest devotion.... Brushing up against other interests and other personalities is good for both husband and wife. Then to each other they bring the best of what they have found, and each to the other continues to be new and interesting.... The young wife, however, is apt to be jealous of everything that turns her husband's attention for one moment away from herself. She is jealous of his thoughts, his words, his friends, even his business.... But the wife who has learned to be the clinging vine when her husband wishes her to cling, and to be the sturdy oak when clinging vines would be tiresome, has solved a tremendous problem.”
At this point Billy dropped the paper. She flung it down, indeed, a bit angrily. There were still a few more words in the criticism, mostly the critic's own opinion of the book; but Billy did not care for this. She had read quite enough—too much, in fact. All that sort of talk might be very well, even necessary, perhaps (she told herself), for ordinary husbands and wives! but for her and Bertram—
Then vividly before her rose those initial quoted words:
“Perhaps the first test comes when the young wife awakes to the realization that while her husband loves her very much, he can still make plans with his old friends which do not include herself.”
Billy frowned, and put her finger to her lips. Was that then, last night, a “test”? Had she been “tyrannical and exacting”? Was she “everlastingly peering into the recesses” of Bertram's mind and “weighing his every act”? Was Bertram already beginning to “chafe” under these new bonds that held him?
No, no, never that! She could not believe that. But what if he should sometime begin to chafe? What if they two should, in days to come, degenerate into just the ordinary, everyday married folk, whom she saw about her everywhere, and for whom just such horrid books as this must be written? It was unbelievable, unthinkable. And yet, that man had said—
With a despairing sigh Billy picked up the paper once more and read carefully every word again. When she had finished she stood soberly thoughtful, her eyes out of the window.
After all, it was nothing but the same old story. She was exacting. She did want her husband's every thought. She gloried in peering into every last recess of his mind if she had half a chance. She was jealous of his work. She had almost hated his painting—at times. She had held him up with a threatened scene only the night before and demanded that he should give an account of himself. She had, very likely, been the clinging vine when she should have been the sturdy oak.
Very well, then. (Billy lifted her head and threw back her shoulders.) He should have no further cause for complaint. She would be an oak. She would cultivate that comfortable indifference to his comings and goings. She would brush up against other interests and personalities so as to be “new” and “interesting” to her husband. She would not be tyrannical, exacting, or jealous. She would not threaten scenes, nor peer into recesses. Whatever happened, she would not let Bertram begin to chafe against those bonds!
Having arrived at this heroic and (to her) eminently satisfactory state of mind, Billy turned from the window and fell to work on a piece of manuscript music.
“'Brush up against other interests,'” she admonished herself sternly, as she reached for her pen.
Theoretically it was beautiful; but practically—
Billy began at once to be that oak. Not an hour after she had first seen the fateful notice of “When the Honeymoon Wanes,” Bertram's ring sounded at the door down-stairs.
Bertram always let himself in with his latchkey; but, from the first of Billy's being there, he had given a peculiar ring at the bell which would bring his wife flying to welcome him if she were anywhere in the house. To-day, when the bell sounded, Billy sprang as usual to her feet, with a joyous “There's Bertram!” But the next moment she fell back.
“Tut, tut, Billy Neilson Henshaw! Learn to cultivate a comfortable indifference to your husband's comings and goings,” she whispered fiercely. Then she sat down and fell to work again.
A moment later she heard her husband's voice talking to some one—Pete, she surmised. “Here? You say she's here?” Then she heard Bertram's quick step on the stairs. The next minute, very quietly, he came to her door.
“Ho!” he ejaculated gayly, as she rose to receive his kiss. “I thought I'd find you asleep, when you didn't hear my ring.”
Billy reddened a little.
“Oh, no, I wasn't asleep.”
“But you didn't hear—” Bertram stopped abruptly, an odd look in his eyes. “Maybe you did hear it, though,” he corrected.
Billy colored more confusedly. The fact that she looked so distressed did not tend to clear Bertram's face.
“Why, of course, Billy, I didn't mean to insist on your coming to meet me,” he began a little stiffly; but Billy interrupted him.
“Why, Bertram, I just love to go to meet you,” she maintained indignantly. Then, remembering just in time, she amended: “That is, I did love to meet you, until—” With a sudden realization that she certainly had not helped matters any, she came to an embarrassed pause.
A puzzled frown showed on Bertram's face.
“You did love to meet me until—” he repeated after her; then his face changed. “Billy, you aren't—you can't be laying up last night against me!” he reproached her a little irritably.
“Last night? Why, of course not,” retorted Billy, in a panic at the bare mention of the “test” which—according to “When the Honeymoon Wanes”—was at the root of all her misery. Already she thought she detected in Bertram's voice signs that he was beginning to chafe against those “bonds.” “It is a matter of—of the utmost indifference to me what time you come home at night, my dear,” she finished airily, as she sat down to her work again.
Bertram stared; then he frowned, turned on his heel and left the room. Bertram, who knew nothing of the “Talk to Young Wives” in the newspaper at Billy's feet, was surprised, puzzled, and just a bit angry.
Billy, left alone, jabbed her pen with such force against her paper that the note she was making became an unsightly blot.
“Well, if this is what that man calls being 'comfortably indifferent,' I'd hate to try the uncomfortable kind,” she muttered with emphasis.
CHAPTER IX. THE DINNER BILLY TRIED TO GET
Notwithstanding what Billy was disposed to regard as the non-success of her first attempt to profit by the “Talk to Young Wives;” she still frantically tried to avert the waning of her honeymoon. Assiduously she cultivated the prescribed “indifference,” and with at least apparent enthusiasm she sought the much-to-be-desired “outside interests.” That is, she did all this when she thought of it when something reminded her of the sword of destruction hanging over her happiness. At other times, when she was just being happy without question, she was her old self impulsive, affectionate, and altogether adorable.
Naturally, under these circumstances, her conduct was somewhat erratic. For three days, perhaps, she would fly to the door at her husband's ring, and hang upon his every movement. Then, for the next three, she would be a veritable will-o'-the-wisp for elusiveness, caring, apparently, not one whit whether her husband came or went until poor Bertram, at his wit's end, scourged himself with a merciless catechism as to what he had done to vex her. Then, perhaps, just when he had nerved himself almost to the point of asking her what was the trouble, there would come another change, bringing back to him the old Billy, joyous, winsome, and devoted, plainly caring nothing for anybody or anything but himself. Scarcely, however, would he become sure that it was his Billy back again before she was off once more, quite beyond his reach, singing with Arkwright and Alice Greggory, playing with Tommy Dunn, plunging into some club or church work—anything but being with him.
That all this was puzzling and disquieting to Bertram, Billy not once suspected. Billy, so far as she was concerned, was but cultivating a comfortable indifference, brushing up against outside interests, and being an oak.
December passed, and January came, bringing Miss Marguerite Winthrop to her Boston home. Bertram's arm was “as good as ever” now, according to its owner; and the sittings for the new portrait began at once. This left Billy even more to her own devices, for Bertram entered into his new work with an enthusiasm born of a glad relief from forced idleness, and a consuming eagerness to prove that even though he had failed the first time, he could paint a portrait of Marguerite Winthrop that would be a credit to himself, a conclusive retort to his critics, and a source of pride to his once mortified friends. With his whole heart, therefore, he threw himself into the work before him, staying sometimes well into the afternoon on the days Miss Winthrop could find time between her social engagements to give him a sitting.
It was on such a day, toward the middle of the month, that Billy was called to the telephone at half-past twelve o'clock to speak to her husband.
“Billy, dear,” began Bertram at once, “if you don't mind I'm staying to luncheon at Miss Winthrop's kind request. We've changed the pose—neither of us was satisfied, you know—but we haven't quite settled on the new one. Miss Winthrop has two whole hours this afternoon that she can give me if I'll stay; and, of course, under the circumstances, I want to do it.”
“Of course,” echoed Billy. Billy's voice was indomitably cheerful.
“Thank you, dear. I knew you'd understand,” sighed Bertram, contentedly. “You see, really, two whole hours, so—it's a chance I can't afford to lose.”
“Of course you can't,” echoed Billy, again.
“All right then. Good-by till to-night,” called the man.
“Good-by,” answered Billy, still cheerfully. As she turned away, however, she tossed her head. “A new pose, indeed!” she muttered, with some asperity. “Just as if there could be a new pose after all those she tried last year!”
Immediately after luncheon Pete and Eliza started for South Boston to pay a visit to Eliza's mother, and it was soon after they left the house that Bertram called his wife up again.
“Say, dearie, I forgot to tell you,” he began, “but I met an old friend in the subway this morning, and I—well, I remembered what you said about bringing 'em home to dinner next time, so I asked him for to-night. Do you mind? It's—”
“Mind? Of course not! I'm glad you did,” plunged in Billy, with feverish eagerness. (Even now, just the bare mention of anything connected with that awful “test” night was enough to set Billy's nerves to tingling.) “I want you to always bring them home, Bertram.”
“All right, dear. We'll be there at six o'clock then. It's—it's Calderwell, this time. You remember Calderwell, of course.”
“Not—Hugh Calderwell?” Billy's question was a little faint.
“Sure!” Bertram laughed oddly, and lowered his voice. “I suspect once I wouldn't have brought him home to you. I was too jealous. But now—well, now maybe I want him to see what he's lost.”
“Bertram!”
But Bertram only laughed mischievously, and called a gay “Good-by till to-night, then!”
Billy, at her end of the wires, hung up the receiver and backed against the wall a little palpitatingly.
Calderwell! To dinner—Calderwell! Did she remember Calderwell? Did she, indeed! As if one could easily forget the man that, for a year or two, had proposed marriage as regularly (and almost as lightly!) as he had torn a monthly leaf from his calendar! Besides, was it not he, too, who had said that Bertram would never love any girl, really; that it would be only the tilt of her chin or the turn of her head that he loved—to paint? And now he was coming to dinner—and with Bertram.
Very well, he should see! He should see that Bertram did love her; her—not the tilt of her chin nor the turn of her head. He should see how happy they were, what a good wife she made, and how devoted and satisfied Bertram was in his home. He should see! And forthwith Billy picked up her skirts and tripped up-stairs to select her very prettiest house-gown to do honor to the occasion. Up-stairs, however, one thing and another delayed her, so that it was four o'clock when she turned her attention to her toilet; and it was while she was hesitating whether to be stately and impressive in royally sumptuous blue velvet and ermine, or cozy and tantalizingly homy{sic} in bronze-gold crêpe de Chine and swan's-down, that the telephone bell rang again.
Eliza and Pete had not yet returned; so, as before, Billy answered it. This time Eliza's shaking voice came to her.
“Is that you, ma'am?”
“Why, yes, Eliza?”
“Yes'm, it's me, ma'am. It's about Uncle Pete. He's give us a turn that's 'most scared us out of our wits.”
“Pete! You mean he's sick?”
“Yes, ma'am, he was. That is, he is, too—only he's better, now, thank goodness,” panted Eliza. “But he ain't hisself yet. He's that white and shaky! Would you—could you—that is, would you mind if we didn't come back till into the evenin', maybe?”
“Why, of course not,” cried Pete's mistress, quickly. “Don't come a minute before he's able, Eliza. Don't come until to-morrow.”
Eliza gave a trembling little laugh.
“Thank you, ma'am; but there wouldn't be no keepin' of Uncle Pete here till then. If he could take five steps alone he'd start now. But he can't. He says he'll be all right pretty quick, though. He's had 'em before—these spells—but never quite so bad as this, I guess; an' he's worryin' somethin' turrible 'cause he can't start for home right away.”
“Nonsense!” cut in Mrs. Bertram Henshaw.
“Yes'm. I knew you'd feel that way,” stammered Eliza, gratefully. “You see, I couldn't leave him to come alone, and besides, anyhow, I'd have to stay, for mother ain't no more use than a wet dish-rag at such times, she's that scared herself. And she ain't very well, too. So if—if you could get along—”
“Of course we can! And tell Pete not to worry one bit. I'm so sorry he's sick!”
“Thank you, ma'am. Then we'll be there some time this evenin',” sighed Eliza.
From the telephone Billy turned away with a troubled face.
“Pete is ill,” she was saying to herself. “I don't like the looks of it; and he's so faithful he'd come if—” With a little cry Billy stopped short. Then, tremblingly, she sank into the nearest chair. “Calderwell—and he's coming to dinner!” she moaned.
For two benumbed minutes Billy sat staring at nothing. Then she ran to the telephone and called the Annex.
Aunt Hannah answered.
“Aunt Hannah, for heaven's sake, if you love me,” pleaded Billy, “send Rosa down instanter! Pete is sick over to South Boston, and Eliza is with him; and Bertram is bringing Hugh Calderwell home to dinner. Can you spare Rosa?”
“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! Of course I can—I mean I could—but Rosa isn't here, dear child! It's her day out, you know.”
“O dear, of course it is! I might have known, if I'd thought; but Pete and Eliza have spoiled me. They never take days out at meal time—both together, I mean—until to-night.”
“But, my dear child, what will you do?”
“I don't know. I've got to think. I must do something!”
“Of course you must! I'd come over myself if it wasn't for my cold.”
“As if I'd let you!”
“There isn't anybody here, only Tommy. Even Alice is gone. Oh, Billy, Billy, this only goes to prove what I've always said, that no woman ought to be a wife until she's an efficient housekeeper; and—”
“Yes, yes, Aunt Hannah, I know,” moaned Billy, frenziedly. “But I am a wife, and I'm not an efficient housekeeper; and Hugh Calderwell won't wait for me to learn. He's coming to-night. To-night! And I've got to do something. Never mind. I'll fix it some way. Good-by!”
“But, Billy, Billy! Oh, my grief and conscience,” fluttered Aunt Hannah's voice across the wires as Billy snapped the receiver into place.
For the second time that day Billy backed palpitatingly against the wall. Her eyes sought the clock fearfully.
Fifteen minutes past four. She had an hour and three quarters. She could, of course, telephone Bertram to dine Calderwell at a club or some hotel. But to do this now, the very first time, when it had been her own suggestion that he “bring them home”—no, no, she could not do that! Anything but that! Besides, very likely she could not reach Bertram, anyway. Doubtless he had left the Winthrops' by this time.
There was Marie. She could telephone Marie. But Marie could not very well come just now, she knew; and then, too, there was Cyril to be taken into consideration. How Cyril would gibe at the wife who had to call in all the neighbors just because her husband was bringing home a friend to dinner! How he would—Well, he shouldn't! He should not have the chance. So, there!
With a jerk Mrs. Bertram Henshaw pulled herself away from the wall and stood erect. Her eyes snapped, and the very poise of her chin spelled determination.
Very well, she would show them. Was not Bertram bringing this man home because he was proud of her? Mighty proud he would be if she had to call in half of Boston to get his dinner for him! Nonsense! She would get it herself. Was not this the time, if ever, to be an oak? A vine, doubtless, would lean and cling and telephone, and whine “I can't!” But not an oak. An oak would hold up its head and say “I can!” An oak would go ahead and get that dinner. She would be an oak. She would get that dinner.
What if she didn't know how to cook bread and cake and pies and things? One did not have to cook bread and cake and pies just to get a dinner—meat and potatoes and vegetables! Besides, she could make peach fritters. She knew she could. She would show them!
And with actually a bit of song on her lips, Billy skipped up-stairs for her ruffled apron and dust-cap—two necessary accompaniments to this dinner-getting, in her opinion.
Billy found the apron and dust-cap with no difficulty; but it took fully ten of her precious minutes to unearth from its obscure hiding-place the blue-and-gold “Bride's Helper” cookbook, one of Aunt Hannah's wedding gifts.
On the way to the kitchen, Billy planned her dinner. As was natural, perhaps, she chose the things she herself would like to eat.
“I won't attempt anything very elaborate,” she said to herself. “It would be wiser to have something simple, like chicken pie, perhaps. I love chicken pie! And I'll have oyster stew first—that is, after the grapefruit. Just oysters boiled in milk must be easier than soup to make. I'll begin with grapefruit with a cherry in it, like Pete fixes it. Those don't have to be cooked, anyhow. I'll have fish—Bertram loves the fish course. Let me see, halibut, I guess, with egg sauce. I won't have any roast; nothing but the chicken pie. And I'll have squash and onions. I can have a salad, easy—just lettuce and stuff. That doesn't have to be cooked. Oh, and the peach fritters, if I get time to make them. For dessert—well, maybe I can find a new pie or pudding in the cookbook. I want to use that cookbook for something, after hunting all this time for it!”
In the kitchen Billy found exquisite neatness, and silence. The first brought an approving light to her eyes; but the second, for some unapparent reason, filled her heart with vague misgiving. This feeling, however, Billy resolutely cast from her as she crossed the room, dropped her book on to the table, and turned toward the shining black stove.
There was an excellent fire. Glowing points of light showed that only a good draft was needed to make the whole mass of coal red-hot. Billy, however, did not know this. Her experience of fires was confined to burning wood in open grates—and wood in open grates had to be poked to make it red and glowing. With confident alacrity now, therefore, Billy caught up the poker, thrust it into the mass of coals and gave them a fine stirring up. Then she set back the lid of the stove and went to hunt up the ingredients for her dinner.
By the time Billy had searched five minutes and found no chicken, no oysters, and no halibut, it occurred to her that her larder was not, after all, an open market, and that one's provisions must be especially ordered to fit one's needs. As to ordering them now—Billy glanced at the clock and shook her head.
“It's almost five, already, and they'd never get here in time,” she sighed regretfully. “I'll have to have something else.”
Billy looked now, not for what she wanted, but for what she could find. And she found: some cold roast lamb, at which she turned up her nose; an uncooked beefsteak, which she appropriated doubtfully; a raw turnip and a head of lettuce, which she hailed with glee; and some beets, potatoes, onions, and grapefruit, from all of which she took a generous supply. Thus laden she went back to the kitchen.
Spread upon the table they made a brave show.
“Oh, well, I'll have quite a dinner, after all,” she triumphed, cocking her head happily. “And now for the dessert,” she finished, pouncing on the cookbook.
It was while she was turning the leaves to find the pies and puddings that she ran across the vegetables and found the word “beets” staring her in the face. Mechanically she read the line below.
“Winter beets will require three hours to cook. Use hot water.”
Billy's startled eyes sought the clock.
Three hours—and it was five, now!
Frenziedly, then, she ran her finger down the page.
“Onions, one and one-half hours. Use hot water. Turnips require a long time, but if cut thin they will cook in an hour and a quarter.”
“An hour and a quarter, indeed!” she moaned.
“Isn't there anything anywhere that doesn't take forever to cook?”
“Early peas—... green corn—... summer squash—...” mumbled Billy's dry lips. “But what do folks eat in January—January?”
It was the apparently inoffensive sentence, “New potatoes will boil in thirty minutes,” that brought fresh terror to Billy's soul, and set her to fluttering the cookbook leaves with renewed haste. If it took new potatoes thirty minutes to cook, how long did it take old ones? In vain she searched for the answer. There were plenty of potatoes. They were mashed, whipped, scalloped, creamed, fried, and broiled; they were made into puffs, croquettes, potato border, and potato snow. For many of these they were boiled first—“until tender,” one rule said.
“But that doesn't tell me how long it takes to get 'em tender,” fumed Billy, despairingly. “I suppose they think anybody ought to know that—but I don't!” Suddenly her eyes fell once more on the instructions for boiling turnips, and her face cleared. “If it helps to cut turnips thin, why not potatoes?” she cried. “I can do that, anyhow; and I will,” she finished, with a sigh of relief, as she caught up half a dozen potatoes and hurried into the pantry for a knife. A few minutes later, the potatoes, peeled, and cut almost to wafer thinness, were dumped into a basin of cold water.
“There! now I guess you'll cook,” nodded Billy to the dish in her hand as she hurried to the stove.
Chilled by an ominous unresponsiveness, Billy lifted the stove lid and peered inside. Only a mass of black and graying coals greeted her. The fire was out.
“To think that even you had to go back on me like this!” upbraided Billy, eyeing the dismal mass with reproachful gaze.
This disaster, however, as Billy knew, was not so great as it seemed, for there was still the gas stove. In the old days, under Dong Ling's rule, there had been no gas stove. Dong Ling disapproved of “devil stoves” that had “no coalee, no woodee, but burned like hellee.” Eliza, however, did approve of them; and not long after her arrival, a fine one had been put in for her use. So now Billy soon had her potatoes with a brisk blaze under them.
In frantic earnest, then, Billy went to work. Brushing the discarded onions, turnip, and beets into a pail under the table, she was still confronted with the beefsteak, lettuce, and grapefruit. All but the beefsteak she pushed to one side with gentle pats.
“You're all right,” she nodded to them. “I can use you. You don't have to be cooked, bless your hearts! But you—!” Billy scowled at the beefsteak and ran her finger down the index of the “Bride's Helper”—Billy knew how to handle that book now.
“No, you don't—not for me!” she muttered, after a minute, shaking her finger at the tenderloin on the table. “I haven't got any 'hot coals,' and I thought a 'gridiron' was where they played football; though it seems it's some sort of a dish to cook you in, here—but I shouldn't know it from a teaspoon, probably, if I should see it. No, sir! It's back to the refrigerator for you, and a nice cold sensible roast leg of lamb for me, that doesn't have to be cooked. Understand? Cooked,” she finished, as she carried the beefsteak away and took possession of the hitherto despised cold lamb.
Once more Billy made a mad search through cupboards and shelves. This time she bore back in triumph a can of corn, another of tomatoes, and a glass jar of preserved peaches. In the kitchen a cheery bubbling from the potatoes on the stove greeted her. Billy's spirits rose with the steam.
“There, Spunkie,” she said gayly to the cat, who had just uncurled from a nap behind the stove. “Tell me I can't get up a dinner! And maybe we'll have the peach fritters, too,” she chirped. “I've got the peach-part, anyway.”
But Billy did not have the peach fritters, after all. She got out the sugar and the flour, to be sure, and she made a great ado looking up the rule; but a hurried glance at the clock sent her into the dining-room to set the table, and all thought of the peach fritters was given up.