diff options
Diffstat (limited to '361-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 361-0.txt | 9922 |
1 files changed, 9922 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/361-0.txt b/361-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..78d5250 --- /dev/null +++ b/361-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9922 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Miss Billy Married, by Eleanor H. Porter + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Miss Billy Married + +Author: Eleanor H. Porter + +Release Date: July 8, 2008 [EBook #361] +Last Updated: May 26, 2023 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Keller + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS BILLY MARRIED *** + + + + +MISS BILLY--MARRIED + +By Eleanor H. Porter + +Author Of Pollyanna, Etc. + + + +TO My Cousin Maud + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER + I. SOME OPINIONS AND A WEDDING + II. FOR WILLIAM--A HOME + III. BILLY SPEAKS HER MIND + IV. JUST LIKE BILLY + V. TIGER SKINS + VI. “THE PAINTING LOOK” + VII. THE BIG BAD QUARREL + VIII. BILLY CULTIVATES A COMFORTABLE INDIFFERENCE + IX. THE DINNER BILLY TRIED TO GET + X. THE DINNER BILLY GOT + XI. CALDERWELL DOES SOME QUESTIONING + XII. FOR BILLY--SOME ADVICE + XIII. PETE + XIV. WHEN BERTRAM CAME HOME + XV. AFTER THE STORM + XVI. INTO TRAINING FOR MARY ELLEN + XVII. THE EFFICIENCY STAR--AND BILLY + XVIII. BILLY TRIES HER HAND AT “MANAGING” + XIX. A TOUGH NUT TO CRACK FOR CYRIL + XX. ARKWRIGHT'S EYES ARE OPENED + XXI. BILLY TAKES HER TURN AT QUESTIONING + XXII. A DOT AND A DIMPLE + XXIII. BILLY AND THE ENORMOUS RESPONSIBILITY + XXIV. A NIGHT OFF + XXV. “SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT” + XXVI. GHOSTS THAT WALKED FOR BERTRAM + XXVII. THE MOTHER--THE WIFE + XXVIII. CONSPIRATORS + XXIX. CHESS + XXX. BY A BABY'S HAND + + + + +MISS BILLY--MARRIED + + + + +CHAPTER I. SOME OPINIONS AND A WEDDING + + +“I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,” chanted the white-robed clergyman. + +“'I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,'” echoed the tall young bridegroom, his +eyes gravely tender. + +“To my wedded wife.” + +“'To my wedded wife.'” The bridegroom's voice shook a little. + +“To have and to hold from this day forward.” + +“'To have and to hold from this day forward.'” Now the young voice rang +with triumph. It had grown strong and steady. + +“For better for worse.” + +“'For better for worse.'” + +“For richer for poorer,” droned the clergyman, with the weariness of +uncounted repetitions. + +“'For richer for poorer,'” avowed the bridegroom, with the decisive +emphasis of one to whom the words are new and significant. + +“In sickness and in health.” + +“'In sickness and in health.'” + +“To love and to cherish.” + +“'To love and to cherish.'” The younger voice carried infinite +tenderness now. + +“Till death us do part.” + +“'Till death us do part,'” repeated the bridegroom's lips; but everybody +knew that what his heart said was: “Now, and through all eternity.” + +“According to God's holy ordinance.” + +“'According to God's holy ordinance.'” + +“And thereto I plight thee my troth.” + +“'And thereto I plight thee my troth.'” + +There was a faint stir in the room. In one corner a white-haired woman +blinked tear-wet eyes and pulled a fleecy white shawl more closely about +her shoulders. Then the minister's voice sounded again. + +“I, Billy, take thee, Bertram.” + +“'I, Billy, take thee, Bertram.'” + +This time the echoing voice was a feminine one, low and sweet, but +clearly distinct, and vibrant with joyous confidence, on through one +after another of the ever familiar, but ever impressive phrases of the +service that gives into the hands of one man and of one woman the future +happiness, each of the other. + + +The wedding was at noon. That evening Mrs. Kate Hartwell, sister of the +bridegroom, wrote the following letter: + + +BOSTON, July 15th. + +“MY DEAR HUSBAND:--Well, it's all over with, and they're married. I +couldn't do one thing to prevent it. Much as ever as they would even +listen to what I had to say--and when they knew how I had hurried East +to say it, too, with only two hours' notice! + +“But then, what can you expect? From time immemorial lovers never +did have any sense; and when those lovers are such irresponsible +flutterbudgets as Billy and Bertram--! + +“And such a wedding! I couldn't do anything with _that_, either, though +I tried hard. They had it in Billy's living-room at noon, with nothing +but the sun for light. There was no maid of honor, no bridesmaids, no +wedding cake, no wedding veil, no presents (except from the family, and +from that ridiculous Chinese cook of brother William's, Ding Dong, or +whatever his name is. He tore in just before the wedding ceremony, and +insisted upon seeing Billy to give her a wretched little green stone +idol, which he declared would bring her 'heap plenty velly good luckee' +if she received it before she 'got married.' I wouldn't have the +hideous, grinning thing around, but William says it's real jade, and +very valuable, and of course Billy was crazy over it--or pretended to +be). There was no trousseau, either, and no reception. There was no +anything but the bridegroom; and when I tell you that Billy actually +declared that was all she wanted, you will understand how absurdly in +love she is--in spite of all those weeks and weeks of broken engagement +when I, at least, supposed she had come to her senses, until I got that +crazy note from Bertram a week ago saying they were to be married today. + +“I can't say that I've got any really satisfactory explanation of the +matter. Everything has been in such a hubbub, and those two ridiculous +children have been so afraid they wouldn't be together every minute +possible, that any really rational conversation with either of them was +out of the question. When Billy broke the engagement last spring none of +us knew why she had done it, as you know; and I fancy we shall be almost +as much in the dark as to why she has--er--mended it now, as you might +say. As near as I can make out, however, she thought he didn't want her, +and he thought she didn't want him. I believe matters were still further +complicated by a girl Bertram was painting, and a young fellow that used +to sing with Billy--a Mr. Arkwright. + +“Anyhow, things came to a head last spring, Billy broke the engagement +and fled to parts unknown with Aunt Hannah, leaving Bertram here in +Boston to alternate between stony despair and reckless gayety, according +to William; and it was while he was in the latter mood that he had that +awful automobile accident and broke his arm--and almost his neck. He was +wildly delirious, and called continually for Billy. + +“Well, it seems Billy didn't know all this; but a week ago she +came home, and in some way found out about it, I think through +Pete--William's old butler, you know. Just exactly what happened I +can't say, but I do know that she dragged poor old Aunt Hannah down +to Bertram's at some unearthly hour, and in the rain; and Aunt Hannah +couldn't do a thing with her. All Billy would say, was, 'Bertram wants +me.' And Aunt Hannah told me that if I could have seen Billy's face I'd +have known that she'd have gone to Bertram then if he'd been at the top +of the Himalaya Mountains, or at the bottom of the China Sea. So perhaps +it's just as well--for Aunt Hannah's sake, at least--that he was in no +worse place than on his own couch at home. Anyhow, she went, and in half +an hour they blandly informed Aunt Hannah that they were going to be +married to-day. + +“Aunt Hannah said she tried to stop that, and get them to put it off +till October (the original date, you know), but Bertram was obdurate. +And when he declared he'd marry her the next day if it wasn't for +the new license law, Aunt Hannah said she gave up for fear he'd get a +special dispensation, or go to the Governor or the President, or do some +other dreadful thing. (What a funny old soul Aunt Hannah is!) Bertram +told _me_ that he should never feel safe till Billy was really his; that +she'd read something, or hear something, or think something, or get +a letter from me (as if anything _I_ could say would do any good-or +harm!), and so break the engagement again. + +“Well, she's his now, so I suppose he's satisfied; though, for my part, +I haven't changed my mind at all. I still say that they are not one bit +suited to each other, and that matrimony will simply ruin his career. +Bertram never has loved and never will love any girl long--except to +paint. But if he simply _would_ get married, why couldn't he have taken +a nice, sensible domestic girl that would have kept him fed and mended? + +“Not but that I'm very fond of Billy, as you know, dear; but imagine +Billy as a wife--worse yet, a mother! Billy's a dear girl, but she knows +about as much of real life and its problems as--as our little Kate. A +more impulsive, irresponsible, regardless-of-consequences young woman +I never saw. She can play divinely, and write delightful songs, I'll +acknowledge; but what is that when a man is hungry, or has lost a +button? + +“Billy has had her own way, and had everything she wanted for years +now--a rather dangerous preparation for marriage, especially marriage +to a fellow like Bertram who has had _his_ own way and everything _he's_ +wanted for years. Pray, what's going to happen when those ways conflict, +and neither one gets the thing wanted? + +“And think of her ignorance of cooking--but, there! What's the use? +They're married now, and it can't be helped. + +“Mercy, what a letter I've written! But I, had to talk to some one; +besides, I'd promised I to let you know how matters stood as soon as I +could. As you see, though, my trip East has been practically useless. I +saw the wedding, to be sure, but I didn't prevent it, or even postpone +it--though I meant to do one or the other, else I should never have made +that tiresome journey half across the continent at two hours' notice. + +“However, we shall see what we shall see. As for me, I'm dead tired. +Good night. + +“Affectionately yours, + +“KATE.” + + +Quite naturally, Mrs. Kate Hartwell was not the only one who was +thinking that evening of the wedding. In the home of Bertram's brother +Cyril, Cyril himself was at the piano, but where his thoughts were was +plain to be seen--or rather, heard; for from under his fingers there +came the Lohengrin wedding march until all the room seemed filled with +the scent of orange blossoms, the mistiness of floating veils, and the +echoing peals of far-away organs heralding the “Fair Bride and Groom.” + +Over by the table in the glowing circle of the shaded lamp, sat Marie, +Cyril's wife, a dainty sewing-basket by her side. Her hands, however, +lay idly across the stocking in her lap. + +As the music ceased, she drew a long sigh. + +What a perfectly beautiful wedding that was! she breathed. + +Cyril whirled about on the piano stool. + +“It was a very sensible wedding,” he said with emphasis. + +“They looked so happy--both of them,” went on Marie, dreamily; “so--so +sort of above and beyond everything about them, as if nothing ever, ever +could trouble them--_now_.” + +Cyril lifted his eyebrows. + +“Humph! Well, as I said before, it was a very _sensible_ wedding,” he +declared. + +This time Marie noticed the emphasis. She laughed, though her eyes +looked a little troubled. + +“I know, dear, of course, what you mean. _I_ thought our wedding was +beautiful; but I would have made it simpler if I'd realized in time how +you--you--” + +“How I abhorred pink teas and purple pageants,” he finished for her, +with a frowning smile. “Oh, well, I stood it--for the sake of what it +brought me.” His face showed now only the smile; the frown had vanished. +For a man known for years to his friends as a “hater of women and all +other confusion,” Cyril Henshaw was looking remarkably well-pleased with +himself. + +His wife of less than a year colored as she met his gaze. Hurriedly she +picked up her needle. + +The man laughed happily at her confusion. + +“What are you doing? Is that my stocking?” he demanded. + +A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her face. + +“Why, Cyril, of course not! You--you told me not to, long ago. You said +my darns made--bunches. + +“Ho! I meant I didn't want to _wear_ them,” retorted the man, upon whom +the tragic wretchedness of that half-sobbed “bunches” had been quite +lost. “I love to see you _mending_ them,” he finished, with an approving +glance at the pretty little picture of domesticity before him. + +A peculiar expression came to Marie's eyes. + +“Why, Cyril, you mean you _like_ to have me mend them just for--for the +sake of seeing me do it, when you _know_ you won't ever wear them?” + +“Sure!” nodded the man, imperturbably. Then, with a sudden laugh, he +asked: “I wonder now, does Billy love to mend socks?” + +Marie smiled, but she sighed, too, and shook her head. + +“I'm afraid not, Cyril.” + +“Nor cook?” + +Marie laughed outright this time. The vaguely troubled look had fled +from her eyes + +“Oh, Billy's helped me beat eggs and butter sometimes, but I never knew +her to cook a thing or want to cook a thing, but once; then she spent +nearly two weeks trying to learn to make puddings--for you.” + +“For _me!_” + +Marie puckered her lips queerly. + +“Well, I supposed they were for you at the time. At all events she was +trying to make them for some one of you boys; probably it was really for +Bertram, though.” + +“Humph!” grunted Cyril. Then, after a minute, he observed: “I judge Kate +thinks Billy'll never make them--for anybody. I'm afraid Sister Kate +isn't pleased.” + +“Oh, but Mrs. Hartwell was--was disappointed in the wedding,” apologized +Marie, quickly. “You know she wanted it put off anyway, and she didn't +like such a simple one. + +“Hm-m; as usual Sister Kate forgot it wasn't her funeral--I mean, her +wedding,” retorted Cyril, dryly. “Kate is never happy, you know, unless +she's managing things.” + +“Yes, I know,” nodded Marie, with a frowning smile of recollection at +certain features of her own wedding. + +“She doesn't approve of Billy's taste in guests, either,” remarked +Cyril, after a moment's silence. + +“I thought her guests were lovely,” spoke up Marie, in quick defense. +“Of course, most of her social friends are away--in July; but Billy is +never a society girl, you know, in spite of the way Society is always +trying to lionize her and Bertram.” + +“Oh, of course Kate knows that; but she says it seems as if Billy +needn't have gone out and gathered in the lame and the halt and the +blind.” + +“Nonsense!” cried Marie, with unusual sharpness for her. “I suppose she +said that just because of Mrs. Greggory's and Tommy Dunn's crutches.” + +“Well, they didn't make a real festive-looking wedding party, you must +admit,” laughed Cyril; “what with the bridegroom's own arm in a sling, +too! But who were they all, anyway?” + +“Why, you knew Mrs. Greggory and Alice, of course--and Pete,” smiled +Marie. “And wasn't Pete happy? Billy says she'd have had Pete if she had +no one else; that there wouldn't have been any wedding, anyway, if it +hadn't been for his telephoning Aunt Hannah that night.” + +“Yes; Will told me.” + +“As for Tommy and the others--most of them were those people that Billy +had at her home last summer for a two weeks' vacation--people, you +know, too poor to give themselves one, and too proud to accept one from +ordinary charity. Billy's been following them up and doing little things +for them ever since--sugarplums and frosting on their cake, she calls +it; and they adore her, of course. I think it was lovely of her to have +them, and they did have such a good time! You should have seen Tommy +when you played that wedding march for Billy to enter the room. His poor +little face was so transfigured with joy that I almost cried, just to +look at him. Billy says he loves music--poor little fellow!” + +“Well, I hope they'll be happy, in spite of Kate's doleful prophecies. +Certainly they looked happy enough to-day,” declared Cyril, patting a +yawn as he rose to his feet. “I fancy Will and Aunt Hannah are lonesome, +though, about now,” he added. + +“Yes,” smiled Marie, mistily, as she gathered up her work. “I know what +Aunt Hannah's doing. She's helping Rosa put the house to rights, and +she's stopping to cry over every slipper and handkerchief of Billy's she +finds. And she'll do that until that funny clock of hers strikes twelve, +then she'll say 'Oh, my grief and conscience--midnight!' But the next +minute she'll remember that it's only half-past eleven, after all, and +she'll send Rosa to bed and sit patting Billy's slipper in her lap till +it really is midnight by all the other clocks.” + +Cyril laughed appreciatively. + +“Well, I know what Will is doing,” he declared. + +“Will is in Bertram's den dozing before the fireplace with Spunkie +curled up in his lap.” + +As it happened, both these surmises were not far from right. In the +Strata, the Henshaws' old Beacon Street home, William was sitting before +the fireplace with the cat in his lap, but he was not dozing. He was +talking. + +“Spunkie,” he was saying, “your master, Bertram, got married to-day--and +to Miss Billy. He'll be bringing her home one of these days--your new +mistress. And such a mistress! Never did cat or house have a better! + +“Just think; for the first time in years this old place is to know the +touch of a woman's hand--and that's what it hasn't known for almost +twenty years, except for those few short months six years ago when +a dark-eyed girl and a little gray kitten (that was Spunk, your +predecessor, you know) blew in and blew out again before we scarcely +knew they were here. That girl was Miss Billy, and she was a dear then, +just as she is now, only now she's coming here to stay. She's coming +home, Spunkie; and she'll make it a home for you, for me, and for all of +us. Up to now, you know, it hasn't really been a home, for years--just +us men, so. It'll be very different, Spunkie, as you'll soon find out. +Now mind, madam! We must show that we appreciate all this: no tempers, +no tantrums, no showing of claws, no leaving our coats--either yours or +mine--on the drawing-room chairs, no tracking in of mud on clean rugs +and floors! For we're going to have a home, Spunkie--a home!” + +At Hillside, Aunt Hannah was, indeed, helping Rosa to put the house to +rights, as Marie had said. She was crying, too, over a glove she had +found on Billy's piano; but she was crying over something else, also. +Not only had she lost Billy, but she had lost her home. + +To be sure, nothing had been said during that nightmare of a week of +hurry and confusion about Aunt Hannah's future; but Aunt Hannah knew +very well how it must be. This dear little house on the side of Corey +Hill was Billy's home, and Billy would not need it any longer. It +would be sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go back to a +“second-story front” and loneliness in some Back Bay boarding-house; and +a second story front and loneliness would not be easy now, after these +years of home--and Billy. + +No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat crying and patting the little +white glove in her hand. No wonder, too, that--being Aunt Hannah--she +reached for the shawl near by and put it on, shiveringly. Even July, +to-night, was cold--to Aunt Hannah. + +In yet another home that evening was the wedding of Billy Neilson and +Bertram Henshaw uppermost in thought and speech. In a certain little +South-End flat where, in two rented rooms, lived Alice Greggory and +her crippled mother, Alice was talking to Mr. M. J. Arkwright, commonly +known to his friends as “Mary Jane,” owing to the mystery in which he +had for so long shrouded his name. + +Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill at ease. + +“You're not listening. You're not listening at all,” complained Alice +Greggory at last, reproachfully. + +With a visible effort the man roused himself. + +“Indeed I am,” he maintained. + +“I thought you'd be interested in the wedding. You used to be +friends--you and Billy.” The girl's voice still vibrated with reproach. + +There was a moment's silence; then, a little harshly, the man said: + +“Perhaps--because I wanted to be more than--a friend--is why you're not +satisfied with my interest now.” + +A look that was almost terror came to Alice Greggory's eyes. She flushed +painfully, then grew very white. + +“You mean--” + +“Yes,” he nodded dully, without looking up. “I cared too much for her. I +supposed Henshaw was just a friend--till too late.” + +There was a breathless hush before, a little unsteadily, the girl +stammered: + +“Oh, I'm so sorry--so very sorry! I--I didn't know.” + +“No, of course you didn't. I've almost told you, though, lots of times; +you've been so good to me all these weeks.” He raised his head now, and +looked at her, frank comradeship in his eyes. + +The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes swerved a little under his level +gaze. + +“Oh, but I've done nothing--n-nothing,” she stammered. Then, at the +light tap of crutches on a bare floor she turned in obvious relief. “Oh, +here's mother. She's been in visiting with Mrs. Delano, our landlady. +Mother, Mr. Arkwright is here.” + + +Meanwhile, speeding north as fast as steam could carry them, were the +bride and groom. The wondrousness of the first hour of their journey +side by side had become a joyous certitude that always it was to be like +this now. + +“Bertram,” began the bride, after a long minute of eloquent silence. + +“Yes, love.” + +“You know our wedding was very different from most weddings.” + +“Of course it was!” + +“Yes, but _really_ it was. Now listen.” The bride's voice grew tenderly +earnest. “I think our marriage is going to be different, too.” + +“Different?” + +“Yes.” Billy's tone was emphatic. “There are so many common, everyday +marriages where--where--Why, Bertram, as if you could ever be to me +like--like Mr. Carleton is, for instance!” + +“Like Mr. Carleton is--to you?” Bertram's voice was frankly puzzled. + +“No, no! As Mr. Carleton is to Mrs. Carleton, I mean.” + +“Oh!” Bertram subsided in relief. + +“And the Grahams and Whartons, and the Freddie Agnews, and--and a lot +of others. Why, Bertram, I've seen the Grahams and the Whartons not even +speak to each other a whole evening, when they've been at a dinner, or +something; and I've seen Mrs. Carleton not even seem to know her husband +came into the room. I don't mean quarrel, dear. Of course we'd never +_quarrel!_ But I mean I'm sure we shall never get used to--to you being +you, and I being I.” + +“Indeed we sha'n't,” agreed Bertram, rapturously. + +“Ours is going to be such a beautiful marriage!” + +“Of course it will be.” + +“And we'll be so happy!” + +“I shall be, and I shall try to make you so.” + +“As if I could be anything else,” sighed Billy, blissfully. “And now we +_can't_ have any misunderstandings, you see.” + +“Of course not. Er--what's that?” + +“Why, I mean that--that we can't ever repeat hose miserable weeks of +misunderstanding. Everything is all explained up. I _know_, now, that +you don't love Miss Winthrop, or just girls--any girl--to paint. You +love me. Not the tilt of my chin, nor the turn of my head; but _me_.” + +“I do--just you.” Bertram's eyes gave the caress his lips would have +given had it not been for the presence of the man in the seat across the +aisle of the sleeping-car. + +“And you--you know now that I love you--just you?” + +“Not even Arkwright?” + +“Not even Arkwright,” smiled Billy. + +There was the briefest of hesitations; then, a little constrainedly, +Bertram asked: + +“And you said you--you never _had_ cared for Arkwright, didn't you?” + +For the second time in her life Billy was thankful that Bertram's +question had turned upon _her_ love for Arkwright, not Arkwright's love +for her. In Billy's opinion, a man's unrequited love for a girl was his +secret, not hers, and was certainly one that the girl had no right +to tell. Once before Bertram had asked her if she had ever cared for +Arkwright, and then she had answered emphatically, as she did now: + +“Never, dear.” + +“I thought you said so,” murmured Bertram, relaxing a little. + +“I did; besides, didn't I tell you?” she went on airily, “I think he'll +marry Alice Greggory. Alice wrote me all the time I was away, and--oh, +she didn't say anything definite, I'll admit,” confessed Billy, with +an arch smile; “but she spoke of his being there lots, and they used to +know each other years ago, you see. There was almost a romance there, +I think, before the Greggorys lost their money and moved away from all +their friends.” + +“Well, he may have her. She's a nice girl--a mighty nice girl,” answered +Bertram, with the unmistakably satisfied air of the man who knows he +himself possesses the nicest girl of them all. + +Billy, reading unerringly the triumph in his voice, grew suddenly +grave. She regarded her husband with a thoughtful frown; then she drew a +profound sigh. + +“Whew!” laughed Bertram, whimsically. “So soon as this?” + +“Bertram!” Billy's voice was tragic. + +“Yes, my love.” The bridegroom pulled his face into sobriety; then Billy +spoke, with solemn impressiveness. + +“Bertram, I don't know a thing about--cooking--except what I've been +learning in Rosa's cook-book this last week.” + +Bertram laughed so loud that the man across the aisle glanced over the +top of his paper surreptitiously. + +“Rosa's cook-book! Is that what you were doing all this week?” + +“Yes; that is--I tried so hard to learn something,” stammered Billy. +“But I'm afraid I didn't--much; there were so many things for me to +think of, you know, with only a week. I believe I _could_ make peach +fritters, though. They were the last thing I studied.” + +Bertram laughed again, uproariously; but, at Billy's unchangingly tragic +face, he grew suddenly very grave and tender. + +“Billy, dear, I didn't marry you to--to get a cook,” he said gently. + +Billy shook her head. + +“I know; but Aunt Hannah said that even if I never expected to cook, +myself, I ought to know how it was done, so to properly oversee it. She +said that--that no woman, who didn't know how to cook and keep house +properly, had any business to be a wife. And, Bertram, I did try, +honestly, all this week. I tried so hard to remember when you sponged +bread and when you kneaded it.” + +“I don't ever need--_yours_,” cut in Bertram, shamelessly; but he got +only a deservedly stern glance in return. + +“And I repeated over and over again how many cupfuls of flour and +pinches of salt and spoonfuls of baking-powder went into things; but, +Bertram, I simply could not keep my mind on it. Everything, everywhere +was singing to me. And how do you suppose I could remember how many +pinches of flour and spoonfuls of salt and cupfuls of baking-powder went +into a loaf of cake when all the while the very teakettle on the stove +was singing: 'It's all right--Bertram loves me--I'm going to marry +Bertram!'?” + +“You darling!” (In spite of the man across the aisle Bertram did +almost kiss her this time.) “As if anybody cared how many cupfuls of +baking-powder went anywhere--with that in your heart!” + +“Aunt Hannah says you will--when you're hungry. And Kate said--” + +Bertram uttered a sharp word behind his teeth. + +“Billy, for heaven's sake don't tell me what Kate said, if you want me +to stay sane, and not attempt to fight somebody--broken arm, and all. +Kate _thinks_ she's kind, and I suppose she means well; but--well, she's +made trouble enough between us already. I've got you now, sweetheart. +You're mine--all mine--” his voice shook, and dropped to a tender +whisper--“'till death us do part.'” + +“Yes; 'till death us do part,'” breathed Billy. + +And then, for a time, they fell silent. + +“'I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,'” sang the whirring wheels beneath them, +to one. + +“'I, Billy, take thee, Bertram,'” sang the whirring wheels beneath them, +to the other. While straight ahead before them both, stretched fair and +beautiful in their eyes, the wondrous path of life which they were to +tread together. + + + + +CHAPTER II. FOR WILLIAM--A HOME + + +On the first Sunday after the wedding Pete came up-stairs to tell +his master, William, that Mrs. Stetson wanted to see him in the +drawing-room. + +William went down at once. + +“Well, Aunt Hannah,” he began, reaching out a cordial hand. “Why, what's +the matter?” he broke off concernedly, as he caught a clearer view of +the little old lady's drawn face and troubled eyes. + +“William, it's silly, of course,” cried Aunt Hannah, tremulously, “but +I simply had to go to some one. I--I feel so nervous and unsettled! +Did--did Billy say anything to you--what she was going to do?” + +“What she was going to do? About what? What do you mean?” + +“About the house--selling it,” faltered Aunt Hannah, sinking wearily +back into her chair. + +William frowned thoughtfully. + +“Why, no,” he answered. “It was all so hurried at the last, you know. +There was really very little chance to make plans for anything--except +the wedding,” he finished, with a smile. + +“Yes, I know,” sighed Aunt Hannah. “Everything was in such confusion! +Still, I didn't know but she might have said something--to you.” + +“No, she didn't. But I imagine it won't be hard to guess what she'll do. +When they get back from their trip I fancy she won't lose much time in +having what things she wants brought down here. Then she'll sell the +rest and put the house on the market.” + +“Yes, of--of course,” stammered Aunt Hannah, pulling herself hastily to +a more erect position. “That's what I thought, too. Then don't you think +we'd better dismiss Rosa and close the house at once?” + +“Why--yes, perhaps so. Why not? Then you'd be all settled here when she +comes home. I'm sure, the sooner you come, the better I'll be pleased,” + he smiled. + +Aunt Hannah turned sharply. + +“Here!” she ejaculated. “William Henshaw, you didn't suppose I was +coming _here_ to live, did you?” + +It was William's turn to look amazed. + +“Why, of course you're coming here! Where else should you go, pray?” + +“Where I was before--before Billy came--to you,” returned Aunt Hannah a +little tremulously, but with a certain dignity. “I shall take a room in +some quiet boarding-house, of course.” + +“Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! As if Billy would listen to that! You came +before; why not come now?” + +Aunt Hannah lifted her chin the fraction of an inch. + +“You forget. I was needed before. Billy is a married woman now. She +needs no chaperon.” + +“Nonsense!” scowled William, again. “Billy will always need you.” + +Aunt Hannah shook her head mournfully. + +“I like to think--she wants me, William, but I know, in my heart, it +isn't best.” + +“Why not?” + +There was a moment's pause; then, decisively came the answer. + +“Because I think young married folks should not have outsiders in the +home.” + +William laughed relievedly. + +“Oh, so that's it! Well, Aunt Hannah, you're no outsider. Come, run +right along home and pack your trunk.” + +Aunt Hannah was plainly almost crying; but she held her ground. + +“William, I can't,” she reiterated. + +“But--Billy is such a child, and--” + +For once in her circumspect life Aunt Hannah was guilty of an +interruption. + +“Pardon me, William, she is not a child. She is a woman now, and she has +a woman's problems to meet.” + +“Well, then, why don't you help her meet them?” retorted William, still +with a whimsical smile. + +But Aunt Hannah did not smile. For a minute she did not speak; then, +with her eyes studiously averted, she said: + +“William, the first four years of my married life were--were spoiled by +an outsider in our home. I don't mean to spoil Billy's.” + +William relaxed visibly. The smile fled from his face. + +“Why--Aunt--Hannah!” he exclaimed. + +The little old lady turned with a weary sigh. + +“Yes, I know. You are shocked, of course. I shouldn't have told you. +Still, it is all past long ago, and--I wanted to make you understand +why I can't come. He was my husband's eldest brother--a bachelor. He +was good and kind, and meant well, I suppose; but--he interfered with +everything. I was young, and probably headstrong. At all events, there +was constant friction. He went away once and stayed two whole months. I +shall never forget the utter freedom and happiness of those months for +us, with the whole house to ourselves. No, William, I can't come.” She +rose abruptly and turned toward the door. Her eyes were wistful, and +her face was still drawn with suffering; but her whole frail little self +quivered plainly with high resolve. “John has Peggy outside. I must go.” + +“But--but, Aunt Hannah,” began William, helplessly. + +She lifted a protesting hand. + +“No, don't urge me, please. I can't come here. But--I believe I won't +close the house till Billy gets home, after all,” she declared. The +next moment she was gone, and William, dazedly, from the doorway, was +watching John help her into Billy's automobile, called by Billy and half +her friends, “Peggy,” short for “Pegasus.” + +Still dazedly William turned back into the house and dropped himself +into the nearest chair. + +What a curious call it had been! Aunt Hannah had not acted like herself +at all. Not once had she said “Oh, my grief and conscience!” while the +things she _had_ said--! Someway, he had never thought of Aunt Hannah as +being young, and a bride. Still, of course she must have been--once. And +the reason she gave for not coming there to live--the pitiful story +of that outsider in her home! But she was no outsider! She was no +interfering brother of Billy's-- + +William caught his breath suddenly, and held it suspended. Then he gave +a low ejaculation and half sprang from his chair. + +Spunkie, disturbed from her doze by the fire, uttered a purring +“me-o-ow,” and looked up inquiringly. + +For a long minute William gazed dumbly into the cat's yellow, sleepily +contented eyes; then he said with tragic distinctness: + +“Spunkie, it's true: Aunt Hannah isn't Billy's husband's brother, but--I +am! Do you hear? I _am!_” + +“Pur-r-me-ow!” commented Spunkie; and curled herself for another nap. + +There was no peace for William after that. In vain he told himself that +he was no “interfering” brother, and that this was his home and had been +all his life; in vain did he declare emphatically that he could not go, +he would not go; that Billy would not wish him to go: always before his +eyes was the vision of that little bride of years long gone; always in +his ears was the echo of Aunt Hannah's “I shall never forget the utter +freedom and happiness of those months for us, with the whole house to +ourselves.” Nor, turn which way he would, could he find anything to +comfort him. Simply because he was so fearfully looking for it, he found +it--the thing that had for its theme the wretchedness that might be +expected from the presence of a third person in the new home. + +Poor William! Everywhere he met it--the hint, the word, the story, the +song, even; and always it added its mite to the woeful whole. Even the +hoariest of mother-in-law jokes had its sting for him; and, to make his +cup quite full, he chanced to remember one day what Marie had said when +he had suggested that she and Cyril come to the Strata to live: “No; I +think young folks should begin by themselves.” + +Unhappy, indeed, were these days for William. Like a lost spirit he +wandered from room to room, touching this, fingering that. For long +minutes he would stand before some picture, or some treasured bit of old +mahogany, as if to stamp indelibly upon his mind a thing that was soon +to be no more. At other times, like a man without a home, he would +go out into the Common or the Public Garden and sit for hours on some +bench--thinking. + +All this could have but one ending, of course. Before the middle of +August William summoned Pete to his rooms. + +“Oh, Pete, I'm going to move next week,” he began nonchalantly. His +voice sounded as if moving were a pleasurable circumstance that occurred +in his life regularly once a month. “I'd like you to begin to pack up +these things, please, to-morrow.” + +The old servant's mouth fell open. + +“You're goin' to--to what, sir?” he stammered. + +“Move--_move_, I said.” William spoke with unusual harshness. + +Pete wet his lips. + +“You mean you've sold the old place, sir?--that we--we ain't goin' to +live here no longer?” + +“Sold? Of course not! _I'm_ going to move away; not you.” + +If Pete could have known what caused the sharpness in his master's +voice, he would not have been so grieved--or, rather, he would have +been grieved for a different reason. As it was he could only falter +miserably: + +“_You_ are goin' to move away from here!” + +“Yes, yes, man! Why, Pete, what ails you? One would think a body never +moved before.” + +“They didn't--not you, sir.” + +William turned abruptly, so that his face could not be seen. With stern +deliberation he picked up an elaborately decorated teapot; but the +valuable bit of Lowestoft shook so in his hand that he set it down at +once. It clicked sharply against its neighbor, betraying his nervous +hand. + +Pete stirred. + +“But, Mr. William,” he stammered thickly; “how are you--what'll you do +without--There doesn't nobody but me know so well about your tea, and +the two lumps in your coffee; and there's your flannels that you never +put on till I get 'em out, and the woolen socks that you'd wear all +summer if I didn't hide 'em. And--and who's goin' to take care of +these?” he finished, with a glance that encompassed the overflowing +cabinets and shelves of curios all about him. + +His master smiled sadly. An affection that had its inception in his +boyhood days shone in his eyes. The hand in which the Lowestoft had +shaken rested now heavily on an old man's bent shoulder--a shoulder that +straightened itself in unconscious loyalty under the touch. + +“Pete, you have spoiled me, and no mistake. I don't expect to find +another like you. But maybe if I wear the woolen socks too late you'll +come and hunt up the others for me. Eh?” And, with a smile that was +meant to be quizzical, William turned and began to shift the teapots +about again. + +“But, Mr. William, why--that is, what will Mr. Bertram and Miss Billy +do--without you?” ventured the old man. + +There was a sudden tinkling crash. On the floor lay the fragments of a +silver-luster teapot. + +The servant exclaimed aloud in dismay, but his master did not even +glance toward his once treasured possession on the floor. + +“Nonsense, Pete!” he was saying in a particularly cheery voice. “Have +you lived all these years and not found out that newly-married folks +don't _need_ any one else around? Come, do you suppose we could begin +to pack these teapots to-night?” he added, a little feverishly. “Aren't +there some boxes down cellar?” + +“I'll see, sir,” said Pete, respectfully; but the expression on his face +as he turned away showed that he was not thinking of teapots--nor of +boxes in which to pack them. + + + + +CHAPTER III. BILLY SPEAKS HER MIND + + +Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw were expected home the first of September. +By the thirty-first of August the old Beacon Street homestead facing +the Public Garden was in spick-and-span order, with Dong Ling in the +basement hovering over a well-stocked larder, and Pete searching the +rest of the house for a chair awry, or a bit of dust undiscovered. + +Twice before had the Strata--as Bertram long ago dubbed the home of +his boyhood--been prepared for the coming of Billy, William's namesake: +once, when it had been decorated with guns and fishing-rods to welcome +the “boy” who turned out to be a girl; and again when with pink roses +and sewing-baskets the three brothers got joyously ready for a feminine +Billy who did not even come at all. + +The house had been very different then. It had been, indeed, a “strata,” + with its distinctive layers of fads and pursuits as represented by +Bertram and his painting on one floor, William and his curios on +another, and Cyril with his music on a third. Cyril was gone now. Only +Pete and his humble belongings occupied the top floor. The floor below, +too, was silent now, and almost empty save for a rug or two, and a few +pieces of heavy furniture that William had not cared to take with him +to his new quarters on top of Beacon Hill. Below this, however, came +Billy's old rooms, and on these Pete had lavished all his skill and +devotion. + +Freshly laundered curtains were at the windows, dustless rugs were on +the floor. The old work-basket had been brought down from the top-floor +storeroom, and the long-closed piano stood invitingly open. In +a conspicuous place, also, sat the little green god, upon whose +exquisitely carved shoulders was supposed to rest the “heap plenty velly +good luckee” of Dong Ling's prophecy. + +On the first floor Bertram's old rooms and the drawing-room came in for +their share of the general overhauling. Even Spunkie did not escape, but +had to submit to the ignominy of a bath. And then dawned fair and clear +the first day of September, bringing at five o'clock the bride and +groom. + +Respectfully lined up in the hall to meet them were Pete and Dong Ling: +Pete with his wrinkled old face alight with joy and excitement; Dong +Ling grinning and kotowing, and chanting in a high-pitched treble: + +“Miss Billee, Miss Billee--plenty much welcome, Miss Billee!” + +“Yes, welcome home, Mrs. _Henshaw!_” bowed Bertram, turning at the door, +with an elaborate flourish that did not in the least hide his tender +pride in his new wife. + +Billy laughed and colored a pretty pink. + +“Thank you--all of you,” she cried a little unsteadily. “And how good, +good everything does look to me! Why, where's Uncle William?” she broke +off, casting hurriedly anxious eyes about her. + +“Well, I should say so,” echoed Bertram. “Where is he, Pete? He isn't +sick, is he?” + +A quick change crossed the old servant's face. He shook his head dumbly. + +Billy gave a gleeful laugh. + +“I know--he's asleep!” she caroled, skipping to the bottom of the +stairway and looking up. + +“Ho, Uncle William! Better wake up, sir. The folks have come!” + +Pete cleared his throat. + +“Mr. William isn't here, Miss--ma'am,” he corrected miserably. + +Billy smiled, but she frowned, too. + +“Not here! Well, I like that,” she pouted; “--and when I've brought him +the most beautiful pair of mirror knobs he ever saw, and all the way +in my bag, too, so I could give them to him the very first thing,” she +added, darting over to the small bag she had brought in with her. “I'm +glad I did, too, for our trunks didn't come,” she continued laughingly. +“Still, if he isn't here to receive them--There, Pete, aren't they +beautiful?” she cried, carefully taking from their wrappings two +exquisitely decorated porcelain discs mounted on two long spikes. +“They're Batterseas--the real article. I know enough for that; and +they're finer than anything he's got. Won't he be pleased?” + +“Yes, Miss--ma'am, I mean,” stammered the old man. + +“These new titles come hard, don't they, Pete?” laughed Bertram. + +Pete smiled faintly. + +“Never mind, Pete,” soothed his new mistress. “You shall call me 'Miss +Billy' all your life if you want to. Bertram,” she added, turning to +her husband, “I'm going to just run up-stairs and put these in Uncle +William's rooms so they'll be there when he comes in. We'll see how soon +he discovers them!” + +Before Pete could stop her she was half-way up the first flight of +stairs. Even then he tried to speak to his young master, to explain +that Mr. William was not living there; but the words refused to come. He +could only stand dumbly waiting. + +In a minute it came--Billy's sharp, startled cry. + +“Bertram! Bertram!” + +Bertram sprang for the stairway, but he had not reached the top when he +met his wife coming down. She was white-faced and trembling. + +“Bertram--those rooms--there's not so much as a teapot there! Uncle +William's--gone!” + +“Gone!” Bertram wheeled sharply. “Pete, what is the meaning of this? +Where is my brother?” To hear him, one would think he suspected the old +servant of having hidden his master. + +Pete lifted a shaking hand and fumbled with his collar. + +“He's moved, sir.” + +“Moved! Oh, you mean to other rooms--to Cyril's.” Bertram relaxed +visibly. “He's upstairs, maybe.” + +Pete shook his head. + +“No, sir. He's moved away--out of the house, sir.” + +For a brief moment Bertram stared as if he could not believe what his +ears had heard. Then, step by step, he began to descend the stairs. + +“Do you mean--to say--that my brother--has moved-gone away--_left_--his +_home?_” he demanded. + +“Yes, sir.” + +Billy gave a low cry. + +“But why--why?” she choked, almost stumbling headlong down the stairway +in her effort to reach the two men at the bottom. “Pete, why did he go?” + +There was no answer. + +“Pete,”--Bertram's voice was very sharp--“what is the meaning of this? +Do you know why my brother left his home?” + +The old man wet his lips and swallowed chokingly, but he did not speak. + +“I'm waiting, Pete.” + +Billy laid one hand on the old servant's arm--in the other hand she +still tightly clutched the mirror knobs. + +“Pete, if you do know, won't you tell us, please?” she begged. + +Pete looked down at the hand, then up at the troubled young face with +the beseeching eyes. His own features worked convulsively. With a +visible effort he cleared his throat. + +“I know--what he said,” he stammered, his eyes averted. + +“What was it?” + +There was no answer. + +“Look here, Pete, you'll have to tell us, you know,” cut in Bertram, +decisively, “so you might as well do it now as ever.” + +Once more Pete cleared his throat. This time the words came in a burst +of desperation. + +“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. It was only that he said--he said as how +young folks didn't _need_ any one else around. So he was goin'.” + +“Didn't _need_ any one else!” exclaimed Bertram, plainly not +comprehending. + +“Yes, sir. You two bein' married so, now.” Pete's eyes were still +averted. + +Billy gave a low cry. + +“You mean--because _I_ came?” she demanded. + +“Why, yes, Miss--no--that is--” Pete stopped with an appealing glance at +Bertram. + +“Then it was--it _was_--on account of _me_,” choked Billy. + +Pete looked still more distressed + +“No, no!” he faltered. “It was only that he thought you wouldn't want +him here now.” + +“Want him here!” ejaculated Bertram. + +“Want him here!” echoed Billy, with a sob. + +“Pete, where is he?” As she asked the question she dropped the mirror +knobs into her open bag, and reached for her coat and gloves--she had +not removed her hat. + +Pete gave the address. + +“It's just down the street a bit and up the hill,” he added excitedly, +divining her purpose. “It's a sort of a boarding-house, I reckon.” + +“A _boarding-house_--for Uncle William!” scorned Billy, her eyes ablaze. +“Come, Bertram, we'll see about that.” + +Bertram reached out a detaining hand. + +“But, dearest, you're so tired,” he demurred. “Hadn't we better wait +till after dinner, or till to-morrow?” + +“After dinner! To-morrow!” Billy's eyes blazed anew. “Why, Bertram +Henshaw, do you think I'd leave that dear man even one minute longer, +if I could help it, with a notion in his blessed old head that we didn't +_want_ him?” + +“But you said a little while ago you had a headache, dear,” still +objected Bertram. “If you'd just eat your dinner!” + +“Dinner!” choked Billy. “I wonder if you think I could eat any dinner +with Uncle William turned out of his home! I'm going to find Uncle +William.” And she stumbled blindly toward the door. + +Bertram reached for his hat. He threw a despairing glance into Pete's +eyes. + +“We'll be back--when we can,” he said, with a frown. + +“Yes, sir,” answered Pete, respectfully. Then, as if impelled by some +hidden force, he touched his master's arm. “It was that way she looked, +sir, when she came to _you_--that night last July--with her eyes all +shining,” he whispered. + +A tender smile curved Bertram's lips. The frown vanished from his face. + +“Bless you, Pete--and bless her, too!” he whispered back. The next +moment he had hurried after his wife. + +The house that bore the number Pete had given proved to have a +pretentious doorway, and a landlady who, in response to the summons of +the neat maid, appeared with a most impressive rustle of black silk and +jet bugles. + +No, Mr. William Henshaw was not in his rooms. In fact, he was very +seldom there. His business, she believed, called him to State Street +through the day. Outside of that, she had been told, he spent much time +sitting on a bench in the Common. Doubtless, if they cared to search, +they could find him there now. + +“A bench in the Common, indeed!” stormed Billy, as she and Bertram +hurried down the wide stone steps. “Uncle William--on a bench!” + +“But surely now, dear,” ventured her husband, “you'll come home and get +your dinner!” + +Billy turned indignantly. + +“And leave Uncle William on a bench in the Common? Indeed, no! Why, +Bertram, you wouldn't, either,” she cried, as she turned resolutely +toward one of the entrances to the Common. + +And Bertram, with the “eyes all shining” still before him, could only +murmur: “No, of course not, dear!” and follow obediently where she led. + +Under ordinary circumstances it would have been a delightful hour for a +walk. The sun had almost set, and the shadows lay long across the grass. +The air was cool and unusually bracing for a day so early in September. +But all this was lost on Bertram. Bertram did not wish to take a walk. +He was hungry. He wanted his dinner; and he wanted, too, his old home +with his new wife flitting about the rooms as he had pictured this first +evening together. He wanted William, of course. Certainly he wanted +William; but if William would insist on running away and sitting on +park benches in this ridiculous fashion, he ought to take the +consequences--until to-morrow. + +Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Up one path and down another trudged +the anxious-eyed Billy and her increasingly impatient husband. Then when +the fifteen weary minutes had become a still more weary half-hour, the +bonds Bertram had set on his temper snapped. + +“Billy,” he remonstrated despairingly, “do, please, come home! Don't you +see how highly improbable it is that we should happen on William if we +walked like this all night? He might move--change his seat--go home, +even. He probably has gone home. And surely never before did a bride +insist on spending the first evening after her return tramping up and +down a public park for hour after hour like this, looking for any man. +_Won't_ you come home?” + +But Billy had not even heard. With a glad little cry she had darted to +the side of the humped-up figure of a man alone on a park bench just +ahead of them. + +“Uncle William! Oh, Uncle William, how could you?” she cried, dropping +herself on to one end of the seat and catching the man's arm in both her +hands. + +“Yes, how could you?” demanded Bertram, with just a touch of irritation, +dropping himself on to the other end of the seat, and catching the man's +other arm in his one usable hand. + +The bent shoulders and bowed head straightened up with a jerk. + +“Well, well, bless my soul! If it isn't our little bride,” cried Uncle +William, fondly. “And the happy bridegroom, too. When did you get home?” + +“We haven't got home,” retorted Bertram, promptly, before his wife could +speak. “Oh, we looked in at the door an hour or so back; but we didn't +stay. We've been hunting for you ever since.” + +“Nonsense, children!” Uncle William spoke with gay cheeriness; but he +refused to meet either Billy's or Bertram's eyes. + +“Uncle William, how could you do it?” reproached Billy, again. + +“Do what?” Uncle William was plainly fencing for time. + +“Leave the house like that?” + +“Ho! I wanted a change.” + +“As if we'd believe that!” scoffed Billy. + +“All right; let's call it you've had the change, then,” laughed Bertram, +“and we'll send over for your things to-morrow. Come--now let's go home +to dinner.” + +William shook his head. He essayed a gay smile. + +“Why, I've only just begun. I'm going to stay--oh, I don't know how long +I'm going to stay,” he finished blithely. + +Billy lifted her chin a little. + +“Uncle William, you aren't playing square. Pete told us what you said +when you left.” + +“Eh? What?” William looked up with startled eyes. + +“About--about our not _needing_ you. So we know, now, why you left; and +we _sha'n't stand_ it.” + +“Pete? That? Oh, that--that's nonsense I--I'll settle with Pete.” + +Billy laughed softly. + +“Poor Pete! Don't. We simply dragged it out of him. And now we're here +to tell you that we _do_ want you, and that you _must_ come back.” + +Again William shook his head. A swift shadow crossed his face. + +“Thank you, no, children,” he said dully. + +“You're very kind, but you don't need me. I should be just an +interfering elder brother. I should spoil your young married life.” +(William's voice now sounded as if he were reciting a well-learned +lesson.) “If I went away and stayed two months, you'd never forget the +utter freedom and joy of those two whole months with the house all to +yourselves.” + +“Uncle William,” gasped Billy, “what _are_ you talking about?” + +“About--about my not going back, of course.” + +“But you are coming back,” cut in Bertram, almost angrily. “Oh, come, +Will, this is utter nonsense, and you know it! Come, let's go home to +dinner.” + +A stern look came to the corners of William's mouth--a look that Bertram +understood well. + +“All right, I'll go to dinner, of course; but I sha'n't stay,” said +William, firmly. “I've thought it all out. I know I'm right. Come, we'll +go to dinner now, and say no more about it,” he finished with a cheery +smile, as he rose to his feet. Then, to the bride, he added: “Did you +have a nice trip, little girl?” + +Billy, too, had risen, now, but she did not seem to have heard his +question. In the fast falling twilight her face looked a little white. + +“Uncle William,” she began very quietly, “do you think for a minute that +just because I married your brother I am going to live in that house and +turn you out of the home you've lived in all your life?” + +“Nonsense, dear! I'm not turned out. I just go,” corrected Uncle +William, gayly. + +With superb disdain Billy brushed this aside. + +“Oh, no, you won't,” she declared; “but--_I shall_.” + +“Billy!” gasped Bertram. + +“My--my dear!” expostulated William, faintly. + +“Uncle William! Bertram! Listen,” panted Billy. “I never told you much +before, but I'm going to, now. Long ago, when I went away with Aunt +Hannah, your sister Kate showed me how dear the old home was to +you--how much you thought of it. And she said--she said that I had +upset everything.” (Bertram interjected a sharp word, but Billy paid +no attention.) “That's why I went; and _I shall go again_--if you +don't come home to-morrow to stay, Uncle William. Come, now let's go to +dinner, please. Bertram's hungry,” she finished, with a bright smile. + +There was a tense moment of silence. William glanced at Bertram; Bertram +returned the glance--with interest. + +“Er--ah--yes; well, we might go to dinner,” stammered William, after a +minute. + +“Er--yes,” agreed Bertram. And the three fell into step together. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. “JUST LIKE BILLY” + + +Billy did not leave the Strata this time. Before twenty-four hours had +passed, the last cherished fragment of Mr. William Henshaw's possessions +had been carefully carried down the imposing steps of the Beacon +Hill boarding-house under the disapproving eyes of its bugle-adorned +mistress, who found herself now with a month's advance rent and two +vacant “parlors” on her hands. Before another twenty-four hours had +passed her quondam boarder, with a tired sigh, sank into his favorite +morris chair in his old familiar rooms, and looked about him with +contented eyes. Every treasure was in place, from the traditional four +small stones of his babyhood days to the Batterseas Billy had just +brought him. Pete, as of yore, was hovering near with a dust-cloth. +Bertram's gay whistle sounded from the floor below. William Henshaw was +at home again. + +This much accomplished, Billy went to see Aunt Hannah. + +Aunt Hannah greeted her affectionately, though with tearfully troubled +eyes. She was wearing a gray shawl to-day topped with a black one--sure +sign of unrest, either physical or mental, as all her friends knew. + +“I'd begun to think you'd forgotten--me,” she faltered, with a poor +attempt at gayety. + +“You've been home three whole days.” + +“I know, dearie,” smiled Billy; “and 'twas a shame. But I have been so +busy! My trunks came at last, and I've been helping Uncle William get +settled, too.” + +Aunt Hannah looked puzzled. + +“Uncle William get settled? You mean--he's changed his room?” + +Billy laughed oddly, and threw a swift glance into Aunt Hannah's face. + +“Well, yes, he did change,” she murmured; “but he's moved back now into +the old quarters. Er--you haven't heard from Uncle William then, lately, +I take it.” + +“No.” Aunt Hannah shook her head abstractedly. “I did see him once, +several weeks ago; but I haven't, since. We had quite a talk, then; +and, Billy, I've been wanting to speak to you,” she hurried on, a little +feverishly. “I didn't like to leave, of course, till you did come home, +as long as you'd said nothing about your plans; but--” + +“Leave!” interposed Billy, dazedly. “Leave where? What do you mean?” + +“Why, leave here, of course, dear. I mean. I didn't like to get my room +while you were away; but I shall now, of course, at once.” + +“Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! As if I'd let you do that,” laughed Billy. + +Aunt Hannah stiffened perceptibly. Her lips looked suddenly thin and +determined. Even the soft little curls above her ears seemed actually to +bristle with resolution. + +“Billy,” she began firmly, “we might as well understand each other at +once. I know your good heart, and I appreciate your kindness. But I can +not come to live with you. I shall not. It wouldn't be best. I should +be like an interfering elder brother in your home. I should spoil your +young married life; and if I went away for two months you'd never forget +the utter joy and freedom of those two months with the whole house ali +to yourselves.” + +At the beginning of this speech Billy's eyes had still carried their +dancing smile, but as the peroration progressed on to the end, a dawning +surprise, which soon became a puzzled questioning, drove the smile away. +Then Billy sat suddenly erect. + +“Why, Aunt Hannah, that's exactly what Uncle William--” Billy stopped, +and regarded Aunt Hannah with quick suspicion. The next moment she burst +into gleeful laughter. + +Aunt Hannah looked grieved, and not a little surprised; but Billy did +not seem to notice this. + +“Oh, oh, Aunt Hannah--you, too! How perfectly funny!” she gurgled. “To +think you two old blesseds should get your heads together like this!” + +Aunt Hannah stirred restively, and pulled the black shawl more closely +about her. + +“Indeed, Billy, I don't know what you mean by that,” she sighed, with a +visible effort at self-control; “but I do know that I can not go to live +with you.” + +“Bless your heart, dear, I don't want you to,” soothed Billy, with gay +promptness. + +“Oh! O-h-h,” stammered Aunt Hannah, surprise, mortification, dismay, and +a grieved hurt bringing a flood of color to her face. It is one thing to +refuse a home, and quite another to have a home refused you. + +“Oh! O-h-h, Aunt Hannah,” cried Billy, turning very red in her turn. +“Please, _please_ don't look like that. I didn't mean it that way. I do +want you, dear, only--I want you somewhere else more. I want you--here.” + +“Here!” Aunt Hannah looked relieved, but unconvinced. + +“Yes. Don't you like it here?” + +“Like it! Why, I love it, dear. You know I do. But you don't need this +house now, Billy.” + +“Oh, yes, I do,” retorted Billy, airily. “I'm going to keep it up, and I +want you here. + +“Fiddlededee, Billy! As if I'd let you keep up this house just for me,” + scorned Aunt Hannah. + +“'Tisn't just for you. It's for--for lots of folks.” + +“My grief and conscience, Billy! What are you talking about?” + +Billy laughed, and settled herself more comfortably on the hassock at +Aunt Hannah's feet. + +“Well, I'll tell you. Just now I want it for Tommy Dunn, and the +Greggorys if I can get them, and maybe one or two others. There'll +always be somebody. You see, I had thought I'd have them at the Strata.” + +“Tommy Dunn--at the Strata!” + +Billy laughed again ruefully. + +“O dear! You sound just like Bertram,” she pouted. “He didn't want +Tommy, either, nor any of the rest of them.” + +“The rest of them!” + +“Well, I could have had a lot more, you know, the Strata is so big, +especially now that Cyril has gone, and left all those empty rooms. +_I_ got real enthusiastic, but Bertram didn't. He just laughed and said +'nonsense!' until he found I was really in earnest; then he--well, he +said 'nonsense,' then, too--only he didn't laugh,” finished Billy, with +a sigh. + +Aunt Hannah regarded her with fond, though slightly exasperated eyes. + +“Billy, you are, indeed, a most extraordinary young woman--at times. +Surely, with you, a body never knows what to expect--except the +unexpected.” + +“Why, Aunt Hannah!--and from you, too!” reproached Billy, mischievously; +but Aunt Hannah had yet more to say. + +“Of course Bertram thought it was nonsense. The idea of you, a bride, +filling up your house with--with people like that! Tommy Dunn, indeed!” + +“Oh, Bertram said he liked Tommy all right,” sighed Billy; “but he said +that that didn't mean he wanted him for three meals a day. One would +think poor Tommy was a breakfast food! So that is when I thought of +keeping up this house, you see, and that's why I want you here--to take +charge of it. And you'll do that--for me, won't you?” + +Aunt Hannah fell back in her chair. + +“Why, y-yes, Billy, of course, if--if you want it. But what an +extraordinary idea, child!” + +Billy shook her head. A deeper color came to her cheeks, and a softer +glow to her eyes. + +“I don't think so, Aunt Hannah. It's only that I'm so happy that some +of it has just got to overflow somewhere, and this is going to be the +overflow house--a sort of safety valve for me, you see. I'm going to +call it the Annex--it will be an annex to our home. And I want to keep +it full, always, of people who--who can make the best use of all that +extra happiness that I can't possibly use myself,” she finished a little +tremulously. “Don't you see?” + +“Oh, yes, I _see_,” replied Aunt Hannah, with a fond shake of the head. + +“But, really, listen--it's sensible,” urged Billy. “First, there's +Tommy. His mother died last month. He's at a neighbor's now, but they're +going to send him to a Home for Crippled Children; and he's grieving his +heart out over it. I'm going to bring him here to a real home--the kind +that doesn't begin with a capital letter. He adores music, and he's got +real talent, I think. Then there's the Greggorys.” + +Aunt Hannah looked dubious. + +“You can't get the Greggorys to--to use any of that happiness, Billy. +They're too proud.” + +Billy smiled radiantly. + +“I know I can't get them to _use_ it, Aunt Hannah, but I believe I can +get them to _give_ it,” she declared triumphantly. “I shall ask Alice +Greggory to teach Tommy music, and I shall ask Mrs. Greggory to teach +him books; and I shall tell them both that I positively need them to +keep you company.” + +“Oh, but Billy,” bridled Aunt Hannah, with prompt objection. + +“Tut, tut!--I know you'll be willing to be thrown as a little bit of a +sop to the Greggorys' pride,” coaxed Billy. “You just wait till I get +the Overflow Annex in running order. Why, Aunt Hannah, you don't know +how busy you're going to be handing out all that extra happiness that I +can't use!” + +“You dear child!” Aunt Hannah smiled mistily. The black shawl had fallen +unheeded to the floor now. “As if anybody ever had any more happiness +than one's self could use!” + +“I have,” avowed Billy, promptly, “and it's going to keep growing and +growing, I know.” + +“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, don't!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, +lifting shocked hands of remonstrance. “Rap on wood--do! How can you +boast like that?” + +Billy dimpled roguishly and sprang to her feet. + +“Why, Aunt Hannah, I'm ashamed of you! To be superstitious like +that--you, a good Presbyterian!” + +Aunt Hannah subsided shamefacedly. + +“Yes, I know, Billy, it is silly; but I just can't help it.” + +“Oh, but it's worse than silly, Aunt Hannah,” teased Billy, with a +remorseless chuckle. “It's really _heathen!_ Bertram told me once that +it dates 'way back to the time of the Druids--appealing to the god of +trees, or something like that--when you rap on wood, you know.” + +“Ugh!” shuddered Aunt Hannah. “As if I would, Billy! How is Bertram, by +the by?” + +A swift shadow crossed Billy's bright face. + +“He's lovely--only his arm.” + +“His arm! But I thought that was better.” + +“Oh, it is,” drooped Billy, “but it gets along so slowly, and it frets +him dreadfully. You know he never can do anything with his left hand, +he says, and he just hates to have things done for him--though Pete and +Dong Ling are quarreling with each other all the time to do things for +him, and I'm quarreling with both of them to do them for him myself! By +the way, Dong Ling is going to leave us next week. Did you know it?” + +“Dong Ling--leave!” + +“Yes. Oh, he told Bertram long ago he should go when we were married; +that he had plenty much money, and was going back to China, and not be +Melican man any longer. But I don't think Bertram thought he'd do it. +William says Dong Ling went to Pete, however, after we left, and told +him he wanted to go; that he liked the little Missee plenty well, but +that there'd be too much hen-talk when she got back, and--” + +“Why, the impudent creature!” + +Billy laughed merrily. + +“Yes; Pete was furious, William says, but Dong Ling didn't mean any +disrespect, I'm sure. He just wasn't used to having petticoats around, +and didn't want to take orders from them; that's all.” + +“But, Billy, what will you do?” + +“Oh, Pete's fixed all that lovely,” returned Billy, nonchalantly. “You +know his niece lives over in South Boston, and it seems she's got a +daughter who's a fine cook and will be glad to come. Mercy! Look at the +time,” she broke off, glancing at the clock. “I shall be late to dinner, +and Dong Ling loathes anybody who's late to his meals--as I found out to +my sorrow the night we got home. Good-by, dear. I'll be out soon again +and fix it all up--about the Annex, you know.” And with a bright smile +she was gone. + +“Dear me,” sighed Aunt Hannah, stooping to pick up the black shawl; +“dear me! Of course everything will be all right--there's a girl coming, +even if Dong Ling is going. But--but--Oh, my grief and conscience, what +an extraordinary child Billy is, to be sure--but what a dear one!” she +added, wiping a quick tear from her eye. “An Overflow Annex, indeed, for +her 'extra happiness'! Now isn't that just like Billy?” + + + + +CHAPTER V. TIGER SKINS + + +September passed and October came, bringing with it cool days and clear, +crisp evenings royally ruled over by a gorgeous harvest moon. According +to Billy everything was just perfect--except, of course, poor Bertram's +arm; and even the fact that that gained so slowly was not without its +advantage (again according to Billy), for it gave Bertram more time to +be with her. + +“You see, dear, as long as you _can't_ paint,” she told him earnestly, +one day, “why, I'm not really hindering you by keeping you with me so +much.” + +“You certainly are not,” he retorted, with a smile. + +“Then I may be just as happy as I like over it,” settled Billy, +comfortably. + +“As if you ever could hinder me,” he ridiculed. + +“Oh, yes, I could,” nodded Billy, emphatically. “You forget, sir. That +was what worried me so. Everybody, even the newspapers and magazines, +said I _would_ do it, too. They said I'd slay your Art, stifle your +Ambition, destroy your Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally. And +Kate said--” + +“Yes. Well, never mind what Kate said,” interrupted the man, savagely. + +Billy laughed, and gave his ear a playful tweak. + +“All right; but I'm not going to do it, you know--spoil your career, +sir. You just wait,” she continued dramatically. “The minute your arm +gets so you can paint, I myself shall conduct you to your studio, thrust +the brushes into your hand, fill your palette with all the colors of +the rainbow, and order you to paint, my lord, paint! But--until then I'm +going to have you all I like,” she finished, with a complete change of +manner, nestling into the ready curve of his good left arm. + +“You witch!” laughed the man, fondly. “Why, Billy, you couldn't hinder +me. You'll _be_ my inspiration, dear, instead of slaying it. You'll see. +_This_ time Marguerite Winthrop's portrait is going to be a success.” + +Billy turned quickly. + +“Then you are--that is, you haven't--I mean, you're going to--paint it?” + +“I just am,” avowed the artist. “And this time it'll be a success, too, +with you to help.” + +Billy drew in her breath tremulously. + +“I didn't know but you'd already started it,” she faltered. + +He shook his head. + +“No. After the other one failed, and Mr. Winthrop asked me to try again, +I couldn't _then_. I was so troubled over you. That's the time you did +hinder me,” he smiled. “Then came your note breaking the engagement. Of +course I knew too much to attempt a thing like that portrait then. But +now--_now_--!” The pause and the emphasis were eloquent. + +“Of course, _now_,” nodded Billy, brightly, but a little feverishly. +“And when do you begin?” + +“Not till January. Miss Winthrop won't be back till then. I saw J. G. +last week, and I told him I'd accept his offer to try again.” + +“What did he say?” + +“He gave my left hand a big grip and said: 'Good!--and you'll win out +this time.'” + +“Of course you will,” nodded Billy, again, though still a little +feverishly. “And this time I sha'n't mind a bit if you do stay to +luncheon, and break engagements with me, sir,” she went on, tilting +her chin archly, “for I shall know it's the portrait and not the sitter +that's really keeping you. Oh, you'll see what a fine artist's wife I'll +make!” + +“The very best,” declared Bertram so ardently that Billy blushed, and +shook her head in reproof. + +“Nonsense! I wasn't fishing. I didn't mean it that way,” she protested. +Then, as he tried to catch her, she laughed and danced teasingly out of +his reach. + +Because Bertram could not paint, therefore, Billy had him quite to +herself these October days; nor did she hesitate to appropriate him. +Neither, on his part, was Bertram loath to be appropriated. Like two +lovers they read and walked and talked together, and like two children, +sometimes, they romped through the stately old rooms with Spunkie, or +with Tommy Dunn, who was a frequent guest. Spunkie, be it known, was +renewing her kittenhood, so potent was the influence of the dangling +strings and rolling balls that she encountered everywhere; and Tommy +Dunn, with Billy's help, was learning that not even a pair of crutches +need keep a lonely little lad from a frolic. Even William, roused from +his after-dinner doze by peals of laughter, was sometimes inveigled into +activities that left him breathless, but curiously aglow. While Pete, +polishing silver in the dining-room down-stairs, smiled indulgently at +the merry clatter above--and forgot the teasing pain in his side. + +But it was not all nonsense with Billy, nor gay laughter. More often +it was a tender glow in the eyes, a softness in the voice, a radiant +something like an aura of joy all about her, that told how happy indeed +were these days for her. There was proof by word of mouth, too--long +talks with Bertram in the dancing firelight when they laid dear +plans for the future, and when she tried so hard to make her husband +understand what a good, good wife she intended to be, and how she meant +never to let anything come between them. + +It was so earnest and serious a Billy by this time that Bertram would +turn startled, dismayed eyes on his young wife; whereupon, with a very +Billy-like change of mood, she would give him one of her rare caresses, +and perhaps sigh: + +“Goosey--it's only because I'm so happy, happy, happy! Why, Bertram, if +it weren't for that Overflow Annex I believe I--I just couldn't live!” + +It was Bertram who sighed then, and who prayed fervently in his heart +that never might he see a real shadow cloud that dear face. + +Thus far, certainly, the cares of matrimony had rested anything but +heavily upon the shapely young shoulders of the new wife. Domestic +affairs at the Strata moved like a piece of well-oiled machinery. +Dong Ling, to be sure, was not there; but in his place reigned Pete's +grandniece, a fresh-faced, capable young woman who (Bertram declared) +cooked like an angel and minded her own business like a man. Pete, as +of yore, had full charge of the house; and a casual eye would see few +changes. Even the brothers themselves saw few, for that matter. + +True, at the very first, Billy had donned a ruffled apron and a +bewitching dust-cap, and had traversed the house from cellar to garret +with a prettily important air of “managing things,” as she suggested +changes right and left. She had summoned Pete, too, for three mornings +in succession, and with great dignity had ordered the meals for the day. +But when Bertram was discovered one evening tugging back his favorite +chair, and when William had asked if Billy were through using his +pipe-tray, the young wife had concluded to let things remain about as +they were. And when William ate no breakfast one morning, and Bertram +aggrievedly refused dessert that night at dinner, Billy--learning +through an apologetic Pete that Master William always had to have eggs +for breakfast no matter what else there was, and that Master Bertram +never ate boiled rice--gave up planning the meals. True, for three more +mornings she summoned Pete for “orders,” but the orders were nothing +more nor less than a blithe “Well, Pete, what are we going to have for +dinner to-day?” By the end of a week even this ceremony was given up, +and before a month had passed, Billy was little more than a guest in her +own home, so far as responsibility was concerned. + +Billy was not idle, however; far from it. First, there were the +delightful hours with Bertram. Then there was her music: Billy was +writing a new song--the best she had ever written, Billy declared. + +“Why, Bertram, it can't help being that,” she said to her husband, one +day. “The words just sang themselves to me right out of my heart; and +the melody just dropped down from the sky. And now, everywhere, I'm +hearing the most wonderful harmonies. The whole universe is singing to +me. If only now I can put it on paper what I hear! Then I can make the +whole universe sing to some one else!” + +Even music, however, had to step one side for the wedding calls which +were beginning to be received, and which must be returned, in spite +of the occasional rebellion of the young husband. There were the more +intimate friends to be seen, also, and Cyril and Marie to be visited. +And always there was the Annex. + +The Annex was in fine running order now, and was a source of infinite +satisfaction to its founder and great happiness to its beneficiaries. +Tommy Dunn was there, learning wonderful things from books and still +more wonderful things from the piano in the living-room. Alice Greggory +and her mother were there, too--the result of much persuasion. Indeed, +according to Bertram, Billy had been able to fill the Annex only +by telling each prospective resident that he or she was absolutely +necessary to the welfare and happiness of every other resident. Not that +the house was full, either. There were still two unoccupied rooms. + +“But then, I'm glad there are,” Billy had declared, “for there's sure to +be some one that I'll want to send there.” + +“Some _one_, did you say?” Bertram had retorted, meaningly; but his wife +had disdained to answer this. + +Billy herself was frequently at the Annex. She told Aunt Hannah that +she had to come often to bring the happiness--it accumulated so fast. +Certainly she always found plenty to do there, whenever she came. There +was Aunt Hannah to be read to, Mrs. Greggory to be sung to, and Tommy +Dunn to be listened to; for Tommy Dunn was always quivering with +eagerness to play her his latest “piece.” + +Billy knew that some day at the Annex she would meet Mr. M. J. +Arkwright; and she told herself that she hoped she should. + +Billy had not seen Arkwright (except on the stage of the Boston Opera +House) since the day he had left her presence in white-faced, stony-eyed +misery after declaring his love for her, and learning of her engagement +to Bertram. Since then, she knew, he had been much with his old friend, +Alice Greggory. She did not believe, should she see him now, that he +would be either white-faced, or stony-eyed. His heart, she was sure, +had gone where it ought to have gone in the first place--to Alice. Such +being, in her opinion, the case, she longed to get the embarrassment of +a first meeting between themselves over with, for, after that, she +was sure, their old friendship could be renewed, and she would be in a +position to further this pretty love affair between him and Alice. Very +decidedly, therefore, Billy wished to meet Arkwright. Very pleased, +consequently, was she when, one day, coming into the living-room at the +Annex, she found the man sitting by the fire. + +Arkwright was on his feet at once. + +“Miss--Mrs. H--Henshaw,” he stammered + +“Oh, Mr. Arkwright,” she cried, with just a shade of nervousness in her +voice as she advanced, her hand outstretched. “I'm glad to see you.” + +“Thank you. I wanted to see Miss Greggory,” he murmured. Then, as +the unconscious rudeness of his reply dawned on him, he made matters +infinitely worse by an attempted apology. “That is, I mean--I didn't +mean--” he began to stammer miserably. + +Some girls might have tossed the floundering man a straw in the shape of +a light laugh intended to turn aside all embarrassment--but not Billy. +Billy held out a frankly helping hand that was meant to set the man +squarely on his feet at her side. + +“Mr. Arkwright, don't, please,” she begged earnestly. “You and I don't +need to beat about the bush. I _am_ glad to see you, and I hope you're +glad to see me. We're going to be the best of friends from now on, I'm +sure; and some day, soon, you're going to bring Alice to see me, and +we'll have some music. I left her up-stairs. She'll be down at once, +I dare say--I met Rosa going up with your card. Good-by,” she finished +with a bright smile, as she turned and walked rapidly from the room. + +Outside, on the steps, Billy drew a long breath. + +“There,” she whispered; “that's over--and well over!” The next minute +she frowned vexedly. She had missed her glove. “Never mind! I sha'n't go +back in there for it now, anyway,” she decided. + +In the living-room, five minutes later, Alice Greggory found only a +hastily scrawled note waiting for her. + + +“If you'll forgive the unforgivable,” she read “you'll forgive me for +not being here when you come down. 'Circumstances over which I have no +control have called me away.' May we let it go at that? + +“M. J. ARKWRIGHT.” + + +As Alice Greggory's amazed, questioning eyes left the note they fell +upon the long white glove on the floor by the door. Half mechanically +she crossed the room and picked it up; but almost at once she dropped it +with a low cry. + +“Billy! He--saw--Billy!” Then a flood of understanding dyed her face +scarlet as she turned and fled to the blessedly unseeing walls of her +own room. + +Not ten minutes later Rosa tapped at her door with a note. + +“It's from Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He's downstairs.” Rosa's eyes were +puzzled, and a bit startled. + +“Mr. Arkwright!” + +“Yes, Miss. He's come again. That is, I didn't know he'd went--but he +must have, for he's come again now. He wrote something in a little book; +then he tore it out and gave it to me. He said he'd wait, please, for an +answer.” + +“Oh, very well, Rosa.” + +Miss Greggory took the note and spoke with an elaborate air of +indifference that was meant to express a calm ignoring of the puzzled +questioning in the other's eyes. The next moment she read this in +Arkwright's peculiar scrawl: + + +“If you've already forgiven the unforgivable, you'll do it again, I +know, and come down-stairs. Won't you, please? I want to see you.” + + +Miss Greggory lifted her head with a jerk. Her face was a painful red. + +“Tell Mr. Arkwright I can't possibly--” She came to an abrupt pause. Her +eyes had encountered Rosa's, and in Rosa's eyes the puzzled questioning +was plainly fast becoming a shrewd suspicion. + +There was the briefest of hesitations; then, lightly, Miss Greggory +tossed the note aside. + +“Tell Mr. Arkwright I'll be down at once, please,” she directed +carelessly, as she turned back into the room. + +But she was not down at once. She was not down until she had taken time +to bathe her red eyes, powder her telltale nose, smoothe her ruffled +hair, and whip herself into the calm, steady-eyed, self-controlled young +woman that Arkwright finally rose to meet when she came into the room. + +“I thought it was only women who were privileged to change their mind,” +she began brightly; but Arkwright ignored her attempt to conventionalize +the situation. + +“Thank you for coming down,” he said, with a weariness that instantly +drove the forced smile from the girl's lips. “I--I wanted to--to talk to +you.” + +“Yes?” She seated herself and motioned him to a chair near her. He took +the seat, and then fell silent, his eyes out the window. + +“I thought you said you--you wanted to talk, she reminded him nervously, +after a minute. + +“I did.” He turned with disconcerting abruptness. “Alice, I'm going to +tell you a story.” + +“I shall be glad to listen. People always like stories, don't they?” + +“Do they?” The somber pain in Arkwright's eyes deepened. Alice Greggory +did not know it, but he was thinking of another story he had once told +in that same room. Billy was his listener then, while now--A little +precipitately he began to speak. + +“When I was a very small boy I went to visit my uncle, who, in his young +days, had been quite a hunter. Before the fireplace in his library was a +huge tiger skin with a particularly lifelike head. The first time I saw +it I screamed, and ran and hid. I refused then even to go into the room +again. My cousins urged, scolded, pleaded, and laughed at me by turns, +but I was obdurate. I would not go where I could see the fearsome thing +again, even though it was, as they said, 'nothing but a dead old rug!' + +“Finally, one day, my uncle took a hand in the matter. By sheer +will-power he forced me to go with him straight up to the dreaded +creature, and stand by its side. He laid one of my shrinking hands on +the beast's smooth head, and thrust the other one quite into the open +red mouth with its gleaming teeth. + +“'You see,' he said, 'there's absolutely nothing to fear. He can't +possibly hurt you. Just as if you weren't bigger and finer and stronger +in every way than that dead thing on the floor!' + +“Then, when he had got me to the point where of my own free will I would +walk up and touch the thing, he drew a lesson for me. + +“'Now remember,' he charged me. 'Never run and hide again. Only cowards +do that. Walk straight up and face the thing. Ten to one you'll find +it's nothing but a dead skin masquerading as the real thing. Even if it +isn't if it's alive--face it. Find a weapon and fight it. Know that you +are going to conquer it and you'll conquer. Never run. Be a man. Men +don't run, my boy!'” + +Arkwright paused, and drew a long breath. He did not look at the girl +in the opposite chair. If he had looked he would have seen a face +transfigured. + +“Well,” he resumed, “I never forgot that tiger skin, nor what it stood +for, after that day when Uncle Ben thrust my hand into its hideous, but +harmless, red mouth. Even as a kid I began, then, to try--not to run. +I've tried ever since But to-day--I did run.” + +Arkwright's voice had been getting lower and lower. The last three words +would have been almost inaudible to ears less sensitively alert than +were Alice Greggory's. For a moment after the words were uttered, only +the clock's ticking broke the silence; then, with an obvious effort, the +man roused himself, as if breaking away from some benumbing force that +held him. + +“Alice, I don't need to tell you, after what I said the other night, +that I loved Billy Neilson. That was bad enough, for I found she was +pledged to another man. But to-day I discovered something worse: I +discovered that I loved Billy _Henshaw_--another man's wife. And--I ran. +But I've come back. I'm going to face the thing. Oh, I'm not deceiving +myself! This love of mine is no dead tiger skin. It's a beast, alive and +alert--God pity me!--to destroy my very soul. But I'm going to fight it; +and--I want you to help me.” + +The girl gave a half-smothered cry. The man turned, but he could not +see her face distinctly. Twilight had come, and the room was full of +shadows. He hesitated, then went on, a little more quietly. + +“That's why I've told you all this--so you would help me. And you will, +won't you?” + +There was no answer. Once again he tried to see her face, but it was +turned now quite away from him. + +“You've been a big help already, little girl. Your friendship, your +comradeship--they've been everything to me. You're not going to make me +do without them--now?” + +“No--oh, no!” The answer was low and a little breathless; but he heard +it. + +“Thank you. I knew you wouldn't.” He paused, then rose to his feet. When +he spoke again his voice carried a note of whimsical lightness that was +a little forced. “But I must go--else you _will_ take them from me, +and with good reason. And please don't let your kind heart grieve too +much--over me. I'm no deep-dyed villain in a melodrama, nor wicked lover +in a ten-penny novel, you know. I'm just an everyday man in real life; +and we're going to fight this thing out in everyday living. That's where +your help is coming in. We'll go together to see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw. +She's asked us to, and you'll do it, I know. We'll have music and +everyday talk. We'll see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw in her own home with her +husband, where she belongs; and--I'm not going to run again. But--I'm +counting on your help, you know,” he smiled a little wistfully, as he +held out his hand in good-by. + +One minute later Alice Greggory, alone, was hurrying up-stairs. + +“I can't--I can't--I know I can't,” she was whispering wildly. Then, +in her own room, she faced herself in the mirror. “Yes--you--can, Alice +Greggory,” she asserted, with swift change of voice and manner. “This +is _your_ tiger skin, and you're going to fight it. Do you +understand?--fight it! And you're going to win, too. Do you want that +man to know you--_care_?” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. “THE PAINTING LOOK” + + +It was toward the last of October that Billy began to notice her +husband's growing restlessness. Twice, when she had been playing to +him, she turned to find him testing the suppleness of his injured arm. +Several times, failing to receive an answer to her questions, she had +looked up to discover him gazing abstractedly at nothing in particular. + +They read and walked and talked together, to be sure, and Bertram's +devotion to her lightest wish was beyond question; but more and more +frequently these days Billy found him hovering over his sketches in his +studio; and once, when he failed to respond to the dinner-bell, +search revealed him buried in a profound treatise on “The Art of +Foreshortening.” + +Then came the day when Billy, after an hour's vain effort to imprison +within notes a tantalizing melody, captured the truant and rain down to +the studio to tell Bertram of her victory. + +But Bertram did not seem even to hear her. True, he leaped to his feet +and hurried to meet her, his face radiantly aglow; but she had not +ceased to speak before he himself was talking. + +“Billy, Billy, I've been sketching,” he cried. “My hand is almost +steady. See, some of those lines are all right! I just picked up a +crayon and--” He stopped abruptly, his eyes on Billy's face. A vaguely +troubled shadow crossed his own. “Did--did you--were you saying anything +in--in particular, when you came in?” he stammered. + +For a short half-minute Billy looked at her husband without speaking. +Then, a little queerly, she laughed. + +“Oh, no, nothing at all in _particular_,” she retorted airily. The next +moment, with one of her unexpected changes of manner, she darted across +the room, picked up a palette, and a handful of brushes from the +long box near it. Advancing toward her husband she held them out +dramatically. “And now paint, my lord, paint!” she commanded him, with +stern insistence, as she thrust them into his hands. + +Bertram laughed shamefacedly. + +“Oh, I say, Billy,” he began; but Billy had gone. + +Out in the hall Billy was speeding up-stairs, talking fiercely to +herself. + +“We'll, Billy Neilson Henshaw, it's come! Now behave yourself. _That was +the painting look!_ You know what that means. Remember, he belongs to +his Art before he does to you. Kate and everybody says so. And you--you +expected him to tend to you and your silly little songs. Do you want to +ruin his career? As if now he could spend all his time and give all his +thoughts to you! But I--I just hate that Art!” + +“What did you say, Billy?” asked William, in mild surprise, coming +around the turn of the balustrade in the hall above. “Were you speaking +to me, my dear?” + +Billy looked up. Her face cleared suddenly, and she laughed--though a +little ruefully. + +“No, Uncle William, I wasn't talking to you,” she sighed. “I was +just--just administering first aid to the injured,” she finished, as she +whisked into her own room. + +“Well, well, bless the child! What can she mean by that?” puzzled Uncle +William, turning to go down the stairway. + +Bertram began to paint a very little the next day. He painted still more +the next, and yet more again the day following. He was like a bird let +out of a cage, so joyously alive was he. The old sparkle came back to +his eye, the old gay smile to his lips. Now that they had come back +Billy realized what she had not been conscious of before: that for +several weeks past they had not been there; and she wondered which hurt +the more--that they had not been there before, or that they were there +now. Then she scolded herself roundly for asking the question at all. + +They were not easy--those days for Billy, though always to Bertram she +managed to show a cheerfully serene face. To Uncle William, also, and to +Aunt Hannah she showed a smiling countenance; and because she could +not talk to anybody else of her feelings, she talked to herself. This, +however, was no new thing for Billy to do From earliest childhood she +had fought things out in like manner. + +“But it's so absurd of you, Billy Henshaw,” she berated herself one day, +when Bertram had become so absorbed in his work that he had forgotten to +keep his appointment with her for a walk. “Just because you have had his +constant attention almost every hour since you were married is no reason +why you should have it every hour now, when his arm is better! Besides, +it's exactly what you said you wouldn't do--object--to his giving proper +time to his work.” + +“But I'm not objecting,” stormed the other half of herself. “I'm +_telling_ him to do it. It's only that he's so--so _pleased_ to do it. +He doesn't seem to mind a bit being away from me. He's actually happy!” + +“Well, don't you want him to be happy in his work? Fie! For shame! A +fine artist's wife you are. It seems Kate was right, then; you _are_ +going to spoil his career!” + +“Ho!” quoth Billy, and tossed her head. Forthwith she crossed the room +to her piano and plumped herself down hard on to the stool. Then, from +under her fingers there fell a rollicking melody that seemed to fill the +room with little dancing feet. Faster and faster sped Billy's fingers; +swifter and swifter twinkled the little dancing feet. Then a door was +jerked open, and Bertram's voice called: + +“Billy!” + +The music stopped instantly. Billy sprang from her seat, her +eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice. +Perhaps--_perhaps_ Bertram wanted her. Perhaps he was not going to paint +any longer that morning, after all. “Billy!” called the voice again. +“Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while? I'm +a brute, I know, dear, but my brush _will_ try to keep time with that +crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady, +anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig, +jiggety, jig, jig--! _Do_ you mind, darling, just--just sewing, or +doing something still for a while?” + +All the light fled from Billy's face, but her voice, when she spoke, was +the quintessence of cheery indifference. + +“Why, no, of course not, dear.” + +“Thank you. I knew you wouldn't,” sighed Bertram. Then the door shut. + +For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch +and sped to the telephone. + +“Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa?” she called when the operator's ring was +answered. + +“Mis' Greggory, the lame one?” + +“No; _Miss_ Greggory--Miss Alice.” + +“Oh! Yes'm.” + +“Then won't you ask her to come to the telephone, please.” + +There was a moment's wait, during which Billy's small, well-shod foot +beat a nervous tattoo on the floor. + +“Oh, is that you, Alice?” she called then. “Are you going to be home for +an hour or two?” + +“Why, y-yes; yes, indeed.” + +“Then I'm coming over. We'll play duets, sing--anything. I want some +music.” + +“Do! And--Mr. Arkwright is here. He'll help.” + +“Mr. Arkwright? You say he's there? Then I won't--Yes, I will, too.” + Billy spoke with renewed firmness. “I'll be there right away. Good-by.” + And she hung up the receiver, and went to tell Pete to order John and +Peggy at once. + +“I suppose I ought to have left Alice and Mr. Arkwright alone together,” + muttered the young wife feverishly, as she hurriedly prepared for +departure. “But I'll make it up to them later. I'm going to give them +lots of chances. But to-day--to-day I just had to go--somewhere!” + +At the Annex, with Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy sang duets and +trios, and reveled in a sonorous wilderness of new music to her heart's +content. Then, rested, refreshed, and at peace with all the world, she +hurried home to dinner and to Bertram. + +“There! I feel better,” she sighed, as she took off her hat in her +own room; “and now I'll go find Bertram. Bless his heart--of course he +didn't want me to play when he was so busy!” + +Billy went straight to the studio, but Bertram was not there. Neither +was he in William's room, nor anywhere in the house. Down-stairs in +the dining-room Pete was found looking rather white, leaning back in +a chair. He struggled at once to his feet, however, as his mistress +entered the room. + +Billy hurried forward with a startled exclamation. + +“Why, Pete, what is it? Are you sick?” she cried, her glance +encompassing the half-set table. + +“No, ma'am; oh, no, ma'am!” The old man stumbled forward and began +to arrange the knives and forks. “It's just a pesky pain--beggin' yer +pardon--in my side. But I ain't sick. No, Miss--ma'am.” + +Billy frowned and shook her head. Her eyes were on Pete's palpably +trembling hands. + +“But, Pete, you are sick,” she protested. “Let Eliza do that.” + +Pete drew himself stiffly erect. The color had begun to come back to his +face. + +“There hain't no one set this table much but me for more'n fifty years, +an' I've got a sort of notion that nobody can do it just ter suit me. +Besides, I'm better now. It's gone--that pain.” + +“But, Pete, what is it? How long have you had it?” + +“I hain't had it any time, steady. It's the comin' an' goin' kind. It +seems silly ter mind it at all; only, when it does come, it sort o' +takes the backbone right out o' my knees, and they double up so's I +have ter set down. There, ye see? I'm pert as a sparrer, now!” And, with +stiff celerity, Pete resumed his task. + +His mistress still frowned. + +“That isn't right, Pete,” she demurred, with a slow shake of her head. +“You should see a doctor.” + +The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked +what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to +believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little +aggressively. + +“Humph! Beggin' yer pardon, Miss--ma'am, but I don't think much o' them +doctor chaps.” + +Billy shook her head again as she smiled and turned away. Then, as if +casually, she asked: + +“Oh, did Mr. Bertram go out, Pete?” + +“Yes, Miss; about five o'clock. He said he'd be back to dinner.” + +“Oh! All right.” + +From the hall the telephone jangled sharply. + +“I'll go,” said Pete's mistress, as she turned and hurried up-stairs. + +It was Bertram's voice that answered her opening “Hullo.” + +“Oh, Billy, is that you, dear? Well, you're just the one I wanted. I +wanted to say--that is, I wanted to ask you--” The speaker cleared +his throat a little nervously, and began all over again. “The fact is, +Billy, I've run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and +they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them. Would you +mind--very much if I did?” + +A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart. She caught her breath with +a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the +words came. + +“Why, no--no, of course not!” Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a +little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful. + +“You sure you won't be--lonesome?” Bertram's voice was vaguely troubled. + +“Of course not!” + +“You've only to say the word, little girl,” came Bertram's anxious tones +again, “and I won't stay.” + +Billy swallowed convulsively. If only, only he would _stop_ and leave +her to herself! As if she were going to own up that _she_ was lonesome +for _him_--if _he_ was not lonesome for _her!_ + +“Nonsense! of course you'll stay,” called Billy, still in that +high-pitched, shaky treble. Then, before Bertram could answer, she +uttered a gay “Good-by!” and hung up the receiver. + +Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete's gong sounded +for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the +woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at +her door, and called: + +“Gone to sleep, my dear? Dinner's ready. Didn't you hear the gong?” + +“Yes, I'm coming, Uncle William.” Billy spoke with breezy gayety, and +threw open the door; but she did not meet Uncle William's eyes. Her head +was turned away. Her hands were fussing with the hang of her skirt. + +“Bertram's dining out, Pete tells me,” observed William, with cheerful +nonchalance, as they went down-stairs together. + +Billy bit her lip and looked up sharply. She had been bracing herself to +meet with disdainful indifference this man's pity--the pity due a poor +neglected wife whose husband _preferred_ to dine with old classmates +rather than with herself. Now she found in William's face, not pity, but +a calm, even jovial, acceptance of the situation as a matter of course. +She had known she was going to hate that pity; but now, curiously +enough, she was conscious only of anger that the pity was not +there--that she might hate it. + +She tossed her head a little. So even William--Uncle William--regarded +this monstrous thing as an insignificant matter of everyday experience. +Maybe he expected it to occur frequently--every night, or so. Doubtless +he did expect it to occur every night, or so. Indeed! Very well. As if +she were going to show _now_ that she cared whether Bertram were there +or not! They should see. + +So with head held high and eyes asparkle, Billy marched into the +dining-room and took her accustomed place. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. THE BIG BAD QUARREL + + +It was a brilliant dinner--because Billy made it so. At first William +met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before +he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort. +Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his hand +shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled. This threatened +catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was +very grave throughout the rest of the dinner. + +Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the +meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in +spite of the young woman's gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair +before the fire, leaving Billy with only Spunkie for company--Spunkie, +who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and +blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap. + +Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her watch. + +Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram to be coming. He had said +“dinner”; and, of course, after dinner was over he would be coming +home--to her. Very well; she would show him that she had at least got +along without him as well as he had without her. At all events he +would not find her forlornly sitting with her nose pressed against the +window-pane! And forthwith Billy established herself in a big chair +(with its back carefully turned toward the door by which Bertram would +enter), and opened a book. + +Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Billy fidgeted in her chair, twisted +her neck to look out into the hall--and dropped her book with a bang. + +Uncle William jerked himself awake, and Spunkie opened sleepy eyes. Then +both settled themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked up +her book, and flounced back into her chair. But she did not read. +Disconsolately she sat staring straight ahead--until a quick step on +the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action. Assuming a look +of absorbed interest she twitched the book open and held it before her +face.... But the step passed by the door: and Billy saw then that her +book was upside down. + +Five, ten, fifteen more minutes passed. Billy still sat, apparently +reading, though she had not turned a page. The book now, however, was +right side up. One by one other minutes passed till the great clock in +the hall struck nine long strokes. + +“Well, well, bless my soul!” mumbled Uncle William, resolutely forcing +himself to wake up. “What time was that?” + +“Nine o'clock.” Billy spoke with tragic distinctness, yet very +cheerfully. + +“Eh? Only nine?” blinked Uncle William. “I thought it must be ten. Well, +anyhow, I believe I'll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually sleepy.” + +Billy said nothing. “'Only nine,' indeed!” she was thinking wrathfully. + +At the door Uncle William turned. + +“You're not going to sit up, my dear, of course,” he remarked. + +For the second time that evening a cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's +heart. + +_Sit up!_ Had it come already to that? Was she even now a wife who had +need to _sit up_ for her husband? + +“I really wouldn't, my dear,” advised Uncle William again. “Good night.” + +“Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet,” Billy managed to declare brightly. +“Good night.” + +Then Uncle William went up-stairs. + +Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William's on “Fake +Antiques.” + +“'To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the +utmost care and discrimination,'” read Billy's eyes. “So Uncle William +_expected_ Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay +to dinner!” ran Billy's thoughts. “'The enormous quantity of bijouterie, +Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, +is made on the Continent--and made chiefly for the American trade,'” + continued the book. + +“Well, who cares if it is,” snapped Billy, springing to her feet and +tossing the volume aside. “Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to play +with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay--_gay_--GAY! He's gay. He's down +there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd _rather_ be than +be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over +a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too. +Now, come, Spunkie; hurry--wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure.” + And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls, +full in Spunkie's face. + +But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie would not play. She pretended +to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling +balls. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in +her big yellow eyes. Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet, +and Spunkie's sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort. +Spunkie was asleep. + +Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes. + +“And you, too, Spunkie,” she murmured. Then she got to her feet and went +back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn +the leaves very fast, one after another. + +Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get Spunkie, +and to see that everything was all right for the night. + +“Mr. Bertram is not in yet?” he began doubtfully. + +Billy shook her head with a bright smile. + +“No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every minute. Good night.” + +“Thank you, ma'am. Good night.” + +The old man picked up the sleepy cat and went down-stairs. A little +later Billy heard his quiet steps coming back through the hall and +ascending the stairs. She listened until from away at the top of the +house she heard his door close. Then she drew a long breath. + +Ten o'clock--after ten o'clock, and Bertram not there yet! And was this +what he called dinner? Did one eat, then, till ten o'clock, when one +dined with one's friends? + +Billy was angry now--very angry. She was too angry to be reasonable. +This thing that her husband had done seemed monstrous to her, smarting, +as she was, under the sting of hurt pride and grieved loneliness--the +state of mind into which she had worked herself. No longer now did she +wish to be gay when her husband came. No longer did she even pretend to +assume indifference. Bertram had done wrong. He had been unkind, cruel, +thoughtless, inconsiderate of her comfort and happiness. Furthermore he +_did not_ love her as well as she did him or he never, never could have +done it! She would let him see, when he came, just how hurt and grieved +she was--and how disappointed, too. + +Billy was walking the floor now, back and forth, back and forth. + +Half-past ten came, then eleven. As the eleven long strokes reverberated +through the silent house Billy drew in her breath and held it suspended. +A new look came to her eyes. A growing terror crept into them and +culminated in a frightened stare at the clock. + +Billy ran then to the great outer door and pulled it open. A cold wind +stung her face, and caused her to shut the door quickly. Back and forth +she began to pace the floor again; but in five minutes she had run to +the door once more. This time she wore a heavy coat of Bertram's which +she caught up as she passed the hall-rack. + +Out on to the broad top step Billy hurried, and peered down the street. +As far as she could see not a person was in sight. Across the street in +the Public Garden the wind stirred the gray tree-branches and set them +to casting weird shadows on the bare, frozen ground. A warning something +behind her sent Billy scurrying into the house just in time to prevent +the heavy door's closing and shutting her out, keyless, in the cold. + +Half-past eleven came, and again Billy ran to the door. This time she +put the floor-mat against the casing so that the door could not close. +Once more she peered wildly up and down the street, and across into the +deserted, wind-swept Garden. + +There was only terror now in Billy's face. The anger was all gone. In +Billy's mind there was not a shadow of doubt--something had happened to +Bertram. + +Bertram was ill--hurt--dead! And he was so good, so kind, so noble; such +a dear, dear husband! If only she could see him once. If only she could +ask his forgiveness for those wicked, unkind, accusing thoughts. If only +she could tell him again that she did love him. If only-- + +Far down the street a step rang sharply on the frosty air. A masculine +figure was hurrying toward the house. Retreating well into the shadow +of the doorway, Billy watched it, her heart pounding against her side +in great suffocating throbs. Nearer and nearer strode the approaching +figure until Billy had almost sprung to meet it with a glad cry--almost, +but not quite; for the figure neither turned nor paused, but marched +straight on--and Billy saw then, under the arc light, a brown-bearded +man who was not Bertram at all. + +Three times during the next few minutes did the waiting little bride +on the doorstep watch with palpitating yearning a shadowy form appear, +approach--and pass by. At the third heart-breaking disappointment, Billy +wrung her hands helplessly. + +“I don't see how there can be--so many--utterly _useless_ people in the +world!” she choked. Then, thoroughly chilled and sick at heart, she went +into the house and closed the door. + +Once again, back and forth, back and forth, Billy took up her weary +vigil. She still wore the heavy coat. She had forgotten to take it off. +Her face was pitifully white and drawn. Her eyes were wild. One of her +hands was nervously caressing the rough sleeve of the coat as it hung +from her shoulder. + + +One--two--three-- + +Billy gave a sharp cry and ran into the hall. + +Yes, it was twelve o'clock. And now, always, all the rest of the +dreary, useless hours that that clock would tick away through an endless +existence, she would have to live--without Bertram. If only she could +see him once more! But she could not. He was dead. He must be dead, now. +Here it was twelve o'clock, and-- + +There came a quick step, the click of a key in the lock, then the door +swung back and Bertram, big, strong, and merry-eyed, stood before her. + +“Well, well, hullo,” he called jovially. “Why, Billy, what's the +matter?” he broke off, in quite a different tone of voice. + +And then a curious thing happened. Billy, who, a minute before, had been +seeing only a dear, noble, adorable, _lost_ Bertram, saw now suddenly +only the man that had stayed _happily_ till midnight with two friends, +while she--she-- + +“Matter! Matter!” exclaimed Billy sharply, then. “Is this what you call +staying to dinner, Bertram Henshaw?” + +Bertram stared. A slow red stole to his forehead. It was his first +experience of coming home to meet angry eyes that questioned his +behavior--and he did not like it. He had been, perhaps, a little +conscience-smitten when he saw how late he had stayed; and he had +intended to say he was sorry, of course. But to be thus sharply +called to account for a perfectly innocent good time with a couple of +friends--! To come home and find Billy making a ridiculous scene like +this--! He--he would not stand for it! He-- + +Bertram's lips snapped open. The angry retort was almost spoken when +something in the piteously quivering chin and white, drawn face opposite +stopped it just in time. + +“Why, Billy--darling!” he murmured instead. + +It was Billy's turn to change. All the anger melted away before the +dismayed tenderness in those dear eyes and the grieved hurt in that dear +voice. + +“Well, you--you--I--” Billy began to cry. + +It was all right then, of course, for the next minute she was crying on +Bertram's big, broad shoulder; and in the midst of broken words, kisses, +gentle pats, and inarticulate croonings, the Big, Bad Quarrel, that had +been all ready to materialize, faded quite away into nothingness. + +“I didn't have such an awfully good time, anyhow,” avowed Bertram, when +speech became rational. “I'd rather have been home with you.” + +“Nonsense!” blinked Billy, valiantly. “Of course you had a good time; +and it was perfectly right you should have it, too! And I--I hope you'll +have it again.” + +“I sha'n't,” emphasized Bertram, promptly, “--not and leave you!” + +Billy regarded him with adoring eyes. + +“I'll tell you; we'll have 'em come here,” she proposed gayly. + +“Sure we will,” agreed Bertram. + +“Yes; sure we will,” echoed Billy, with a contented sigh. Then, a little +breathlessly, she added: “Anyhow, I'll know--where you are. I won't +think you're--dead!” + +“You--blessed--little-goose!” scolded Bertram, punctuating each word +with a kiss. + +Billy drew a long sigh. + +“If this is a quarrel I'm going to have them often,” she announced +placidly. + +“Billy!” The young husband was plainly aghast. + +“Well, I am--because I like the making-up,” dimpled Billy, with a +mischievous twinkle as she broke from his clasp and skipped ahead up the +stairway. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. BILLY CULTIVATES A “COMFORTABLE INDIFFERENCE” + + +The next morning, under the uncompromising challenge of a bright sun, +Billy began to be uneasily suspicious that she had been just a bit +unreasonable and exacting the night before. To make matters worse she +chanced to run across a newspaper criticism of a new book bearing the +ominous title: “When the Honeymoon Wanes A Talk to Young Wives.” + +Such a title, of course, attracted her supersensitive attention at once; +and, with a curiously faint feeling, she picked up the paper and began +to read. + +As the most of the criticism was taken up with quotations from the book, +it was such sentences as these that met her startled eyes: + +“Perhaps the first test comes when the young wife awakes to the +realization that while her husband loves her very much, he can still +make plans with his old friends which do not include herself.... Then is +when the foolish wife lets her husband see how hurt she is that he can +want to be with any one but herself.... Then is when the husband--used +all his life to independence, perhaps--begins to chafe under these new +bonds that hold him so fast.... No man likes to be held up at the end of +a threatened scene and made to give an account of himself.... Before +a woman has learned to cultivate a comfortable indifference to her +husband's comings and goings, she is apt to be tyrannical and exacting.” + +“'Comfortable indifference,' indeed!” stormed Billy to herself. “As if I +ever could be comfortably indifferent to anything Bertram did!” + +She dropped the paper; but there were still other quotations from the +book there, she knew; and in a moment she was back at the table reading +them. + +“No man, however fondly he loves his wife, likes to feel that she is +everlastingly peering into the recesses of his mind, and weighing his +every act to find out if he does or does not love her to-day as well as +he did yesterday at this time.... Then, when spontaneity is dead, she +is the chief mourner at its funeral.... A few couples never leave the +Garden of Eden. They grow old hand in hand. They are the ones who bear +and forbear; who have learned to adjust themselves to the intimate +relationship of living together.... A certain amount of liberty, both of +action and thought, must be allowed on each side.... The family shut in +upon itself grows so narrow that all interest in the outside world +is lost.... No two people are ever fitted to fill each other's lives +entirely. They ought not to try to do it. If they do try, the process is +belittling to each, and the result, if it is successful, is nothing less +than a tragedy; for it could not mean the highest ideals, nor the truest +devotion.... Brushing up against other interests and other personalities +is good for both husband and wife. Then to each other they bring the +best of what they have found, and each to the other continues to be new +and interesting.... The young wife, however, is apt to be jealous of +everything that turns her husband's attention for one moment away from +herself. She is jealous of his thoughts, his words, his friends, even +his business.... But the wife who has learned to be the clinging vine +when her husband wishes her to cling, and to be the sturdy oak when +clinging vines would be tiresome, has solved a tremendous problem.” + +At this point Billy dropped the paper. She flung it down, indeed, a bit +angrily. There were still a few more words in the criticism, mostly the +critic's own opinion of the book; but Billy did not care for this. She +had read quite enough--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 _un_comfortable kind,” she muttered with emphasis. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. THE DINNER BILLY TRIED TO GET + + +Notwithstanding what Billy was disposed to regard as the non-success +of her first attempt to profit by the “Talk to Young Wives;” she still +frantically tried to avert the waning of her honeymoon. Assiduously she +cultivated the prescribed “indifference,” and with at least apparent +enthusiasm she sought the much-to-be-desired “outside interests.” That +is, she did all this when she thought of it when something reminded her +of the sword of destruction hanging over her happiness. At other times, +when she was just being happy without question, she was her old self +impulsive, affectionate, and altogether adorable. + +Naturally, under these circumstances, her conduct was somewhat erratic. +For three days, perhaps, she would fly to the door at her husband's +ring, and hang upon his every movement. Then, for the next three, +she would be a veritable will-o'-the-wisp for elusiveness, caring, +apparently, not one whit whether her husband came or went until poor +Bertram, at his wit's end, scourged himself with a merciless catechism +as to what he had done to vex her. Then, perhaps, just when he had +nerved himself almost to the point of asking her what was the trouble, +there would come another change, bringing back to him the old Billy, +joyous, winsome, and devoted, plainly caring nothing for anybody or +anything but himself. Scarcely, however, would he become sure that it +was his Billy back again before she was off once more, quite beyond his +reach, singing with Arkwright and Alice Greggory, playing with Tommy +Dunn, plunging into some club or church work--anything but being with +him. + +That all this was puzzling and disquieting to Bertram, Billy not once +suspected. Billy, so far as she was concerned, was but cultivating a +comfortable indifference, brushing up against outside interests, and +being an oak. + +December passed, and January came, bringing Miss Marguerite Winthrop to +her Boston home. Bertram's arm was “as good as ever” now, according to +its owner; and the sittings for the new portrait began at once. This +left Billy even more to her own devices, for Bertram entered into his +new work with an enthusiasm born of a glad relief from forced idleness, +and a consuming eagerness to prove that even though he had failed the +first time, he could paint a portrait of Marguerite Winthrop that would +be a credit to himself, a conclusive retort to his critics, and a source +of pride to his once mortified friends. With his whole heart, therefore, +he threw himself into the work before him, staying sometimes well into +the afternoon on the days Miss Winthrop could find time between her +social engagements to give him a sitting. + +It was on such a day, toward the middle of the month, that Billy was +called to the telephone at half-past twelve o'clock to speak to her +husband. + +“Billy, dear,” began Bertram at once, “if you don't mind I'm staying +to luncheon at Miss Winthrop's kind request. We've changed the +pose--neither of us was satisfied, you know--but we haven't quite +settled on the new one. Miss Winthrop has two whole hours this +afternoon that she can give me if I'll stay; and, of course, under the +circumstances, I want to do it.” + +“Of course,” echoed Billy. Billy's voice was indomitably cheerful. + +“Thank you, dear. I knew you'd understand,” sighed Bertram, contentedly. +“You see, really, two whole hours, so--it's a chance I can't afford to +lose.” + +“Of course you can't,” echoed Billy, again. + +“All right then. Good-by till to-night,” called the man. + +“Good-by,” answered Billy, still cheerfully. As she turned away, +however, she tossed her head. “A new pose, indeed!” she muttered, with +some asperity. “Just as if there could be a _new_ pose after all those +she tried last year!” + +Immediately after luncheon Pete and Eliza started for South Boston to +pay a visit to Eliza's mother, and it was soon after they left the house +that Bertram called his wife up again. + +“Say, dearie, I forgot to tell you,” he began, “but I met an old friend +in the subway this morning, and I--well, I remembered what you said +about bringing 'em home to dinner next time, so I asked him for +to-night. Do you mind? It's--” + +“Mind? Of course not! I'm glad you did,” plunged in Billy, with feverish +eagerness. (Even now, just the bare mention of anything connected with +that awful “test” night was enough to set Billy's nerves to tingling.) +“I want you to always bring them home, Bertram.” + +“All right, dear. We'll be there at six o'clock then. It's--it's +Calderwell, this time. You remember Calderwell, of course.” + +“Not--_Hugh_ Calderwell?” Billy's question was a little faint. + +“Sure!” Bertram laughed oddly, and lowered his voice. “I suspect +_once_ I wouldn't have brought him home to you. I was too jealous. But +now--well, now maybe I want him to see what he's lost.” + +“_Bertram!_” + +But Bertram only laughed mischievously, and called a gay “Good-by till +to-night, then!” + +Billy, at her end of the wires, hung up the receiver and backed against +the wall a little palpitatingly. + +Calderwell! To dinner--Calderwell! Did she remember Calderwell? Did she, +indeed! As if one could easily forget the man that, for a year or two, +had proposed marriage as regularly (and almost as lightly!) as he had +torn a monthly leaf from his calendar! Besides, was it not he, too, who +had said that Bertram would never love any girl, _really_; that it would +be only the tilt of her chin or the turn of her head that he loved--to +paint? And now he was coming to dinner--and with Bertram. + +Very well, he should see! He should see that Bertram _did_ love her; +_her_--not the tilt of her chin nor the turn of her head. He should +see how happy they were, what a good wife she made, and how devoted and +_satisfied_ Bertram was in his home. He should see! And forthwith Billy +picked up her skirts and tripped up-stairs to select her very prettiest +house-gown to do honor to the occasion. Up-stairs, however, one thing +and another delayed her, so that it was four o'clock when she turned her +attention to her toilet; and it was while she was hesitating whether to +be stately and impressive in royally sumptuous blue velvet and ermine, +or cozy and tantalizingly homy{sic} in bronze-gold 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. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE DINNER BILLY GOT + + +At five minutes of six Bertram and Calderwell came. Bertram gave his +peculiar ring and let himself in with his latchkey; but Billy did not +meet him in the hall, nor in the drawing-room. Excusing himself, Bertram +hurried up-stairs. Billy was not in her room, nor anywhere on that +floor. She was not in William's room. Coming down-stairs to the hall +again, Bertram confronted William, who had just come in. + +“Where's Billy?” demanded the young husband, with just a touch of +irritation, as if he suspected William of having Billy in his pocket. + +William stared slightly. + +“Why, I don't know. Isn't she here?” + +“I'll ask Pete,” frowned Bertram. + +In the dining-room Bertram found no one, though the table was prettily +set, and showed half a grapefruit at each place. In the kitchen--in the +kitchen Bertram found a din of rattling tin, an odor of burned food--, a +confusion of scattered pots and pans, a frightened cat who peered at him +from under a littered stove, and a flushed, disheveled young woman in a +blue dust-cap and ruffled apron, whom he finally recognized as his wife. + +“Why, Billy!” he gasped. + +Billy, who was struggling with something at the sink, turned sharply. + +“Bertram Henshaw,” she panted, “I used to think you were wonderful +because you could paint a picture. I even used to think I was a little +wonderful because I could write a song. Well, I don't any more! But I'll +tell you who _is_ wonderful. It's Eliza and Rosa, and all the rest of +those women who can get a meal on to the table all at once, so it's fit +to eat!” + +“Why, Billy!” gasped Bertram again, falling back to the door he had +closed behind him. “What in the world does this mean?” + +“Mean? It means I'm getting dinner,” choked Billy. “Can't you see?” + +“But--Pete! Eliza!” + +“They're sick--I mean he's sick; and I said I'd do it. I'd be an oak. +But how did I know there wasn't anything in the house except stuff that +took hours to cook--only potatoes? And how did I know that _they_ cooked +in no time, and then got all smushy and wet staying in the water? And +how did I know that everything else would stick on and burn on till +you'd used every dish there was in the house to cook 'em in?” + +“Why, Billy!” gasped Bertram, for the third time. And then, because +he had been married only six months instead of six years, he made the +mistake of trying to argue with a woman whose nerves were already at the +snapping point. “But, dear, it was so foolish of you to do all this! Why +didn't you telephone? Why didn't you get somebody?” + +Like an irate little tigress, Billy turned at bay. + +“Bertram Henshaw,” she flamed angrily, “if you don't go up-stairs and +tend to that man up there, I shall _scream_. Now go! I'll be up when I +can.” + +And Bertram went. + +It was not so very long, after all, before Billy came in to greet her +guest. She was not stately and imposing in royally sumptuous blue velvet +and ermine; nor yet was she cozy and homy in bronze-gold crêpe de +Chine and swan's-down. She was just herself in a pretty little morning +house gown of blue gingham. She was minus the dust-cap and the ruffled +apron, but she had a dab of flour on the left cheek, and a smutch of +crock on her forehead. She had, too, a cut finger on her right hand, +and a burned thumb on her left. But she was Billy--and being Billy, +she advanced with a bright smile and held out a cordial hand--not even +wincing when the cut finger came under Calderwell's hearty clasp. + +“I'm glad to see you,” she welcomed him. “You'll excuse my not appearing +sooner, I'm sure, for--didn't Bertram tell you?--I'm playing Bridget +to-night. But dinner is ready now, and we'll go down, please,” she +smiled, as she laid a light hand on her guest's arm. + +Behind her, Bertram, remembering the scene in the kitchen, stared in +sheer amazement. Bertram, it might be mentioned again, had been married +six months, not six years. + +What Billy had intended to serve for a “simple dinner” that night was: +grapefruit with cherries, oyster stew, boiled halibut with egg sauce, +chicken pie, squash, onions, and potatoes, peach fritters, a “lettuce +and stuff” salad, and some new pie or pudding. What she did serve was: +grapefruit (without the cherries), cold roast lamb, potatoes (a mush of +sogginess), tomatoes (canned, and slightly burned), corn (canned, and +very much burned), lettuce (plain); and for dessert, preserved peaches +and cake (the latter rather dry and stale). Such was Billy's dinner. + +The grapefruit everybody ate. The cold lamb too, met with a hearty +reception, especially after the potatoes, corn, and tomatoes were +served--and tasted. Outwardly, through it all, Billy was gayety itself. +Inwardly she was burning up with anger and mortification. And because +she was all this, there was, apparently, no limit to her laughter and +sparkling repartee as she talked with Calderwell, her guest--the guest +who, according to her original plans, was to be shown how happy she and +Bertram were, what a good wife she made, and how devoted and _satisfied_ +Bertram was in his home. + +William, picking at his dinner--as only a hungry man can pick at a +dinner that is uneatable--watched Billy with a puzzled, uneasy frown. +Bertram, choking over the few mouthfuls he ate, marked his wife's +animated face and Calderwell's absorbed attention, and settled into +gloomy silence. + +But it could not continue forever. The preserved peaches were eaten at +last, and the stale cake left. (Billy had forgotten the coffee--which +was just as well, perhaps.) Then the four trailed up-stairs to the +drawing-room. + +At nine o'clock an anxious Eliza and a remorseful, apologetic Pete +came home and descended to the horror the once orderly kitchen +and dining-room had become. At ten, Calderwell, with very evident +reluctance, tore himself away from Billy's gay badinage, and said good +night. At two minutes past ten, an exhausted, nerve-racked Billy was +trying to cry on the shoulders of both Uncle William and Bertram at +once. + +“There, there, child, don't! It went off all right,” patted Uncle +William. + +“Billy, darling,” pleaded Bertram, “please don't cry so! As if I'd ever +let you step foot in that kitchen again!” + +At this Billy raised a tear-wet face, aflame with indignant +determination. + +“As if I'd ever let you keep me _from_ it, Bertram Henshaw, after this!” + she contested. “I'm not going to do another thing in all my life but +_cook!_ When I think of the stuff we had to eat, after all the time I +took to get it, I'm simply crazy! Do you think I'd run the risk of such +a thing as this ever happening again?” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. CALDERWELL DOES SOME QUESTIONING + + +On the day after his dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw, Hugh +Calderwell left Boston and did not return until more than a month had +passed. One of his first acts, when he did come, was to look up Mr. M. +J. Arkwright at the address which Billy had given him. + +Calderwell had not seen Arkwright since they parted in Paris some +two years before, after a six-months tramp through Europe together. +Calderwell liked Arkwright then, greatly, and he lost no time now in +renewing the acquaintance. + +The address, as given by Billy, proved to be an attractive but modest +apartment hotel near the Conservatory of Music; and Calderwell was +delighted to find Arkwright at home in his comfortable little bachelor +suite. + +Arkwright greeted him most cordially. + +“Well, well,” he cried, “if it isn't Calderwell! And how's Mont Blanc? +Or is it the Killarney Lakes this time, or maybe the Sphinx that I +should inquire for, eh?” + +“Guess again,” laughed Calderwell, throwing off his heavy coat and +settling himself comfortably in the inviting-looking morris chair his +friend pulled forward. + +“Sha'n't do it,” retorted Arkwright, with a smile. “I never gamble on +palpable uncertainties, except for a chance throw or two, as I gave +a minute ago. Your movements are altogether too erratic, and too +far-reaching, for ordinary mortals to keep track of.” + +“Well, maybe you're right,” grinned Calderwell, appreciatively. “Anyhow, +you would have lost this time, sure thing, for I've been working.” + +“Seen the doctor yet?” queried Arkwright, coolly, pushing the cigars +across the table. + +“Thanks--for both,” sniffed Calderwell, with a reproachful glance, +helping himself. “Your good judgment in some matters is still +unimpaired, I see,” he observed, tapping the little gilded band which +had told him the cigar was an old favorite. “As to other matters, +however,--you're wrong again, my friend, in your surmise. I am not sick, +and I have been working.” + +“So? Well, I'm told they have very good specialists here. Some one +of them ought to hit your case. Still--how long has it been running?” + Arkwright's face showed only grave concern. + +“Oh, come, let up, Arkwright,” snapped Calderwell, striking his match +alight with a vigorous jerk. “I'll admit I haven't ever given any +_special_ indication of an absorbing passion for work. But what can you +expect of a fellow born with a whole dozen silver spoons in his mouth? +And that's what I was, according to Bertram Henshaw. According to him +again, it's a wonder I ever tried to feed myself; and perhaps he's +right--with my mouth already so full.” + +“I should say so,” laughed Arkwright. + +“Well, be that as it may. I'm going to feed myself, and I'm going to +earn my feed, too. I haven't climbed a mountain or paddled a canoe, for +a year. I've been in Chicago cultivating the acquaintance of John Doe +and Richard Roe.” + +“You mean--law?” + +“Sure. I studied it here for a while, before that bout of ours a couple +of years ago. Billy drove me away, then.” + +“Billy!--er--Mrs. Henshaw?” + +“Yes. I thought I told you. She turned down my tenth-dozen proposal so +emphatically that I lost all interest in Boston and took to the tall +timber again. But I've come back. A friend of my father's wrote me to +come on and consider a good opening there was in his law office. I came +on a month ago, and considered. Then I went back to pack up. Now I've +come for good, and here I am. You have my history to date. Now tell me +of yourself. You're looking as fit as a penny from the mint, even though +you have discarded that 'lovely' brown beard. Was that a concession +to--er--_Mary Jane_?” + +Arkwright lifted a quick hand of protest. + +“'Michael Jeremiah,' please. There is no 'Mary Jane,' now,” he said a +bit stiffly. + +The other stared a little. Then he gave a low chuckle. + +“'Michael Jeremiah,'” he repeated musingly, eyeing the glowing tip of +his cigar. “And to think how that mysterious 'M. J.' used to tantalize +me! Do you mean,” he added, turning slowly, “that no one calls you 'Mary +Jane' now?” + +“Not if they know what is best for them.” + +“Oh!” Calderwell noted the smouldering fire in the other's eyes a little +curiously. “Very well. I'll take the hint--Michael Jeremiah.” + +“Thanks.” Arkwright relaxed a little. “To tell the truth, I've had quite +enough now--of Mary Jane.” + +“Very good. So be it,” nodded the other, still regarding his friend +thoughtfully. “But tell me--what of yourself?” + +Arkwright shrugged his shoulders. + +“There's nothing to tell. You've seen. I'm here.” + +“Humph! Very pretty,” scoffed Calderwell. “Then if _you_ won't tell, I +_will_. I saw Billy a month ago, you see. It seems you've hit the trail +for Grand Opera, as you threatened to that night in Paris; but you +_haven't_ brought up in vaudeville, as you prophesied you would +do--though, for that matter, judging from the plums some of the stars +are picking on the vaudeville stage, nowadays, that isn't to be sneezed +at. But Billy says you've made two or three appearances already on the +sacred boards themselves--one of them a subscription performance--and +that you created no end of a sensation.” + +“Nonsense! I'm merely a student at the Opera School here,” scowled +Arkwright. + +“Oh, yes, Billy said you were that, but she also said you wouldn't +be, long. That you'd already had one good offer--I'm not speaking of +marriage--and that you were going abroad next summer, and that they were +all insufferably proud of you.” + +“Nonsense!” scowled Arkwright, again, coloring like a girl. “That is +only some of--of Mrs. Henshaw's kind flattery.” + +Calderwell jerked the cigar from between his lips, and sat suddenly +forward in his chair. + +“Arkwright, tell me about them. How are they making it go?” + +Arkwright frowned. + +“Who? Make what go?” he asked. + +“The Henshaws. Is she happy? Is he--on the square?” + +Arkwright's face darkened. + +“Well, really,” he began; but Calderwell interrupted. + +“Oh, come; don't be squeamish. You think I'm butting into what doesn't +concern me; but I'm not. What concerns Billy does concern me. And if he +doesn't make her happy, I'll--I'll kill him.” + +In spite of himself Arkwright laughed. The vehemence of the other's +words, and the fierceness with which he puffed at his cigar as he fell +back in his chair were most expressive. + +“Well, I don't think you need to load revolvers nor sharpen daggers, +just yet,” he observed grimly. + +Calderwell laughed this time, though without much mirth. + +“Oh, I'm not in love with Billy, now,” he explained. “Please don't think +I am. I shouldn't see her if I was, of course.” + +Arkwright changed his position suddenly, bringing his face into the +shadow. Calderwell talked on without pausing. + +“No, I'm not in love with Billy. But Billy's a trump. You know that.” + +“I do.” The words were low, but steadily spoken. + +“Of course you do! We all do. And we want her happy. But as for her +marrying Bertram--you could have bowled me over with a soap bubble when +I heard she'd done it. Now understand: Bertram is a good fellow, and I +like him. I've known him all his life, and he's all right. Oh, six or +eight years ago, to be sure, he got in with a set of fellows--Bob Seaver +and his clique--that were no good. Went in for Bohemianism, and all that +rot. It wasn't good for Bertram. He's got the confounded temperament +that goes with his talent, I suppose--though why a man can't paint a +picture, or sing a song, and keep his temper and a level head I don't +see!” + +“He can,” cut in Arkwright, with curt emphasis. + +“Humph! Well, that's what I think. But, about this marriage business. +Bertram admires a pretty face wherever he sees it--_to paint_, and +always has. Not but that he's straight as a string with women--I don't +mean that; but girls are always just so many pictures to be picked up +on his brushes and transferred to his canvases. And as for his settling +down and marrying anybody for keeps, right along--Great Scott! imagine +Bertram Henshaw as a _domestic_ man!” + +Arkwright stirred restlessly as he spoke up in quick defense: + +“Oh, but he is, I assure you. I--I've seen them in their home +together--many times. I think they are--very happy.” Arkwright spoke +with decision, though still a little diffidently. + +Calderwell was silent. He had picked up the little gilt band he had torn +from his cigar and was fingering it musingly. + +“Yes; I've seen them--once,” he said, after a minute. “I took dinner +with them when I was on, a month ago.” + +“I heard you did.” + +At something in Arkwright's voice, Calderwell turned quickly. + +“What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?” + +Arkwright laughed. The constraint fled from his manner. + +“Well, I may as well tell you. You'll hear of it. It's no secret. +Mrs. Henshaw herself tells of it everywhere. It was her friend, Alice +Greggory, who told me of it first, however. It seems the cook was gone, +and the mistress had to get the dinner herself.” + +“Yes, I know that.” + +“But you should hear Mrs. Henshaw tell the story now, or Bertram. +It seems she knew nothing whatever about cooking, and her trials and +tribulations in getting that dinner on to the table were only one +degree worse than the dinner itself, according to her story. Didn't +you--er--notice anything?” + +“Notice anything!” exploded Calderwell. “I noticed that Billy was so +brilliant she fairly radiated sparks; and I noticed that Bertram was so +glum he--he almost radiated thunderclaps. Then I saw that Billy's high +spirits were all assumed to cover a threatened burst of tears, and I +laid it all to him. I thought he'd said something to hurt her; and I +could have punched him. Great Scott! Was _that_ what ailed them?” + +“I reckon it was. Alice says that since then Mrs. Henshaw has fairly +haunted the kitchen, begging Eliza to teach her everything, _every +single thing_ she knows!” + +Calderwell chuckled. + +“If that isn't just like Billy! She never does anything by halves. By +George, but she was game over that dinner! I can see it all now.” + +“Alice says she's really learning to cook, in spite of old Pete's +horror, and Eliza's pleadings not to spoil her pretty hands.” + +“Then Pete is back all right? What a faithful old soul he is!” + +Arkwright frowned slightly. + +“Yes, he's faithful, but he isn't all right, by any means. I think he's +a sick man, myself.” + +“What makes Billy let him work, then?” + +“Let him!” sniffed Arkwright. “I'd like to see you try to stop him! Mrs. +Henshaw begs and pleads with him to stop, but he scouts the idea. Pete +is thoroughly and unalterably convinced that the family would starve to +death if it weren't for him; and Mrs. Henshaw says that she'll admit he +has some grounds for his opinion when one remembers the condition of the +kitchen and dining-room the night she presided over them.” + +“Poor Billy!” chuckled Calderwell. “I'd have gone down into the kitchen +myself if I'd suspected what was going on.” + +Arkwright raised his eyebrows. + +“Perhaps it's well you didn't--if Bertram's picture of what he found +there when he went down is a true one. Mrs. Henshaw acknowledges that +even the cat sought refuge under the stove.” + +“As if the veriest worm that crawls ever needed to seek refuge from +Billy!” scoffed Calderwell. “By the way, what's this Annex I hear of? +Bertram mentioned it, but I couldn't get either of them to tell what +it was. Billy wouldn't, and Bertram said he couldn't--not with Billy +shaking her head at him like that. So I had my suspicions. One of +Billy's pet charities?” + +“She doesn't call it that.” Arkwright's face and voice softened. “It is +Hillside. She still keeps it open. She calls it the Annex to her home. +She's filled it with a crippled woman, a poor little music teacher, a +lame boy, and Aunt Hannah.” + +“But how--extraordinary!” + +“She doesn't think so. She says it's just an overflow house for the +extra happiness she can't use.” + +There was a moment's silence. Calderwell laid down his cigar, pulled out +his handkerchief, and blew his nose furiously. Then he got to his feet +and walked to the fireplace. After a minute he turned. + +“Well, if she isn't the beat 'em!” he spluttered. “And I had the gall to +ask you if Henshaw made her--happy! Overflow house, indeed!” + +“The best of it is, the way she does it,” smiled Arkwright. “They're all +the sort of people ordinary charity could never reach; and the only way +she got them there at all was to make each one think that he or she was +absolutely necessary to the rest of them. Even as it is, they all pay a +little something toward the running expenses of the house. They +insisted on that, and Mrs. Henshaw had to let them. I believe her chief +difficulty now is that she has not less than six people whom she wishes +to put into the two extra rooms still unoccupied, and she can't make up +her mind which to take. Her husband says he expects to hear any day of +an Annexette to the Annex.” + +“Humph!” grunted Calderwell, as he turned and began to walk up and down +the room. “Bertram is still painting, I suppose.” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“What's he doing now?” + +“Several things. He's up to his eyes in work. As you probably have +heard, he met with a severe accident last summer, and lost the use of +his right arm for many months. I believe they thought at one time he had +lost it forever. But it's all right now, and he has several commissions +for portraits. Alice says he's doing ideal heads again, too.” + +“Same old 'Face of a Girl'?” + +“I suppose so, though Alice didn't say. Of course his special work just +now is painting the portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop. You may have +heard that he tried it last year and--and didn't make quite a success of +it.” + +“Yes. My sister Belle told me. She hears from Billy once in a while. +Will it be a go, this time?” + +“We'll hope so--for everybody's sake. I imagine no one has seen it +yet--it's not finished; but Alice says--” + +Calderwell turned abruptly, a quizzical smile on his face. + +“See here, my son,” he interposed, “it strikes me that this Alice is +saying a good deal--to you! Who is she?” + +Arkwright gave a light laugh. + +“Why, I told you. She is Miss Alice Greggory, Mrs. Henshaw's friend--and +mine. I have known her for years.” + +“Hm-m; what is she like?” + +“Like? Why, she's like--like herself, of course. You'll have to know +Alice. She's the salt of the earth--Alice is,” smiled Arkwright, rising +to his feet with a remonstrative gesture, as he saw Calderwell pick up +his coat. “What's your hurry?” + +“Hm-m,” commented Calderwell again, ignoring the question. “And when, +may I ask, do you intend to appropriate this--er--salt--to--er--ah, +season your own life with, as I might say--eh?” + +Arkwright laughed. There was not the slightest trace of embarrassment in +his face. + +“Never. _You're_ on the wrong track, this time. Alice and I are good +friends--always have been, and always will be, I hope.” + +“Nothing more?” + +“Nothing more. I see her frequently. She is musical, and the Henshaws +are good enough to ask us there often together. You will meet her, +doubtless, now, yourself. She is frequently at the Henshaw home.” + +“Hm-m.” Calderwell still eyed his host shrewdly. “Then you'll give me a +clear field, eh?” + +“Certainly.” Arkwright's eyes met his friend's gaze without swerving. + +“All right. However, I suppose you'll tell me, as I did you, once, that +a right of way in such a case doesn't mean a thoroughfare for the party +interested. If my memory serves me, I gave you right of way in Paris to +win the affections of a certain elusive Miss Billy here in Boston, if +you could. But I see you didn't seem to improve your opportunities,” he +finished teasingly. + +Arkwright stooped, of a sudden, to pick up a bit of paper from the +floor. + +“No,” he said quietly. “I didn't seem to improve my opportunities.” This +time he did not meet Calderwell's eyes. + +The good-byes had been said when Calderwell turned abruptly at the door. + +“Oh, I say, I suppose you're going to that devil's carnival at Jordan +Hall to-morrow night.” + +“Devil's carnival! You don't mean--Cyril Henshaw's piano recital!” + +“Sure I do,” grinned Calderwell, unabashed. “And I'll warrant it'll be +a devil's carnival, too. Isn't Mr. Cyril Henshaw going to play his own +music? Oh, I know I'm hopeless, from your standpoint, but I can't help +it. I like mine with some go in it, and a tune that you can find without +hunting for it. And I don't like lost spirits gone mad that wail and +shriek through ten perfectly good minutes, and then die with a gasping +moan whose home is the tombs. However, you're going, I take it.” + +“Of course I am,” laughed the other. “You couldn't hire Alice to miss +one shriek of those spirits. Besides, I rather like them myself, you +know.” + +“Yes, I suppose you do. You're brought up on it--in your business. But +me for the 'Merry Widow' and even the hoary 'Jingle Bells' every time! +However, I'm going to be there--out of respect to the poor fellow's +family. And, by the way, that's another thing that bowled me +over--Cyril's marriage. Why, Cyril hates women!” + +“Not all women--we'll hope,” smiled Arkwright. “Do you know his wife?” + +“Not much. I used to see her a little at Billy's. Music teacher, wasn't +she? Then she's the same sort, I suppose.” + +“But she isn't,” laughed Arkwright. “Oh, she taught music, but that +was only because of necessity, I take it. She's domestic through and +through, with an overwhelming passion for making puddings and darning +socks, I hear. Alice says she believes Mrs. Cyril knows every dish and +spoon by its Christian name, and that there's never so much as a spool +of thread out of order in the house.” + +“But how does Cyril stand it--the trials and tribulations of domestic +life? Bertram used to declare that the whole Strata was aquiver with +fear when Cyril was composing, and I remember him as a perfect bear if +anybody so much as whispered when he was in one of his moods. I never +forgot the night Bertram and I were up in William's room trying to sing +'When Johnnie comes marching home,' to the accompaniment of a banjo +in Bertram's hands, and a guitar in mine. Gorry! it was Hugh that went +marching home that night.” + +“Oh, well, from reports I reckon Mrs. Cyril doesn't play either a banjo +or a guitar,” smiled Arkwright. “Alice says she wears rubber heels on +her shoes, and has put hushers on all the chair-legs, and felt-mats +between all the plates and saucers. Anyhow, Cyril is building a new +house, and he looks as if he were in a pretty healthy condition, as +you'll see to-morrow night.” + +“Humph! I wish he'd make his music healthy, then,” grumbled Calderwell, +as he opened the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. FOR BILLY--SOME ADVICE + + +February brought busy days. The public opening of the Bohemian Ten Club +Exhibition was to take place the sixth of March, with a private view +for invited guests the night before; and it was at this exhibition that +Bertram planned to show his portrait of Marguerite Winthrop. He also, if +possible, wished to enter two or three other canvases, upon which he was +spending all the time he could get. + +Bertram felt that he was doing very good work now. The portrait of +Marguerite Winthrop was coming on finely. The spoiled idol of society +had at last found a pose and a costume that suited her, and she was +graciously pleased to give the artist almost as many sittings as he +wanted. The “elusive something” in her face, which had previously been +so baffling, was now already caught and held bewitchingly on his canvas. +He was confident that the portrait would be a success. He was also much +interested in another piece of work which he intended to show called +“The Rose.” The model for this was a beautiful young girl he had found +selling flowers with her father in a street booth at the North End. + +On the whole, Bertram was very happy these days. He could not, to +be sure, spend quite so much time with Billy as he wished; but she +understood, of course, as did he, that his work must come first. He knew +that she tried to show him that she understood it. At the same time, he +could not help thinking, occasionally, that Billy did sometimes mind his +necessary absorption in his painting. + +To himself Bertram owned that Billy was, in some ways, a puzzle to him. +Her conduct was still erratic at times. One day he would seem to be +everything to her; the next--almost nothing, judging by the ease with +which she relinquished his society and substituted that of some one +else: Arkwright, or Calderwell, for instance. + +And that was another thing. Bertram was ashamed to hint even to himself +that he was jealous of either of those men. Surely, after what had +happened, after Billy's emphatic assertion that she had never loved any +one but himself, it would seem not only absurd, but disloyal, that +he should doubt for an instant Billy's entire devotion to him, and +yet--there were times when he wished he _could_ come home and not +always find Alice Greggory, Calderwell, Arkwright, or all three of them +strumming the piano in the drawing-room! At such times, always, though, +if he did feel impatient, he immediately demanded of himself: “Are you, +then, the kind of husband that begrudges your wife young companions of +her own age and tastes to help her while away the hours that you cannot +possibly spend with her yourself?” + +This question, and the answer that his better self always gave to it, +were usually sufficient to send him into some florists for a bunch of +violets for Billy, or into a candy shop on a like atoning errand. + +As to Billy--Billy, too, was busy these days chief of her concerns +being, perhaps, attention to that honeymoon of hers, to see that it did +not wane. At least, the most of her thoughts, and many of her actions, +centered about that object. + +Billy had the book, now--the “Talk to Young Wives.” For a time she had +worked with only the newspaper criticism to guide her; but, coming at +last to the conclusion that if a little was good, more must be better, +she had shyly gone into a bookstore one day and, with a pink blush, had +asked for the book. Since bringing it home she had studied assiduously +(though never if Bertram was near), keeping it well-hidden, when not in +use, in a remote corner of her desk. + +There was a good deal in the book that Billy did not like, and there +were some statements that worried her; but yet there was much that she +tried earnestly to follow. She was still striving to be the oak, and +she was still eagerly endeavoring to brush up against those necessary +outside interests. She was so thankful, in this connection, for Alice +Greggory, and for Arkwright and Hugh Calderwell. It was such a help that +she had them! They were not only very pleasant and entertaining outside +interests, but one or another of them was almost always conveniently +within reach. + +Then, too, it pleased her to think that she was furthering the pretty +love story between Alice and Mr. Arkwright. And she _was_ furthering it. +She was sure of that. Already she could see how dependent the man was on +Alice, how he looked to her for approbation, and appealed to her on all +occasions, exactly as if there was not a move that he wanted to make +without her presence near him. Billy was very sure, now, of Arkwright. +She only wished she were as much so of Alice. But Alice troubled her. +Not but that Alice was kindness itself to the man, either. It was only +a peculiar something almost like fear, or constraint, that Billy thought +she saw in Alice's eyes, sometimes, when Arkwright made a particularly +intimate appeal. There was Calderwell, too. He, also, worried Billy. She +feared he was going to complicate matters still more by falling in love +with Alice, himself; and this, certainly, Billy did not want at all. As +this phase of the matter presented itself, indeed, Billy determined to +appropriate Calderwell a little more exclusively to herself, when the +four were together, thus leaving Alice for Arkwright. After all, it was +rather entertaining--this playing at Cupid's assistant. If she _could_ +not have Bertram all the time, it was fortunate that these outside +interests were so pleasurable. + +Most of the mornings Billy spent in the kitchen, despite the +remonstrances of both Pete and Eliza. Almost every meal, now, was graced +with a palatable cake, pudding, or muffin that Billy would proudly claim +as her handiwork. Pete still served at table, and made strenuous efforts +to keep up all his old duties; but he was obviously growing weaker, and +really serious blunders were beginning to be noticeable. Bertram even +hinted once or twice that perhaps it would be just as well to insist on +his going; but to this Billy would not give her consent. Even when one +night his poor old trembling hands spilled half the contents of a soup +plate over a new and costly evening gown of Billy's own, she still +refused to have him dismissed. + +“Why, Bertram, I wouldn't do it,” she declared hotly; “and you wouldn't, +either. He's been here more than fifty years. It would break his heart. +He's really too ill to work, and I wish he would go of his own accord, +of course; but I sha'n't ever tell him to go--not if he spills soup on +every dress I've got. I'll buy more--and more, if it's necessary. Bless +his dear old heart! He thinks he's really serving us--and he is, too.” + +“Oh, yes, you're right, he _is!_” sighed Bertram, with meaning emphasis, +as he abandoned the argument. + +In addition to her “Talk to Young Wives,” Billy found herself +encountering advice and comment on the marriage question from still +other quarters--from her acquaintances (mostly the feminine ones) right +and left. Continually she was hearing such words as these: + +“Oh, well, what can you expect, Billy? You're an old married woman, +now.” + +“Never mind, you'll find he's like all the rest of the husbands. You +just wait and see!” + +“Better begin with a high hand, Billy. Don't let him fool you!” + +“Mercy! If I had a husband whose business it was to look at women's +beautiful eyes, peachy cheeks, and luxurious tresses, I should go +crazy! It's hard enough to keep a man's eyes on yourself when his daily +interests are supposed to be just lumps of coal and chunks of ice, +without flinging him into the very jaws of temptation like asking him to +paint a pretty girl's picture!” + +In response to all this, of course, Billy could but laugh, and blush, +and toss back some gay reply, with a careless unconcern. But in her +heart she did not like it. Sometimes she told herself that if there were +not any advice or comment from anybody--either book or woman--if there +were not anybody but just Bertram and herself, life would be just one +long honeymoon forever and forever. + +Once or twice Billy was tempted to go to Marie with this honeymoon +question; but Marie was very busy these days, and very preoccupied. The +new house that Cyril was building on Corey Hill, not far from the +Annex, was almost finished, and Marie was immersed in the subject of +house-furnishings and interior decoration. She was, too, still more +deeply engrossed in the fashioning of tiny garments of the softest +linen, lace, and woolen; and there was on her face such a look of +beatific wonder and joy that Billy did not like to so much as hint that +there was in the world such a book as “When the Honeymoon Wanes: A Talk +to Young Wives.” + +Billy tried valiantly these days not to mind that Bertram's work was so +absorbing. She tried not to mind that his business dealt, not with lumps +of coal and chunks of ice, but with beautiful women like Marguerite +Winthrop who asked him to luncheon, and lovely girls like his model for +“The Rose” who came freely to his studio and spent hours in the beloved +presence, being studied for what Bertram declared was absolutely the +most wonderful poise of head and shoulders that he had ever seen. + +Billy tried, also, these days, to so conduct herself that not by any +chance could Calderwell suspect that sometimes she was jealous of +Bertram's art. Not for worlds would she have had Calderwell begin to get +the notion into his head that his old-time prophecy concerning Bertram's +caring only for the turn of a girl's head or the tilt of her chin--to +paint, was being fulfilled. Hence, particularly gay and cheerful was +Billy when Calderwell was near. Nor could it be said that Billy was +really unhappy at any time. It was only that, on occasion, the very +depth of her happiness in Bertram's love frightened her, lest it bring +disaster to herself or Bertram. + +Billy still went frequently to the Annex. There were yet two unfilled +rooms in the house. Billy was hesitating which two of six new friends +of hers to choose as occupants; and it was one day early in March, after +she had been talking the matter over with Aunt Hannah, that Aunt Hannah +said: + +“Dear me, Billy, if you had your way I believe you'd open another whole +house!” + +“Do you know?--that's just what I'm thinking of,” retorted Billy, +gravely. Then she laughed at Aunt Hannah's shocked gesture of protest. +“Oh, well, I don't expect to,” she added. “I haven't lived very long, +but I've lived long enough to know that you can't always do what you +want to.” + +“Just as if there were anything _you_ wanted to do that you don't do, my +dear,” reproved Aunt Hannah, mildly. + +“Yes, I know.” Billy drew in her breath with a little catch. “I have so +much that is lovely; and that's why I need this house, you know, for the +overflow,” she nodded brightly. Then, with a characteristic change of +subject, she added: “My, but you should have tasted of the popovers I +made for breakfast this morning!” + +“I should like to,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “William says you're getting to +be quite a cook.” + +“Well, maybe,” conceded Billy, doubtfully. “Oh, I can do some things +all right; but just wait till Pete and Eliza go away again, and Bertram +brings home a friend to dinner. That'll tell the tale. I think now I +could have something besides potato-mush and burned corn--but maybe I +wouldn't, when the time came. If only I could buy everything I needed to +cook with, I'd be all right. But I can't, I find.” + +“Can't buy what you need! What do you mean?” + +Billy laughed ruefully. + +“Well, every other question I ask Eliza, she says: 'Why, I don't know; +you have to use your judgment.' Just as if I had any judgment about how +much salt to use, or what dish to take! Dear me, Aunt Hannah, the man +that will grow judgment and can it as you would a mess of peas, has got +his fortune made!” + +“What an absurd child you are, Billy,” laughed Aunt Hannah. “I used to +tell Marie--By the way, how is Marie? Have you seen her lately?” + +“Oh, yes, I saw her yesterday,” twinkled Billy. “She had a book of +wall-paper samples spread over the back of a chair, two bunches of +samples of different colored damasks on the table before her, a 'Young +Mother's Guide' propped open in another chair, and a pair of baby's +socks in her lap with a roll each of pink, and white, and blue ribbon. +She spent most of the time, after I had helped her choose the ribbon, in +asking me if I thought she ought to let the baby cry and bother Cyril, +or stop its crying and hurt the baby, because her 'Mother's Guide' says +a certain amount of crying is needed to develop a baby's lungs.” + +Aunt Hannah laughed, but she frowned, too. + +“The idea! I guess Cyril can stand proper crying--and laughing, +too--from his own child!” she said then, crisply. + +“Oh, but Marie is afraid he can't,” smiled Billy. “And that's the +trouble. She says that's the only thing that worries her--Cyril.” + +“Nonsense!” ejaculated Aunt Hannah. + +“Oh, but it isn't nonsense to Marie,” retorted Billy. “You should see +the preparations she's made and the precautions she's taken. Actually, +when I saw those baby's socks in her lap, I didn't know but she was +going to put rubber heels on them! They've built the new house with +deadening felt in all the walls, and Marie's planned the nursery and +Cyril's den at opposite ends of the house; and she says she shall keep +the baby there _all_ the time--the nursery, I mean, not the den. She +says she's going to teach it to be a quiet baby and hate noise. She says +she thinks she can do it, too.” + +“Humph!” sniffed Aunt Hannah, scornfully. + +“You should have seen Marie's disgust the other day,” went on Billy, a +bit mischievously. “Her Cousin Jane sent on a rattle she'd made herself, +all soft worsted, with bells inside. It was a dear; but Marie was +horror-stricken. 'My baby have a rattle?' she cried. 'Why, what would +Cyril say? As if he could stand a rattle in the house!' And if she +didn't give that rattle to the janitor's wife that very day, while I was +there!” + +“Humph!” sniffed Aunt Hannah again, as Billy rose to go. “Well, I'm +thinking Marie has still some things to learn in this world--and Cyril, +too, for that matter.” + +“I wouldn't wonder,” laughed Billy, giving Aunt Hannah a good-by kiss. + + + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE EFFICIENCY STAR--AND BILLY + + +Billy was not a young woman that did things by halves. Long ago, in +the days of her childhood, her Aunt Ella had once said of her: “If only +Billy didn't go into things all over, so; but whether it's measles or +mud pies, I always know that she'll be the measliest or the muddiest +of any child in town!” It could not be expected, therefore, that Billy +would begin to play her new rôle now with any lack of enthusiasm. But +even had she needed any incentive, there was still ever ringing in her +ears Bertram's accusing: “If you'd tend to your husband and your home +a little more--” Billy still declared very emphatically that she +had forgiven Bertram; but she knew, in her heart, that she had not +forgotten. + +Certainly, as the days passed, it could not be said that Billy was not +tending to her husband and her home. From morning till night, now, +she tended to nothing else. She seldom touched her piano--save to dust +it--and she never touched her half-finished song-manuscript, long since +banished to the oblivion of the music cabinet. She made no calls except +occasional flying visits to the Annex, or to the pretty new home +where Marie and Cyril were now delightfully settled. The opera and the +Symphony were over for the season, but even had they not been, Billy +could not have attended them. She had no time. Surely she was not +doing any “gallivanting” now, she told herself sometimes, a little +aggrievedly. + +There was, indeed, no time. From morning until night Billy was busy, +flying from one task to another. Her ambition to have everything just +right was equalled only by her dogged determination to “just show them” + that she could do this thing. At first, of course, hampered as she was +by ignorance and inexperience, each task consumed about twice as much +time as was necessary. Yet afterwards, when accustomedness had brought +its reward of speed, there was still for Billy no time; for increased +knowledge had only opened the way to other paths, untrodden and +alluring. Study of cookbooks had led to the study of food values. Billy +discovered suddenly that potatoes, beef, onions, oranges, and puddings +were something besides vegetables, meat, fruit, and dessert. They +possessed attributes known as proteids, fats, and carbohydrates. Faint +memories of long forgotten school days hinted that these terms had been +heard before; but never, Billy was sure, had she fully realized what +they meant. + +It was at this juncture that Billy ran across a book entitled “Correct +Eating for Efficiency.” She bought it at once, and carried it home +in triumph. It proved to be a marvelous book. Billy had not read two +chapters before she began to wonder how the family had managed to live +thus far with any sort of success, in the face of their dense ignorance +and her own criminal carelessness concerning their daily bill of fare. + +At dinner that night Billy told Bertram and William of her discovery, +and, with growing excitement, dilated on the wonderful good that it was +to bring to them. + +“Why, you don't know, you can't imagine what a treasure it is!” she +exclaimed. “It gives a complete table for the exact balancing of food.” + +“For what?” demanded Bertram, glancing up. + +“The exact balancing of food; and this book says that's the biggest +problem that modern scientists have to solve.” + +“Humph!” shrugged Bertram. “Well, you just balance my food to my hunger, +and I'll agree not to complain.” + +“Oh, but, Bertram, it's serious, really,” urged Billy, looking genuinely +distressed. “Why, it says that what you eat goes to make up what you +are. It makes your vital energies. Your brain power and your body +power come from what you eat. Don't you see? If you're going to paint +a picture you need something different from what you would if you were +going to--to saw wood; and what this book tells is--is what I ought to +give you to make you do each one, I should think, from what I've read +so far. Now don't you see how important it is? What if I should give you +the saw-wood kind of a breakfast when you were just going up-stairs to +paint all day? And what if I should give Uncle William a--a soldier's +breakfast when all he is going to do is to go down on State Street and +sit still all day?” + +“But--but, my dear,” began Uncle William, looking slightly worried, +“there's my eggs that I _always_ have, you know.” + +“For heaven's sake, Billy, what _have_ you got hold of now?” demanded +Bertram, with just a touch of irritation. + +Billy laughed merrily. + +“Well, I suppose I didn't sound very logical,” she admitted. “But the +book--you just wait. It's in the kitchen. I'm going to get it.” And with +laughing eagerness she ran from the room. + +In a moment she had returned, book in hand. + +“Now listen. _This_ is the real thing--not my garbled inaccuracies. 'The +food which we eat serves three purposes: it builds the body substance, +bone, muscle, etc., it produces heat in the body, and it generates vital +energy. Nitrogen in different chemical combinations contributes largely +to the manufacture of body substances; the fats produce heat; and the +starches and sugars go to make the vital energy. The nitrogenous food +elements we call proteins; the fats and oils, fats; and the starches and +sugars (because of the predominance of carbon), we call carbohydrates. +Now in selecting the diet for the day you should take care to choose +those foods which give the proteins, fats, and carbohydrates in just the +right proportion.'” + +“Oh, Billy!” groaned Bertram. + +“But it's so, Bertram,” maintained Billy, anxiously. “And it's every bit +here. I don't have to guess at it at all. They even give the quantities +of calories of energy required for different sized men. I'm going +to measure you both to-morrow; and you must be weighed, too,” she +continued, ignoring the sniffs of remonstrance from her two listeners. +“Then I'll know just how many calories to give each of you. They say a +man of average size and weight, and sedentary occupation, should have +at least 2,000 calories--and some authorities say 3,000--in this +proportion: proteins, 300 calories, fats, 350 calories, carbohydrates, +1,350 calories. But you both are taller than five feet five inches, and +I should think you weighed more than 145 pounds; so I can't tell just +yet how many calories you will need.” + +“How many we will need, indeed!” ejaculated Bertram. + +“But, my dear, you know I have to have my eggs,” began Uncle William +again, in a worried voice. + +“Of course you do, dear; and you shall have them,” soothed Billy, +brightly. “It's only that I'll have to be careful and balance up the +other things for the day accordingly. Don't you see? Now listen. We'll +see what eggs are.” She turned the leaves rapidly. “Here's the food +table. It's lovely. It tells everything. I never saw anything so +wonderful. A--b--c--d--e--here we are. 'Eggs, scrambled or boiled, fats +and proteins, one egg, 100.' If it's poached it's only 50; but you like +yours boiled, so we'll have to reckon on the 100. And you always have +two, so that means 200 calories in fats and proteins. Now, don't you +see? If you can't have but 300 proteins and 350 fats all day, and you've +already eaten 200 in your two eggs, that'll leave just--er--450 for all +the rest of the day,--of fats and proteins, you understand. And you've +no idea how fast that'll count up. Why, just one serving of butter is +100 of fats, and eight almonds is another, while a serving of lentils is +100 of proteins. So you see how it'll go.” + +“Yes, I see,” murmured Uncle William, casting a mournful glance about +the generously laden table, much as if he were bidding farewell to +a departing friend. “But if I should want more to eat--” He stopped +helplessly, and Bertram's aggrieved voice filled the pause. + +“Look here, Billy, if you think I'm going to be measured for an egg and +weighed for an almond, you're much mistaken; because I'm not. I want to +eat what I like, and as much as I like, whether it's six calories or six +thousand!” + +Billy chuckled, but she raised her hands in pretended shocked protest. + +“Six thousand! Mercy! Bertram, I don't know what would happen if you ate +that quantity; but I'm sure you couldn't paint. You'd just have to saw +wood and dig ditches to use up all that vital energy.” + +“Humph!” scoffed Bertram. + +“Besides, this is for _efficiency_,” went on Billy, with an earnest +air. “This man owns up that some may think a 2,000 calory ration is +altogether too small, and he advises such to begin with 3,000 or +even 3,500--graded, of course, according to a man's size, weight, and +occupation. But he says one famous man does splendid work on only +1,800 calories, and another on even 1,600. But that is just a matter of +chewing. Why, Bertram, you have no idea what perfectly wonderful things +chewing does.” + +“Yes, I've heard of that,” grunted Bertram; “ten chews to a cherry, and +sixty to a spoonful of soup. There's an old metronome up-stairs that +Cyril left. You might bring it down and set it going on the table--so +many ticks to a mouthful, I suppose. I reckon, with an incentive like +that to eat, just about two calories would do me. Eh, William?” + +“Bertram! Now you're only making fun,” chided Billy; “and when it's +really serious, too. Now listen,” she admonished, picking up the +book again. “'If a man consumes a large amount of meat, and very few +vegetables, his diet will be too rich in protein, and too lacking in +carbohydrates. On the other hand, if he consumes great quantities of +pastry, bread, butter, and tea, his meals will furnish too much energy, +and not enough building material.' There, Bertram, don't you see?” + +“Oh, yes, I see,” teased Bertram. “William, better eat what you can +to-night. I foresee it's the last meal of just _food_ we'll get for some +time. Hereafter we'll have proteins, fats, and carbohydrates made into +calory croquettes, and--” + +“Bertram!” scolded Billy. + +But Bertram would not be silenced. + +“Here, just let me take that book,” he insisted, dragging the volume +from Billy's reluctant fingers. “Now, William, listen. Here's your +breakfast to-morrow morning: strawberries, 100 calories; whole-wheat +bread, 75 calories; butter, 100 calories (no second helping, mind you, +or you'd ruin the balance and something would topple); boiled eggs, 200 +calories; cocoa, 100 calories--which all comes to 570 calories. Sounds +like an English bill of fare with a new kind of foreign money, but +'tisn't, really, you know. Now for luncheon you can have tomato soup, 50 +calories; potato salad--that's cheap, only 30 calories, and--” But Billy +pulled the book away then, and in righteous indignation carried it to +the kitchen. + +“You don't deserve anything to eat,” she declared with dignity, as she +returned to the dining-room. + +“No?” queried Bertram, his eyebrows uplifted. “Well, as near as I can +make out we aren't going to get--much.” + +But Billy did not deign to answer this. + +In spite of Bertram's tormenting gibes, Billy did, for some days, +arrange her meals in accordance with the wonderful table of food given +in “Correct Eating for Efficiency.” To be sure, Bertram, whatever he +found before him during those days, anxiously asked whether he were +eating fats, proteins, or carbohydrates; and he worried openly as to the +possibility of his meal's producing one calory too much or too little, +thus endangering his “balance.” + +Billy alternately laughed and scolded, to the unvarying good nature of +her husband. As it happened, however, even this was not for long, for +Billy ran across a magazine article on food adulteration; and this so +filled her with terror lest, in the food served, she were killing her +family by slow poison, that she forgot all about the proteins, fats, +and carbohydrates. Her talk these days was of formaldehyde, benzoate of +soda, and salicylic acid. + +Very soon, too, Billy discovered an exclusive Back Bay school for +instruction in household economics and domestic hygiene. Billy +investigated it at once, and was immediately aflame with enthusiasm. She +told Bertram that it taught everything, _everything_ she wanted to know; +and forthwith she enrolled herself as one of its most devoted pupils, in +spite of her husband's protests that she knew enough, more than enough, +already. This school attendance, to her consternation, Billy discovered +took added time; but in some way she contrived to find it to take. + +And so the days passed. Eliza's mother, though better, was still too ill +for her daughter to leave her. Billy, as the warm weather approached, +began to look pale and thin. Billy, to tell the truth, was working +altogether too hard; but she would not admit it, even to herself. At +first the novelty of the work, and her determination to conquer at all +costs, had given a fictitious strength to her endurance. Now that the +novelty had become accustomedness, and the conquering a surety, Billy +discovered that she had a back that could ache, and limbs that, at +times, could almost refuse to move from weariness. There was still, +however, one spur that never failed to urge her to fresh endeavor, and +to make her, at least temporarily, forget both ache and weariness; +and that was the comforting thought that now, certainly, even Bertram +himself must admit that she was tending to her home and her husband. + +As to Bertram--Bertram, it is true, had at first uttered frequent and +vehement protests against his wife's absorption of both mind and body +in “that plaguy housework,” as he termed it. But as the days passed, and +blessed order superseded chaos, peace followed discord, and delicious, +well-served meals took the place of the horrors that had been called +meals in the past, he gradually accepted the change with tranquil +satisfaction, and forgot to question how it was brought about; though he +did still, sometimes, rebel because Billy was always too tired, or too +busy, to go out with him. Of late, however, he had not done even this so +frequently, for a new “Face of a Girl” had possessed his soul; and all +his thoughts and most of his time had gone to putting on canvas the +vision of loveliness that his mind's eye saw. + +By June fifteenth the picture was finished. Bertram awoke then to his +surroundings. He found summer was upon him with no plans made for its +enjoyment. He found William had started West for a two weeks' business +trip. But what he did not find one day--at least at first--was his wife, +when he came home unexpectedly at four o'clock. And Bertram especially +wanted to find his wife that day, for he had met three people whose +words had disquieted him not a little. First, Aunt Hannah. She had said: + +“Bertram, where is Billy? She hasn't been out to the Annex for a week; +and the last time she was there she looked sick. I was real worried +about her.” + +Cyril had been next. + +“Where's Billy?” he had asked abruptly. “Marie says she hasn't seen her +for two weeks. Marie's afraid she's sick. She says Billy didn't look +well a bit, when she did see her.” + +Calderwell had capped the climax. He had said: + +“Great Scott, Henshaw, where have you been keeping yourself? And where's +your wife? Not one of us has caught more than a glimpse of her for +weeks. She hasn't sung with us, nor played for us, nor let us take her +anywhere for a month of Sundays. Even Miss Greggory says _she_ hasn't +seen much of her, and that Billy always says she's too busy to go +anywhere. But Miss Greggory says she looks pale and thin, and that _she_ +thinks she's worrying too much over running the house. I hope she isn't +sick!” + +“Why, no, Billy isn't sick. Billy's all right,” Bertram had answered. He +had spoken lightly, nonchalantly, with an elaborate air of carelessness; +but after he had left Calderwell, he had turned his steps abruptly and a +little hastily toward home. + +And he had not found Billy--at least, not at once. He had gone first +down into the kitchen and dining-room. He remembered then, uneasily, +that he had always looked for Billy in the kitchen and dining-room, of +late. To-day, however, she was not there. + +On the kitchen table Bertram did see a book wide open, and, +mechanically, he picked it up. It was a much-thumbed cookbook, and it +was open where two once-blank pages bore his wife's handwriting. On +the first page, under the printed heading “Things to Remember,” he read +these sentences: + +“That rice swells till every dish in the house is full, and that spinach +shrinks till you can't find it. + +“That beets boil dry if you look out the window. + +“That biscuits which look as if they'd been mixed up with a rusty stove +poker haven't really been so, but have only got too much undissolved +soda in them.” + +There were other sentences, but Bertram's eyes chanced to fall on the +opposite page where the “Things to Remember” had been changed to “Things +to Forget”; and here Billy had written just four words: “Burns,” “cuts,” + and “yesterday's failures.” + +Bertram dropped the book then with a spasmodic clearing of his throat, +and hurriedly resumed his search. When he did find his wife, at last, he +gave a cry of dismay--she was on her own bed, huddled in a little heap, +and shaking with sobs. + +“Billy! Why, Billy!” he gasped, striding to the bedside. + +Billy sat up at once, and hastily wiped her eyes. + +“Oh, is it you, B-Bertram? I didn't hear you come in. You--you s-said +you weren't coming till six o'clock!” she choked. + +“Billy, what is the meaning of this?” + +“N-nothing. I--I guess I'm just tired.” + +“What have you been doing?” Bertram spoke sternly, almost sharply. He +was wondering why he had not noticed before the little hollows in his +wife's cheeks. “Billy, what have you been doing?” + +“Why, n-nothing extra, only some sweeping, and cleaning out the +refrigerator.” + +“Sweeping! Cleaning! _You!_ I thought Mrs. Durgin did that.” + +“She does. I mean she did. But she couldn't come. She broke her +leg--fell off the stepladder where she was three days ago. So I _had_ +to do it. And to-day, someway, everything went wrong. I burned me, and I +cut me, and I used two sodas with not any cream of tartar, and I should +think I didn't know anything, not anything!” And down went Billy's head +into the pillows again in another burst of sobs. + +With gentle yet uncompromising determination, Bertram gathered his +wife into his arms and carried her to the big chair. There, for a few +minutes, he soothed and petted her as if she were a tired child--which, +indeed, she was. + +“Billy, this thing has got to stop,” he said then. There was a very +inexorable ring of decision in his voice. + +“What thing?” + +“This housework business.” + +Billy sat up with a jerk. + +“But, Bertram, it isn't fair. You can't--you mustn't--just because of +to-day! I _can_ do it. I have done it. I've done it days and days, and +it's gone beautifully--even if they did say I couldn't!” + +“Couldn't what?” + +“Be an e-efficient housekeeper.” + +“Who said you couldn't?” + +“Aunt Hannah and K-Kate.” + +Bertram said a savage word under his breath. + +“Holy smoke, Billy! I didn't marry you for a cook or a scrub-lady. If +you _had_ to do it, that would be another matter, of course; and if we +did have to do it, we wouldn't have a big house like this for you to do +it in. But I didn't marry for a cook, and I knew I wasn't getting one +when I married you.” + +Billy bridled into instant wrath. + +“Well, I like that, Bertram Henshaw! Can't I cook? Haven't I proved that +I can cook?” + +Bertram laughed, and kissed the indignant lips till they quivered into +an unwilling smile. + +“Bless your spunky little heart, of course you have! But that doesn't +mean that I want you to do it. You see, it so happens that you can do +other things, too; and I'd rather you did those. Billy, you haven't +played to me for a week, nor sung to me for a month. You're too tired +every night to talk, or read together, or go anywhere with me. I married +for companionship--not cooking and sweeping!” + +Billy shook her head stubbornly. Her mouth settled into determined +lines. + +“That's all very well to say. You aren't hungry now, Bertram. But it's +different when you are, and they said 'twould be.” + +“Humph! 'They' are Aunt Hannah and Kate, I suppose.” + +“Yes--and the 'Talk to Young Wives.'” + +“The w-what?” + +Billy choked a little. She had forgotten that Bertram did not know about +the “Talk to Young Wives.” She wished that she had not mentioned the +book, but now that she had, she would make the best of it. She drew +herself up with dignity. + +“It's a book; a very nice book. It says lots of things--that have come +true.” + +“Where is that book? Let me see it, please.” + +With visible reluctance Billy got down from her perch on Bertram's knee, +went to her desk and brought back the book. + +Bertram regarded it frowningly, so frowningly that Billy hastened to its +defense. + +“And it's true--what it says in there, and what Aunt Hannah and Kate +said. It _is_ different when they're hungry! You said yourself if I'd +tend to my husband and my home a little more, and--” + +Bertram looked up with unfeigned amazement. + +“I said what?” he demanded. + +In a voice shaken with emotion, Billy repeated the fateful words. + +“I never--when did I say that?” + +“The night Uncle William and I came home from--Pete's.” + +For a moment Bertram stared dumbly; then a shamed red swept to his +forehead. + +“Billy, _did_ I say that? I ought to be shot if I did. But, Billy, you +said you'd forgiven me!” + +“I did, dear--truly I did; but, don't you see?--it was true. I _hadn't_ +tended to things. So I've been doing it since.” + +A sudden comprehension illuminated Bertram's face. + +“Heavens, Billy! And is that why you haven't been anywhere, or done +anything? Is that why Calderwell said to-day that you hadn't been with +them anywhere, and that--Great Scott, Billy! Did you think I was such a +selfish brute as that?” + +“Oh, but when I was going with them I _was_ following the book--I +thought,” quavered Billy; and hurriedly she turned the leaves to a +carefully marked passage. “It's there--about the outside interests. See? +I _was_ trying to brush up against them, so that I wouldn't interfere +with your Art. Then, when you accused me of gallivanting off with--” But +Bertram swept her back into his arms, and not for some minutes could +Billy make a coherent speech again. + +Then Bertram spoke. + +“See here, Billy,” he exploded, a little shakily, “if I could get you +off somewhere on a desert island, where there weren't any Aunt Hannahs +or Kates, or Talks to Young Wives, I think there'd be a chance to make +you happy; but--” + +“Oh, but there was truth in it,” interrupted Billy, sitting erect again. +“I _didn't_ know how to run a house, and it was perfectly awful while we +were having all those dreadful maids, one after the other; and no woman +should be a wife who doesn't know--” + +“All right, all right, dear,” interrupted Bertram, in his turn. “We'll +concede that point, if you like. But you _do_ know now. You've got the +efficient housewife racket down pat even to the last calory your husband +should be fed; and I'll warrant there isn't a Mary Ellen in Christendom +who can find a spot of ignorance on you as big as a pinhead! So we'll +call that settled. What you need now is a good rest; and you're going to +have it, too. I'm going to have six Mary Ellens here to-morrow morning. +Six! Do you hear? And all you've got to do is to get your gladdest rags +together for a trip to Europe with me next month. Because we're going. I +shall get the tickets to-morrow, _after_ I send the six Mary Ellens +packing up here. Now come, put on your bonnet. We're going down town to +dinner.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. BILLY TRIES HER HAND AT “MANAGING” + + +Bertram did not engage six Mary Ellens the next morning, nor even one, +as it happened; for that evening, Eliza--who had not been unaware of +conditions at the Strata--telephoned to say that her mother was so much +better now she believed she could be spared to come to the Strata for +several hours each day, if Mrs. Henshaw would like to have her begin in +that way. + +Billy agreed promptly, and declared herself as more than willing to put +up with such an arrangement. Bertram, it is true, when he heard of +the plan, rebelled, and asserted that what Billy needed was a rest, an +entire rest from care and labor. In fact, what he wanted her to do, he +said, was to gallivant--to gallivant all day long. + +“Nonsense!” Billy had laughed, coloring to the tips of her ears. +“Besides, as for the work, Bertram, with just you and me here, and with +all my vast experience now, and Eliza here for several hours every day, +it'll be nothing but play for this little time before we go away. You'll +see!” + +“All right, I'll _see_, then,” Bertram had nodded meaningly. “But just +make sure that it _is_ play for you!” + +“I will,” laughed Billy; and there the matter had ended. + +Eliza began work the next day, and Billy did indeed soon find herself +“playing” under Bertram's watchful insistence. She resumed her music, +and brought out of exile the unfinished song. With Bertram she took +drives and walks; and every two or three days she went to see Aunt +Hannah and Marie. She was pleasantly busy, too, with plans for her +coming trip; and it was not long before even the remorseful Bertram had +to admit that Billy was looking and appearing quite like her old self. + +At the Annex Billy found Calderwell and Arkwright, one day. They greeted +her as if she had just returned from a far country. + +“Well, if you aren't the stranger lady,” began Calderwell, looking +frankly pleased to see her. “We'd thought of advertising in the daily +press somewhat after this fashion: 'Lost, strayed, or stolen, one +Billy; comrade, good friend, and kind cheerer-up of lonely hearts. Any +information thankfully received by her bereft, sorrowing friends.'” + +Billy joined in the laugh that greeted this sally, but Arkwright +noticed that she tried to change the subject from her own affairs to +a discussion of the new song on Alice Greggory's piano. Calderwell, +however, was not to be silenced. + +“The last I heard of this elusive Billy,” he resumed, with teasing +cheerfulness, “she was running down a certain lost calory that had +slipped away from her husband's breakfast, and--” + +Billy wheeled sharply. + +“Where did you get hold of that?” she demanded. + +“Oh, I didn't,” returned the man, defensively. “I never got hold of it +at all. I never even saw the calory--though, for that matter, I don't +think I should know one if I did see it! What we feared was, that, in +hunting the lost calory, you had lost yourself, and--” But Billy would +hear no more. With her disdainful nose in the air she walked to the +piano. + +“Come, Mr. Arkwright,” she said with dignity. “Let's try this song.” + +Arkwright rose at once and accompanied her to the piano. + +They had sung the song through twice when Billy became uneasily aware +that, on the other side of the room, Calderwell and Alice Greggory were +softly chuckling over something they had found in a magazine. Billy +frowned, and twitched the corners of a pile of music, with restless +fingers. + +“I wonder if Alice hasn't got some quartets here somewhere,” she +murmured, her disapproving eyes still bent on the absorbed couple across +the room. + +Arkwright was silent. Billy, throwing a hurried glance into his face, +thought she detected a somber shadow in his eyes. She thought, too, she +knew why it was there. So possessed had Billy been, during the early +winter, of the idea that her special mission in life was to inaugurate +and foster a love affair between disappointed Mr. Arkwright and lonely +Alice Greggory, that now she forgot, for a moment, that Arkwright +himself was quite unaware of her efforts. She thought only that the +present shadow on his face must be caused by the same thing that brought +worry to her own heart--the manifest devotion of Calderwell to Alice +Greggory just now across the room. Instinctively, therefore, as to a +coworker in a common cause, she turned a disturbed face to the man at +her side. + +“It is, indeed, high time that I looked after something besides lost +calories,” she said significantly. Then, at the evident uncomprehension +in Arkwright's face, she added: “Has it been going on like this--very +long?” + +Arkwright still, apparently, did not understand. + +“Has--what been going on?” he questioned. + +“That--over there,” answered Billy, impatiently, scarcely knowing +whether to be more irritated at the threatened miscarriage of her +cherished plans, or at Arkwright's (to her) wilfully blind insistence +on her making her meaning more plain. “Has it been going on long--such +utter devotion?” + +As she asked the question Billy turned and looked squarely into +Arkwright's face. She saw, therefore, the great change that came to it, +as her meaning became clear to him. Her first feeling was one of +shocked realization that Arkwright had, indeed, been really blind. Her +second--she turned away her eyes hurriedly from what she thought she saw +in the man's countenance. + +With an assumedly gay little cry she sprang to her feet. + +“Come, come, what are you two children chuckling over?” she demanded, +crossing the room abruptly. “Didn't you hear me say I wanted you to come +and sing a quartet?” + +Billy blamed herself very much for what she called her stupidity in so +baldly summoning Arkwright's attention to Calderwell's devotion to Alice +Greggory. She declared that she ought to have known better, and she +asked herself if this were the way she was “furthering matters” between +Alice Greggory and Arkwright. + +Billy was really seriously disturbed. She had never quite forgiven +herself for being so blind to Arkwright's feeling for herself during +those days when he had not known of her engagement to Bertram. She had +never forgotten, either, the painful scene when he had hopefully told +of his love, only to be met with her own shocked repudiation. For long +weeks after that, his face had haunted her. She had wished, oh, +so ardently, that she could do something in some way to bring him +happiness. When, therefore, it had come to her knowledge afterward that +he was frequently with his old friend, Alice Greggory, she had been so +glad. It was very easy then to fan hope into conviction that here, in +this old friend, he had found sweet balm for his wounded heart; and she +determined at once to do all that she could do to help. So very glowing, +indeed, was her eagerness in the matter, that it looked suspiciously as +if she thought, could she but bring this thing about, that old scores +against herself would be erased. + +Billy told herself, virtuously, however, that not only for Arkwright did +she desire this marriage to take place, but for Alice Greggory. In the +very nature of things Alice would one day be left alone. She was poor, +and not very strong. She sorely needed the shielding love and care of +a good husband. What more natural than that her old-time friend and +almost-sweetheart, M. J. Arkwright, should be that good husband? + +That really it was more Arkwright and less Alice that was being +considered, however, was proved when the devotion of Calderwell began to +be first suspected, then known for a fact. Billy's distress at this turn +of affairs indicated very plainly that it was not just a husband, but a +certain one particular husband that she desired for Alice Greggory. All +the more disturbed was she, therefore, when to-day, seeing her three +friends together again for the first time for some weeks, she discovered +increased evidence that her worst fears were to be realized. It was to +be Alice and Calderwell, not Alice and Arkwright. Arkwright was again to +be disappointed in his dearest hopes. + +Telling herself indignantly that it could not be, it _should_ not be, +Billy determined to remain after the men had gone, and speak to Alice. +Just what she would say she did not know. Even what she could say, she +was not sure. But certainly there must be something, some little thing +that she could say, which would open Alice's eyes to what she was doing, +and what she ought to do. + +It was in this frame of mind, therefore, that Billy, after Arkwright +and Calderwell had gone, spoke to Alice. She began warily, with assumed +nonchalance. + +“I believe Mr. Arkwright sings better every time I hear him.” + +There was no answer. Alice was sorting music at the piano. + +“Don't you think so?” Billy raised her voice a little. + +Alice turned almost with a start. + +“What's that? Oh, yes. Well, I don't know; maybe I do.” + +“You would--if you didn't hear him any oftener than I do,” laughed +Billy. “But then, of course you do hear him oftener.” + +“I? Oh, no, indeed. Not so very much oftener.” Alice had turned back +to her music. There was a slight embarrassment in her manner. “I +wonder--where--that new song--is,” she murmured. + +Billy, who knew very well where the song lay, was not to be diverted. + +“Nonsense! As if Mr. Arkwright wasn't always telling how Alice liked +this song, and didn't like that one, and thought the other the best yet! +I don't believe he sings a thing that he doesn't first sing to you. For +that matter, I fancy he asks your opinion of everything, anyway.” + +“Why, Billy, he doesn't!” exclaimed Alice, a deep red flaming into her +cheeks. “You know he doesn't.” + +Billy laughed gleefully. She had not been slow to note the color in her +friend's face, or to ascribe to it the one meaning she wished to ascribe +to it. So sure, indeed, was she now that her fears had been groundless, +that she flung caution to the winds. + +“Ho! My dear Alice, you can't expect us all to be blind,” she teased. +“Besides, we all think it's such a lovely arrangement that we're just +glad to see it. He's such a fine fellow, and we like him so much! We +couldn't ask for a better husband for you than Mr. Arkwright, and--” + From sheer amazement at the sudden white horror in Alice Greggory's +face, Billy stopped short. “Why, Alice!” she faltered then. + +With a visible effort Alice forced her trembling lips to speak. + +“My husband--_Mr. Arkwright!_ Why, Billy, you couldn't have seen--you +haven't seen--there's nothing you _could_ see! He isn't--he wasn't--he +can't be! We--we're nothing but friends, Billy, just good friends!” + +Billy, though dismayed, was still not quite convinced. + +“Friends! Nonsense! When--” + +But Alice interrupted feverishly. Alice, in an agony of fear lest the +true state of affairs should be suspected, was hiding behind a bulwark +of pride. + +“Now, Billy, please! Say no more. You're quite wrong, entirely. You'll +never, never hear of my marrying Mr. Arkwright. As I said before, we're +friends--the best of friends; that is all. We couldn't be anything else, +possibly!” + +Billy, plainly discomfited, fell back; but she threw a sharp glance into +her friend's flushed countenance. + +“You mean--because of--Hugh Calderwell?” she demanded. Then, for the +second time that afternoon throwing discretion to the winds, she went on +plaintively: “You won't listen, of course. Girls in love never do. Hugh +is all right, and I like him; but there's more real solid worth in Mr. +Arkwright's little finger than there is in Hugh's whole self. And--” But +a merry peal of laughter from Alice Greggory interrupted. + +“And, pray, do you think I'm in love with Hugh Calderwell?” she +demanded. There was a curious note of something very like relief in her +voice. + +“Well, I didn't know,” began Billy, uncertainly. + +“Then I'll tell you now,” smiled Alice. “I'm not. Furthermore, perhaps +it's just as well that you should know right now that I don't intend to +marry--ever.” + +“Oh, Alice!” + +“No.” There was determination, and there was still that curious note of +relief in the girl's voice. It was as if, somewhere, a great danger had +been avoided. “I have my music. That is enough. I'm not intending to +marry.” + +“Oh, but Alice, while I will own up I'm glad it isn't Hugh Calderwell, +there _is_ Mr. Arkwright, and I did hope--” But Alice shook her head and +turned resolutely away. At that moment, too, Aunt Hannah came in from +the street, so Billy could say no more. + +Aunt Hannah dropped herself a little wearily into a chair. + +“I've just come from Marie's,” she said. + +“How is she?” asked Billy. + +Aunt Hannah smiled, and raised her eyebrows. + +“Well, just now she's quite exercised over another rattle--from her +cousin out West, this time. There were four little silver bells on it, +and she hasn't got any janitor's wife now to give it to.” + +Billy laughed softly, but Aunt Hannah had more to say. + +“You know she isn't going to allow any toys but Teddy bears and woolly +lambs, of which, I believe, she has already bought quite an assortment. +She says they don't rattle or squeak. I declare, when I see the woolen +pads and rubber hushers that that child has put everywhere all over the +house, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. And she's so worried! It +seems Cyril must needs take just this time to start composing a new +opera or symphony, or something; and never before has she allowed him to +be interrupted by anything on such an occasion. But what he'll do when +the baby comes she says she doesn't know, for she says she can't--she +just can't keep it from bothering him some, she's afraid. As if any +opera or symphony that ever lived was of more consequence than a man's +own child!” finished Aunt Hannah, with an indignant sniff, as she +reached for her shawl. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. A TOUGH NUT TO CRACK FOR CYRIL + + +It was early in the forenoon of the first day of July that Eliza told +her mistress that Mrs. Stetson was asking for her at the telephone. +Eliza's face was not a little troubled. + +“I'm afraid, maybe, it isn't good news,” she stammered, as her mistress +hurriedly arose. “She's at Mr. Cyril Henshaw's--Mrs. Stetson is--and she +seemed so terribly upset about something that there was no making real +sense out of what she said. But she asked for you, and said to have you +come quick.” + +Billy, her own face paling, was already at the telephone. + +“Yes, Aunt Hannah. What is it?” + +“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, if you _can_, come up here, please. +You must come! _Can't_ you come?” + +“Why, yes, of course. But--but--_Marie!_ The--the _baby!_” + +A faint groan came across the wires. + +“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! It isn't _the_ baby. It's _babies!_ +It's twins--boys. Cyril has them now--the nurse hasn't got here yet.” + +“Twins! _Cyril_ has them!” broke in Billy, hysterically. + +“Yes, and they're crying something terrible. We've sent for a second +nurse to come, too, of course, but she hasn't got here yet, either. And +those babies--if you could hear them! That's what we want you for, to--” + +But Billy was almost laughing now. + +“All right, I'll come out--and hear them,” she called a bit wildly, as +she hung up the receiver. + +Some little time later, a palpably nervous maid admitted Billy to the +home of Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Henshaw. Even as the door was opened, Billy +heard faintly, but unmistakably, the moaning wails of two infants. + +“Mrs. Stetson says if you will please to help Mr. Henshaw with the +babies,” stammered the maid, after the preliminary questions and +answers. “I've been in when I could, and they're all right, only +they're crying. They're in his den. We had to put them as far away as +possible--their crying worried Mrs. Henshaw so.” + +“Yes, I see,” murmured Billy. “I'll go to them at once. No, don't +trouble to come. I know the way. Just tell Mrs. Stetson I'm here, +please,” she finished, as she tossed her hat and gloves on to the hall +table, and turned to go upstairs. + +Billy's feet made no sound on the soft rugs. The crying, however, grew +louder and louder as she approached the den. Softly she turned the knob +and pushed open the door. She stopped short, then, at what she saw. + +Cyril had not heard her, nor seen her. His back was partly toward the +door. His coat was off, and his hair stood fiercely on end as if a +nervous hand had ruffled it. His usually pale face was very red, and +his forehead showed great drops of perspiration. He was on his feet, +hovering over the couch, at each end of which lay a rumpled roll of +linen, lace, and flannel, from which emerged a prodigiously puckered +little face, two uncertainly waving rose-leaf fists, and a wail of +protesting rage that was not uncertain in the least. + +In one hand Cyril held a Teddy bear, in the other his watch, dangling +from its fob chain. Both of these he shook feebly, one after the other, +above the tiny faces. + +“Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,” he begged +agitatedly. + +In the doorway Billy clapped her hands to her lips and stifled a laugh. +Billy knew, of course, that what she should do was to go forward at +once, and help this poor, distracted man; but Billy, just then, was not +doing what she knew she ought to do. + +With a muttered ejaculation (which Billy, to her sorrow, could not +catch) Cyril laid down the watch and flung the Teddy bear aside. Then, +in very evident despair, he gingerly picked up one of the rumpled rolls +of flannel, lace, and linen, and held it straight out before him. After +a moment's indecision he began awkwardly to jounce it, teeter it, rock +it back and forth, and to pat it jerkily. + +“Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,” he begged again, +frantically. + +Perhaps it was the change of position; perhaps it was the novelty of the +motion, perhaps it was only utter weariness, or lack of breath. Whatever +the cause, the wailing sobs from the bundle in his arms dwindled +suddenly to a gentle whisper, then ceased altogether. + +With a ray of hope illuminating his drawn countenance, Cyril carefully +laid the baby down and picked up the other. Almost confidently now he +began the jouncing and teetering and rocking as before. + +“There, there! Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,” he +chanted again. + +This time he was not so successful. Perhaps he had lost his skill. +Perhaps it was merely the world-old difference in babies. At all events, +this infant did not care for jerks and jounces, and showed it plainly by +emitting loud and yet louder wails of rage--wails in which his brother +on the couch speedily joined. + +“Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush--_confound it_, +HUSH, I say!” exploded the frightened, weary, baffled, distracted man, +picking up the other baby, and trying to hold both his sons at once. + +Billy hurried forward then, tearfully, remorsefully, her face all +sympathy, her arms all tenderness. + +“Here, Cyril, let me help you,” she cried. + +Cyril turned abruptly. + +“Thank God, _some_ one's come,” he groaned, holding out both the babies, +with an exuberance of generosity. “Billy, you've saved my life!” + +Billy laughed tremulously. + +“Yes, I've come, Cyril, and I'll help every bit I can; but I don't know +a thing--not a single thing about them myself. Dear me, aren't they +cunning? But, Cyril, do they always cry so?” + +The father-of-an-hour drew himself stiffly erect. + +“Cry? What do you mean? Why shouldn't they cry?” he demanded +indignantly. “I want you to understand that Doctor Brown said those were +A number I fine boys! Anyhow, I guess there's no doubt they've got +lungs all right,” he added, with a grim smile, as he pulled out his +handkerchief and drew it across his perspiring brow. + +Billy did not have an opportunity to show Cyril how much or how little +she knew about babies, for in another minute the maid had appeared with +the extra nurse; and that young woman, with trained celerity and easy +confidence, assumed instant command, and speedily had peace and order +restored. + +Cyril, freed from responsibility, cast longing eyes, for a moment, upon +his work; but the next minute, with a despairing glance about him, he +turned and fled precipitately. + +Billy, following the direction of his eyes, suppressed a smile. On the +top of Cyril's manuscript music on the table lay a hot-water bottle. +Draped over the back of his favorite chair was a pink-bordered baby +blanket. On the piano-stool rested a beribboned and beruffled baby's +toilet basket. From behind the sofa pillow leered ridiculously the Teddy +bear, just as it had left Cyril's desperate hand. + +No wonder, indeed, that Billy smiled. Billy was thinking of what Marie +had said not a week before: + +“I shall keep the baby, of course, in the nursery. I've been in homes +where they've had baby things strewn from one end of the house to +the other; but it won't be that way here. In the first place, I don't +believe in it; but, even if I did, I'd have to be careful on account +of Cyril. Imagine Cyril's trying to write his music with a baby in +the room! No! I shall keep the baby in the nursery, if possible; but +wherever it is, it won't be anywhere near Cyril's den, anyway.” + +Billy suppressed many a smile during the days that immediately followed +the coming of the twins. Some of the smiles, however, refused to be +suppressed. They became, indeed, shamelessly audible chuckles. + +Billy was to sail the tenth, and, naturally, during those early July +days, her time was pretty much occupied with her preparations for +departure; but nothing could keep her from frequent, though short, +visits to the home of her brother-in-law. + +The twins were proving themselves to be fine, healthy boys. Two trained +maids, and two trained nurses ruled the household with a rod of iron. As +to Cyril--Billy declared that Cyril was learning something every day of +his life now. + +“Oh, yes, he's learning things,” she said to Aunt Hannah, one morning; +“lots of things. For instance: he has his breakfast now, not when he +wants it, but when the maid wants to give it to him--which is precisely +at eight o'clock every morning. So he's learning punctuality. And for +the first time in his life he has discovered the astounding fact that +there are several things more important in the world than is the special +piece of music he happens to be composing--chiefly the twins' bath, the +twins' nap, the twins' airing, and the twins' colic.” + +Aunt Hannah laughed, though she frowned, too. + +“But, surely, Billy, with two nurses and the maids, Cyril doesn't have +to--to--” She came to a helpless pause. + +“Oh, no,” laughed Billy; “Cyril doesn't have to really attend to any of +those things--though I have seen each of the nurses, at different times, +unhesitatingly thrust a twin into his arms and bid him hold the child +till she comes back. But it's this way. You see, Marie must be kept +quiet, and the nursery is very near her room. It worries her terribly +when either of the children cries. Besides, the little rascals have +apparently fixed up some sort of labor-union compact with each other, so +that if one cries for something or nothing, the other promptly joins in +and helps. So the nurses have got into the habit of picking up the first +disturber of the peace, and hurrying him to quarters remote; and Cyril's +den being the most remote of all, they usually fetch up there.” + +“You mean--they take those babies into Cyril's den--_now_?” Even Aunt +Hannah was plainly aghast. + +“Yes,” twinkled Billy. “I fancy their Hygienic Immaculacies approved +of Cyril's bare floors, undraped windows, and generally knick-knackless +condition. Anyhow, they've made his den a sort of--of annex to the +nursery.” + +“But--but Cyril! What does he say?” stammered the dumfounded Aunt +Hannah. “Think of Cyril's standing a thing like that! Doesn't he do +anything--or say anything?” + +Billy smiled, and lifted her brows quizzically. + +“My dear Aunt Hannah, did you ever know _many_ people to have the +courage to 'say things' to one of those becapped, beaproned, bespotless +creatures of loftily superb superiority known as trained nurses? +Besides, you wouldn't recognize Cyril now. Nobody would. He's as meek +as Moses, and has been ever since his two young sons were laid in his +reluctant, trembling arms. He breaks into a cold sweat at nothing, and +moves about his own home as if he were a stranger and an interloper, +endured merely on sufferance in this abode of strange women and strange +babies.” + +“Nonsense!” scoffed Aunt Hannah. + +“But it's so,” maintained Billy, merrily. “Now, for instance. You know +Cyril always has been in the habit of venting his moods on the piano +(just as I do, only more so) by playing exactly as he feels. Well, as +near as I can gather, he was at his usual trick the next day after the +twins arrived; and you can imagine about what sort of music it would be, +after what he had been through the preceding forty-eight hours. + +“Of course I don't know exactly what happened, but Julia--Marie's second +maid, you know--tells the story. She's been with them long enough to +know something of the way the whole household always turns on the pivot +of the master's whims; so she fully appreciated the situation. She +says she heard him begin to play, and that she never heard such queer, +creepy, shivery music in her life; but that he hadn't been playing five +minutes before one of the nurses came into the living-room where Julia +was dusting, and told her to tell whoever was playing to stop that +dreadful noise, as they wanted to take the twins in there for their nap. + +“'But I didn't do it, ma'am,' Julia says. 'I wa'n't lookin' for losin' +my place, an' I let the young woman do the job herself. An' she done +it, pert as you please. An' jest as I was seekin' a hidin'-place for the +explosion, if Mr. Henshaw didn't come out lookin' a little wild, but as +meek as a lamb; an' when he sees me he asked wouldn't I please get him a +cup of coffee, good an' strong. An' I got it.' + +“So you see,” finished Billy, “Cyril is learning things--lots of +things.” + +“Oh, my grief and conscience! I should say he was,” half-shivered Aunt +Hannah. “_Cyril_ looking meek as a lamb, indeed!” + +Billy laughed merrily. + +“Well, it must be a new experience--for Cyril. For a man whose daily +existence for years has been rubber-heeled and woolen-padded, and whose +family from boyhood has stood at attention and saluted if he so much as +looked at them, it must be quite a change, as things are now. However, +it'll be different, of course, when Marie is on her feet again.” + +“Does she know at all how things are going?” + +“Not very much, as yet, though I believe she has begun to worry some. +She confided to me one day that she was glad, of course, that she had +two darling babies, instead of one; but that she was afraid it might be +hard, just at first, to teach them both at once to be quiet; for she was +afraid that while she was teaching one, the other would be sure to cry, +or do something noisy.” + +“Do something noisy, indeed!” ejaculated Aunt Hannah. + +“As for the real state of affairs, Marie doesn't dream that Cyril's +sacred den is given over to Teddy bears and baby blankets. All is, I +hope she'll be measurably strong before she does find it out,” laughed +Billy, as she rose to go. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT'S EYES ARE OPENED + + +William came back from his business trip the eighth of July, and on the +ninth Billy and Bertram went to New York. Eliza's mother was so well +now that Eliza had taken up her old quarters in the Strata, and the +household affairs were once more running like clockwork. Later in the +season William would go away for a month's fishing trip, and the house +would be closed. + +Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw were not expected to return until the first +of October; but with Eliza to look after the comfort of William, the +mistress of the house did no worrying. Ever since Pete's going, Eliza +had said that she preferred to be the only maid, with a charwoman to +come in for the heavier work; and to this arrangement her mistress had +willingly consented, for the present. + +Marie and the babies were doing finely, and Aunt Hannah's health, and +affairs at the Annex, were all that could be desired. As Billy, indeed, +saw it, there was only one flaw to mar her perfect content on this +holiday trip with Bertram, and that was her disappointment over the very +evident disaster that had come to her cherished matrimonial plans for +Arkwright and Alice Greggory. She could not forget Arkwright's face +that day at the Annex, when she had so foolishly called his attention +to Calderwell's devotion; and she could not forget, either, Alice +Greggory's very obvious perturbation a little later, and her +suspiciously emphatic assertion that she had no intention of marrying +any one, certainly not Arkwright. As Billy thought of all this now, she +could not but admit that it did look dark for Arkwright--poor Arkwright, +whom she, more than any one else in the world, perhaps, had a special +reason for wishing to see happily married. + +There was, then, this one cloud on Billy's horizon as the big boat that +was to bear her across the water steamed down the harbor that beautiful +July day. + +As it chanced, naturally, perhaps, not only was Billy thinking of +Arkwright that morning, but Arkwright was thinking of Billy. + +Arkwright had thought frequently of Billy during the last few days, +particularly since that afternoon meeting at the Annex when the four had +renewed their old good times together. Up to that day Arkwright had been +trying not to think of Billy. He had been “fighting his tiger skin.” + Sternly he had been forcing himself to meet her, to see her, to talk +with her, to sing with her, or to pass her by--all with the indifference +properly expected to be shown in association with Mrs. Bertram Henshaw, +another man's wife. He had known, of course, that deep down in his +heart he loved her, always had loved her, and always would love her. +Hopelessly and drearily he accepted this as a fact even while with all +his might fighting that tiger skin. So sure was he, indeed, of this, so +implicitly had he accepted it as an unalterable certainty, that in time +even his efforts to fight it became almost mechanical and unconscious in +their stern round of forced indifference. + +Then came that day at the Annex--and the discovery: the discovery which +he had made when Billy called his attention to Calderwell and Alice +Greggory across the room in the corner; the discovery which had come +with so blinding a force, and which even now he was tempted to question +as to its reality; the discovery that not Billy Neilson, nor Mrs. +Bertram Henshaw, nor even the tender ghost of a lost love held the +center of his heart--but Alice Greggory. + +The first intimation of all this had come with his curious feeling of +unreasoning hatred and blind indignation toward Calderwell as, +through Billy's eyes, he had seen the two together. Then had come +the overwhelming longing to pick up Alice Greggory and run off with +her--somewhere, anywhere, so that Calderwell could not follow. + +At once, however, he had pulled himself up short with the mental cry of +“Absurd!” What was it to him if Calderwell did care for Alice Greggory? +Surely he himself was not in love with the girl. He was in love with +Billy; that is-- + +It was all confusion then, in his mind, and he was glad indeed when he +could leave the house. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think. He +must, in some way, thrash out this astounding thing that had come to +him. + +Arkwright did not visit the Annex again for some days. Until he was more +nearly sure of himself and of his feelings, he did not wish to see Alice +Greggory. It was then that he began to think of Billy, deliberately, +purposefully, for it must be, of course, that he had made a mistake, +he told himself. It must be that he did, really, still care for +Billy--though of course he ought not to. + +Arkwright made another discovery then. He learned that, however +deliberately he started in to think of Billy, he ended every time in +thinking of Alice. He thought of how good she had been to him, and of +how faithful she had been in helping him to fight his love for Billy. +Just here he decided, for a moment, that probably, after all, his +feeling of anger against Calderwell was merely the fear of losing this +helpful comradeship that he so needed. Even with himself, however, +Arkwright could not keep up this farce long, and very soon he admitted +miserably that it was not the comradeship of Alice Greggory that he +wanted or needed, but the love. + +He knew it now. No longer was there any use in beating about the bush. +He did love Alice Greggory; but so curiously and unbelievably stupid had +he been that he had not found it out until now. And now it was too late. +Had not even Billy called his attention to the fact of Calderwell's +devotion? Besides, had not he himself, at the very first, told +Calderwell that he might have a clear field? + +Fool that he had been to let another thus lightly step in and win from +under his very nose what might have been his if he had but known his own +mind before it was too late! + +But was it, after all, quite too late? He and Alice were old friends. +Away back in their young days in their native town they had been, +indeed, almost sweethearts, in a boy-and-girl fashion. It would not have +taken much in those days, he believed, to have made the relationship +more interesting. But changes had come. Alice had left town, and for +years they had drifted apart. Then had come Billy, and Billy had found +Alice, thus bringing about the odd circumstance of their renewing of +acquaintanceship. Perhaps, at that time, if he had not already +thought he cared for Billy, there would have been something more than +acquaintanceship. + +But he _had_ thought he cared for Billy all these years; and now, at +this late day, to wake up and find that he cared for Alice! A pretty +mess he had made of things! Was he so inconstant then, so fickle? Did he +not know his own mind five minutes at a time? What would Alice Greggory +think, even if he found the courage to tell her? What could she think? +What could anybody think? + +Arkwright fairly ground his teeth in impotent wrath--and he did not know +whether he were the most angry that he did not love Billy, or that he +had loved Billy, or that he loved somebody else now. + +It was while he was in this unenviable frame of mind that he went to +see Alice. Not that he had planned definitely to speak to her of his +discovery, nor yet that he had planned not to. He had, indeed, planned +nothing. For a man usually so decided as to purpose and energetic as +to action, he was in a most unhappy state of uncertainty and +changeableness. One thing only was unmistakably clear to him, and that +was that he must see Alice. + +For months, now, he had taken to Alice all his hopes and griefs, +perplexities and problems; and never had he failed to find comfort +in the shape of sympathetic understanding and wise counsel. To Alice, +therefore, now he turned as a matter of course, telling himself vaguely +that, perhaps, after he had seen Alice, he would feel better. + +Just how intimately this particular problem of his concerned Alice +herself, he did not stop to realize. He did not, indeed, think of it at +all from Alice's standpoint--until he came face to face with the girl in +the living-room at the Annex. Then, suddenly, he did. His manner became +at once, consequently, full of embarrassment and quite devoid of its +usual frank friendliness. + +As it happened, this was perhaps the most unfortunate thing that could +have occurred, so far as it concerned the attitude of Alice Greggory, +for thereby innumerable tiny sparks of suspicion that had been +tormenting the girl for days were instantly fanned into consuming flames +of conviction. + +Alice had not been slow to note Arkwright's prolonged absence from the +Annex. Coming as it did so soon after her most disconcerting talk with +Billy in regard to her own relations with him, it had filled her with +frightened questionings. + +If Billy had seen things to make her think of linking their names +together, perhaps Arkwright himself had heard some such idea put forth +somewhere, and that was why he was staying away--to show the world that +there was no foundation for such rumors. Perhaps he was even doing it to +show _her_ that-- + +Even in her thoughts Alice could scarcely bring herself to finish the +sentence. That Arkwright should ever suspect for a moment that she cared +for him was intolerable. Painfully conscious as she was that she did +care for him, it was easy to fear that others must be conscious of it, +too. Had she not already proof that Billy suspected it? Why, then, might +not it be quite possible, even probable, that Arkwright suspected it, +also; and, because he did suspect it, had decided that it would be just +as well, perhaps, if he did not call so often. + +In spite of Alice's angry insistence to herself that, after all, this +could not be the case--that the man _knew_ she understood he still loved +Billy--she could not help fearing, in the face of Arkwright's unusual +absence, that it might yet be true. When, therefore, he finally did +appear, only to become at once obviously embarrassed in her presence, +her fears instantly became convictions. It was true, then. The man did +believe she cared for him, and he had been trying to teach her--to save +her. + +To teach her! To save her, indeed! Very well, he should see! And +forthwith, from that moment, Alice Greggory's chief reason for living +became to prove to Mr. M. J. Arkwright that he needed not to teach her, +to save her, nor yet to sympathize with her. + +“How do you do?” she greeted him, with a particularly bright smile. “I'm +sure I _hope_ you are well, such a beautiful day as this.” + +“Oh, yes, I'm well, I suppose. Still, I have felt better in my life,” + smiled Arkwright, with some constraint. + +“Oh, I'm sorry,” murmured the girl, striving so hard to speak with +impersonal unconcern that she did not notice the inaptness of her reply. + +“Eh? Sorry I've felt better, are you?” retorted Arkwright, with nervous +humor. Then, because he was embarrassed, he said the one thing he had +meant not to say: “Don't you think I'm quite a stranger? It's been some +time since I've been here.” + +Alice, smarting under the sting of what she judged to be the only +possible cause for his embarrassment, leaped to this new opportunity to +show her lack of interest. + +“Oh, has it?” she murmured carelessly. “Well, I don't know but it has, +now that I come to think of it.” + +Arkwright frowned gloomily. A week ago he would have tossed back a +laughingly aggrieved remark as to her unflattering indifference to his +presence. Now he was in no mood for such joking. It was too serious a +matter with him. + +“You've been busy, no doubt, with--other matters,” he presumed +forlornly, thinking of Calderwell. + +“Yes, I have been busy,” assented the girl. “One is always happier, +I think, to be busy. Not that I meant that I needed the work to _be_ +happy,” she added hastily, in a panic lest he think she had a consuming +sorrow to kill. + +“No, of course not,” he murmured abstractedly, rising to his feet and +crossing the room to the piano. Then, with an elaborate air of trying to +appear very natural, he asked jovially: “Anything new to play to me?” + +Alice arose at once. + +“Yes. I have a little nocturne that I was playing to Mr. Calderwell last +night.” + +“Oh, to Calderwell!” Arkwright had stiffened perceptibly. + +“Yes. _He_ didn't like it. I'll play it to you and see what you say,” + she smiled, seating herself at the piano. + +“Well, if he had liked it, it's safe to say I shouldn't,” shrugged +Arkwright. + +“Nonsense!” laughed the girl, beginning to appear more like her natural +self. “I should think you were Mr. Cyril Henshaw! Mr. Calderwell _is_ +partial to ragtime, I'll admit. But there are some good things he +likes.” + +“There are, indeed, _some_ good things he likes,” returned Arkwright, +with grim emphasis, his somber eyes fixed on what he believed to be the +one especial object of Calderwell's affections at the moment. + +Alice, unaware both of the melancholy gaze bent upon herself and of the +cause thereof, laughed again merrily. + +“Poor Mr. Calderwell,” she cried, as she let her fingers slide into +soft, introductory chords. “He isn't to blame for not liking what he +calls our lost spirits that wail. It's just the way he's made.” + +Arkwright vouchsafed no reply. With an abrupt gesture he turned and +began to pace the room moodily. At the piano Alice slipped from the +chords into the nocturne. She played it straight through, then, with a +charm and skill that brought Arkwright's feet to a pause before it was +half finished. + +“By George, that's great!” he breathed, when the last tone had quivered +into silence. + +“Yes, isn't it--beautiful?” she murmured. + +The room was very quiet, and in semi-darkness. The last rays of a late +June sunset had been filling the room with golden light, but it was gone +now. Even at the piano by the window, Alice had barely been able to see +clearly enough to read the notes of her nocturne. + +To Arkwright the air still trembled with the exquisite melody that had +but just left her fingers. A quick fire came to his eyes. He forgot +everything but that it was Alice there in the half-light by the +window--Alice, whom he loved. With a low cry he took a swift step toward +her. + +“Alice!” + +Instantly the girl was on her feet. But it was not toward him that she +turned. It was away--resolutely, and with a haste that was strangely +like terror. + +Alice, too, had forgotten, for just a moment. She had let herself drift +into a dream world where there was nothing but the music she was playing +and the man she loved. Then the music had stopped, and the man had +spoken her name. + +Alice remembered then. She remembered Billy, whom this man loved. She +remembered the long days just passed when this man had stayed away, +presumably to teach _her_--to save _her_. And now, at the sound of his +voice speaking her name, she had almost bared her heart to him. + +No wonder that Alice, with a haste that looked like terror, crossed the +floor and flooded the room with light. + +“Dear me!” she shivered, carefully avoiding Arkwright's eyes. “If Mr. +Calderwell were here now he'd have some excuse to talk about our lost +spirits that wail. That _is_ a creepy piece of music when you play it +in the dark!” And, for fear that he should suspect how her heart was +aching, she gave a particularly brilliant and joyous smile. + +Once again at the mention of Calderwell's name Arkwright stiffened +perceptibly. The fire left his eyes. For a moment he did not speak; +then, gravely, he said: + +“Calderwell? Yes, perhaps he would; and--you ought to be a judge, I +should think. You see him quite frequently, don't you?” + +“Why, yes, of course. He often comes out here, you know.” + +“Yes; I had heard that he did--since _you_ came.” + +His meaning was unmistakable. Alice looked up quickly. A prompt denial +of his implication was on her lips when the thought came to her that +perhaps just here lay a sure way to prove to this man before her that +there was, indeed, no need for him to teach her, to save her, or yet to +sympathize with her. She could not affirm, of course; but she need not +deny--yet. + +“Nonsense!” she laughed lightly, pleased that she could feel what she +hoped would pass for a telltale color burning her cheeks. “Come, let +us try some duets,” she proposed, leading the way to the piano. And +Arkwright, interpreting the apparently embarrassed change of subject +exactly as she had hoped that he would interpret it, followed her, sick +at heart. + +“'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'” sang Arkwright's lips a few moments +later. + +“I can't tell her now--when I _know_ she cares for Calderwell,” gloomily +ran his thoughts, the while. “It would do no possible good, and would +only make her unhappy to grieve me.” + +“'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'” chimed in Alice's alto, low and +sweet. + +“I reckon now he won't be staying away from here any more just to _save_ +me!” ran Alice's thoughts, palpitatingly triumphant. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. BILLY TAKES HER TURN AT QUESTIONING + + +Arkwright did not call to see Alice Greggory for some days. He did not +want to see Alice now. He told himself wearily that she could not help +him fight this tiger skin that lay across his path, The very fact of her +presence by his side would, indeed, incapacitate himself for fighting. +So he deliberately stayed away from the Annex until the day before he +sailed for Germany. Then he went out to say good-by. + +Chagrined as he was at what he termed his imbecile stupidity in not +knowing his own heart all these past months, and convinced, as he also +was, that Alice and Calderwell cared for each other, he could see no way +for him but to play the part of a man of kindliness and honor, leaving a +clear field for his preferred rival, and bringing no shadow of regret to +mar the happiness of the girl he loved. + +As for being his old easy, frank self on this last call, however, that +was impossible; so Alice found plenty of fuel for her still burning +fires of suspicion--fires which had, indeed, blazed up anew at this +second long period of absence on the part of Arkwright. Naturally, +therefore, the call was anything but a joy and comfort to either one. +Arkwright was nervous, gloomy, and abnormally gay by turns. Alice was +nervous and abnormally gay all the time. Then they said good-by and +Arkwright went away. He sailed the next day, and Alice settled down to +the summer of study and hard work she had laid out for herself. + + +On the tenth of September Billy came home. She was brown, plump-cheeked, +and smiling. She declared that she had had a perfectly beautiful time, +and that there couldn't be anything in the world nicer than the trip +she and Bertram had taken--just they two together. In answer to Aunt +Hannah's solicitous inquiries, she asserted that she was all well and +rested now. But there was a vaguely troubled questioning in her eyes +that Aunt Hannah did not quite like. Aunt Hannah, however, said nothing +even to Billy herself about this. + +One of the first friends Billy saw after her return was Hugh Calderwell. +As it happened Bertram was out when he came, so Billy had the first +half-hour of the call to herself. She was not sorry for this, as it +gave her a chance to question Calderwell a little concerning Alice +Greggory--something she had long ago determined to do at the first +opportunity. + +“Now tell me everything--everything about everybody,” she began +diplomatically, settling herself comfortably for a good visit. + +“Thank you, I'm well, and have had a passably agreeable summer, +barring the heat, sundry persistent mosquitoes, several grievous +disappointments, and a felon on my thumb,” he began, with shameless +imperturbability. “I have been to Revere once, to the circus once, +to Nantasket three times, and to Keith's and the 'movies' ten times, +perhaps--to be accurate. I have also--But perhaps there was some one +else you desired to inquire for,” he broke off, turning upon his hostess +a bland but unsmiling countenance. + +“Oh, no, how could there be?” twinkled Billy. “Really, Hugh, I always +knew you had a pretty good opinion of yourself, but I didn't credit you +with thinking you were _everybody_. Go on. I'm so interested!” + +Hugh chuckled softly; but there was a plaintive tone in his voice as he +answered. + +“Thanks, no. I've rather lost my interest now. Lack of appreciation +always did discourage me. We'll talk of something else, please. You +enjoyed your trip?” + +“Very much. It just couldn't have been nicer!” + +“You were lucky. The heat here has been something fierce!” + +“What made you stay?” + +“Reasons too numerous, and one too heart-breaking, to mention. Besides, +you forget,” with dignity. “There is my profession. I have joined the +workers of the world now, you know.” + +“Oh, fudge, Hugh!” laughed Billy. “You know very well you're as likely +as not to start for the ends of the earth to-morrow morning!” + +Hugh drew himself up. + +“I don't seem to succeed in making people understand that I'm serious,” + he began aggrievedly. “I--” With an expressive flourish of his hands he +relaxed suddenly, and fell back in his chair. A slow smile came to +his lips. “Well, Billy, I'll give up. You've hit it,” he confessed. “I +_have_ thought seriously of starting to-morrow morning for _half-way_ to +the ends of the earth--Panama.” + +“Hugh!” + +“Well, I have. Even this call was to be a good-by--if I went.” + +“Oh, Hugh! But I really thought--in spite of my teasing--that you had +settled down, this time.” + +“Yes, so did I,” sighed the man, a little soberly. “But I guess it's +no use, Billy. Oh, I'm coming back, of course, and link arms again with +their worthy Highnesses, John Doe and Richard Roe; but just now I've got +a restless fit on me. I want to see the wheels go 'round. Of course, if +I had my bread and butter and cigars to earn, 'twould be different. But +I haven't, and I know I haven't; and I suspect that's where the trouble +lies. If it wasn't for those natal silver spoons of mine that Bertram +is always talking about, things might be different. But the spoons are +there, and always have been; and I know they're all ready to dish out +mountains to climb and lakes to paddle in, any time I've a mind to say +the word. So--I just say the word. That's all.” + +“And you've said it now?” + +“Yes, I think so; for a while.” + +“And--those reasons that _have_ kept you here all summer,” ventured +Billy, “they aren't in--er--commission any longer?” + +“No.” + +Billy hesitated, regarding her companion meditatively. Then, with the +feeling that she had followed a blind alley to its termination, she +retreated and made a fresh start. + +“Well, you haven't yet told me everything about everybody, you know,” + she hinted smilingly. “You might begin that--I mean the less important +everybodies, of course, now that I've heard about you.” + +“Meaning--” + +“Oh, Aunt Hannah, and the Greggorys, and Cyril and Marie, and the twins, +and Mr. Arkwright, and all the rest.” + +“But you've had letters, surely.” + +“Yes, I've had letters from some of them, and I've seen most of them +since I came back. It's just that I wanted to know _your_ viewpoint of +what's happened through the summer.” + +“Very well. Aunt Hannah is as dear as ever, wears just as many shawls, +and still keeps her clock striking twelve when it's half-past eleven. +Mrs. Greggory is just as sweet as ever--and a little more frail, I +fear,--bless her heart! Mr. Arkwright is still abroad, as I presume +you know. I hear he is doing great stunts over there, and will sing in +Berlin and Paris this winter. I'm thinking of going across from Panama +later. If I do I shall look him up. Mr. and Mrs. Cyril are as well as +could be expected when you realize that they haven't yet settled on a +pair of names for the twins.” + +“I know it--and the poor little things three months old, too! I think +it's a shame. You've heard the reason, I suppose. Cyril declares that +naming babies is one of the most serious and delicate operations in the +world, and that, for his part, he thinks people ought to select their +own names when they've arrived at years of discretion. He wants to +wait till the twins are eighteen, and then make each of them a birthday +present of the name of their own choosing.” + +“Well, if that isn't the limit!” laughed Calderwell. “I'd heard some +such thing before, but I hadn't supposed it was really so.” + +“Well, it is. He says he knows more tomboys and enormous fat women named +'Grace' and 'Lily,' and sweet little mouse-like ladies staggering along +under a sonorous 'Jerusha Theodosia' or 'Zenobia Jane'; and that if he +should name the boys 'Franz' and 'Felix' after Schubert and Mendelssohn +as Marie wants to, they'd as likely as not turn out to be men who hated +the sound of music and doted on stocks and dry goods.” + +“Humph!” grunted Calderwell. “I saw Cyril last week, and he said he +hadn't named the twins yet, but he didn't tell me why. I offered him two +perfectly good names myself, but he didn't seem interested.” + +“What were they?” + +“Eldad and Bildad.” + +“Hugh!” protested Billy. + +“Well, why not?” bridled the man. “I'm sure those are new and unique, +and really musical, too--'way ahead of your Franz and Felix.” + +“But those aren't really names!” + +“Indeed they are.” + +“Where did you get them?” + +“Off our family tree, though they're Bible names, Belle says. Perhaps +you didn't know, but Sister Belle has been making the dirt fly quite +lively of late around that family tree of ours, and she wrote me some +of her discoveries. It seems two of the roots, or branches--say, are +ancestors roots, or branches?--were called Eldad and Bildad. Now I +thought those names were good enough to pass along, but, as I said +before, Cyril wasn't interested.” + +“I should say not,” laughed Billy. “But, honestly, Hugh, it's really +serious. Marie wants them named _something_, but she doesn't say much +to Cyril. Marie wouldn't really breathe, you know, if she thought Cyril +disapproved of breathing. And in this case Cyril does not hesitate to +declare that the boys shall name themselves.” + +“What a situation!” laughed Calderwell. + +“Isn't it? But, do you know, I can sympathize with it, in a way, for +I've always mourned so over _my_ name. 'Billy' was always such a trial +to me! Poor Uncle William wasn't the only one that prepared guns and +fishing rods to entertain the expected boy. I don't know, though, I'm +afraid if I'd been allowed to select my name I should have been a 'Helen +Clarabella' all my days, for that was the name I gave all my dolls, with +'first,' 'second,' 'third,' and so on, added to them for distinction. +Evidently I thought that 'Helen Clarabella' was the most feminine +appellation possible, and the most foreign to the despised 'Billy.' So +you see I can sympathize with Cyril to a certain extent.” + +“But they must call the little chaps _something_, now,” argued Hugh. + +Billy gave a sudden merry laugh. + +“They do,” she gurgled, “and that's the funniest part of it. Oh, Cyril +doesn't. He always calls them impersonally 'they' or 'it.' He doesn't +see much of them anyway, now, I understand. Marie was horrified when she +realized how the nurses had been using his den as a nursery annex and +she changed all that instanter, when she took charge of things again. +The twins stay in the nursery now, I'm told. But about the names--the +nurses, it seems, have got into the way of calling them 'Dot' and +'Dimple.' One has a dimple in his cheek, and the other is a little +smaller of the two. Marie is no end distressed, particularly as she +finds that she herself calls them that; and she says the idea of boys +being 'Dot' and 'Dimple'!” + +“I should say so,” laughed Calderwell. “Not I regard that as worse than +my 'Eldad' and 'Bildad.'” + +“I know it, and Alice says--By the way, you haven't mentioned Alice, but +I suppose you see her occasionally.” + +Billy paused in evident expectation of a reply. Billy was, in fact, +quite pluming herself on the adroit casualness with which she had +introduced the subject nearest her heart. + +Calderwell raised his eyebrows. + +“Oh, yes, I see her.” + +“But you hadn't mentioned her.” + +There was the briefest of pauses; then with a half-quizzical dejection, +there came the remark: + +“You seem to forget. I told you that I stayed here this summer for +reasons too numerous, and one too heart-breaking, to mention. She was +the _one_.” + +“You mean--” + +“Yes. The usual thing. She turned me down. Oh, I haven't asked her yet +as many times as I did you, but--” + +“_Hugh!_” + +Hugh tossed her a grim smile and went on imperturbably. + +“I'm older now, of course, and know more, perhaps. Besides, the finality +of her remarks was not to be mistaken.” + +Billy, in spite of her sympathy for Calderwell, was conscious of a throb +of relief that at least one stumbling-block was removed from Arkwright's +possible pathway to Alice's heart. + +“Did she give any special reason?” hazarded Billy, a shade too +anxiously. + +“Oh, yes. She said she wasn't going to marry anybody--only her music.” + +“Nonsense!” ejaculated Billy, falling back in her chair a little. + +“Yes, I said that, too,” gloomed the man; “but it didn't do any good. +You see, I had known another girl who'd said the same thing once.” (He +did not look up, but a vivid red flamed suddenly into Billy's cheeks.) +“And she--when the right one came--forgot all about the music, and +married the man. So I naturally suspected that Alice would do the same +thing. In fact, I said so to her. I was bold enough to even call the man +by name--I hadn't been jealous of Arkwright for nothing, you see--but +she denied it, and flew into such an indignant allegation that there +wasn't a word of truth in it, that I had to sue for pardon before I got +anything like peace.” + +“Oh-h!” said Billy, in a disappointed voice, falling quite back in her +chair this time. + +“And so that's why I'm wanting especially just now to see the wheels go +'round,” smiled Calderwell, a little wistfully. “Oh, I shall get over +it, I suppose. It isn't the first time, I'll own--but some day I take it +there will be a last time. Enough of this, however! You haven't told me +a thing about yourself. How about it? When I come back, are you going +to give me a dinner cooked by your own fair hands? Going to still play +Bridget?” + +Billy laughed and shook her head. + +“No; far from it. Eliza has come back, and her cousin from Vermont is +coming as second girl to help her. But I _could_ cook a dinner for you +if I had to now, sir, and it wouldn't be potato-mush and cold lamb,” she +bragged shamelessly, as there sounded Bertram's peculiar ring, and the +click of his key in the lock. + + +It was the next afternoon that Billy called on Marie. From Marie's, +Billy went to the Annex, which was very near Cyril's new house; and +there, in Aunt Hannah's room, she had what she told Bertram afterwards +was a perfectly lovely visit. + +Aunt Hannah, too, enjoyed the visit very much, though yet there was one +thing that disturbed her--the vaguely troubled look in Billy's eyes, +which to-day was more apparent than ever. Not until just before Billy +went home did something occur to give Aunt Hannah a possible clue as to +what was the meaning of it. That something was a question from Billy. + +“Aunt Hannah, why don't I feel like Marie did? why don't I feel like +everybody does in books and stories? Marie went around with such a +detached, heavenly, absorbed look in her eyes, before the twins came to +her home. But I don't. I don't find anything like that in my face, +when I look in the glass. And I don't feel detached and absorbed and +heavenly. I'm happy, of course; but I can't help thinking of the dear, +dear times Bertram and I have together, just we two, and I can't seem to +imagine it at all with a third person around.” + +“Billy! _Third person_, indeed!” + +“There! I knew 'twould shock you,” mourned Billy. “It shocks me. I +_want_ to feel detached and heavenly and absorbed.” + +“But Billy, dear, think of it--calling your own baby a third person!” + +Billy sighed despairingly. + +“Yes, I know. And I suppose I might as well own up to the rest of it +too. I--I'm actually afraid of babies, Aunt Hannah! Well, I am,” she +reiterated, in answer to Aunt Hannah's gasp of disapproval. “I'm not +used to them at all. I never had any little brothers and sisters, and I +don't know how to treat babies. I--I'm always afraid they'll break, or +something. I'm just as afraid of the twins as I can be. How Marie can +handle them, and toss them about as she does, I don't see.” + +“Toss them about, indeed!” + +“Well, it looks that way to me,” sighed Billy. “Anyhow, I know I can +never get to handle them like that--and that's no way to feel! And +I'm ashamed of myself because I _can't_ be detached and heavenly and +absorbed,” she added, rising to go. “Everybody always is, it seems, but +just me.” + +“Fiddlededee, my dear!” scoffed Aunt Hannah, patting Billy's downcast +face. “Wait till a year from now, and we'll see about that third-person +bugaboo you're worrying about. _I'm_ not worrying now; so you'd better +not!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. A DOT AND A DIMPLE + + +On the day Cyril Henshaw's twins were six months old, a momentous +occurrence marked the date with a flaming red letter of remembrance; +and it all began with a baby's smile. + +Cyril, in quest of his wife at about ten o'clock that morning, and not +finding her, pursued his search even to the nursery--a room he very +seldom entered. Cyril did not like to go into the nursery. He felt ill +at ease, and as if he were away from home--and Cyril was known to abhor +being away from home since he was married. Now that Marie had taken over +the reins of government again, he had been obliged to see very little +of those strange women and babies. Not but that he liked the babies, of +course. They were his sons, and he was proud of them. They should have +every advantage that college, special training, and travel could give +them. He quite anticipated what they would be to him--when they really +knew anything. But, of course, _now_, when they could do nothing but +cry and wave their absurd little fists, and wobble their heads in so +fearsome a manner, as if they simply did not know the meaning of the +word backbone--and, for that matter, of course they didn't--why, he +could not be expected to be anything but relieved when he had his den to +himself again, with a reasonable chance of finding his manuscript as +he had left it, and not cut up into a ridiculous string of paper dolls +holding hands, as he had once found it, after a visit from a woman with +a small girl. + +Since Marie had been at the helm, however, he had not been troubled in +such a way. He had, indeed, known almost his old customary peace and +freedom from interruption, with only an occasional flitting across his +path of the strange women and babies--though he had realized, of course, +that they were in the house, especially in the nursery. For that reason, +therefore, he always avoided the nursery when possible. But to-day he +wanted his wife, and his wife was not to be found anywhere else in the +house. So, reluctantly, he turned his steps toward the nursery, and, +with a frown, knocked and pushed open the door. + +“Is Mrs. Henshaw here?” he demanded, not over gently. + +Absolute silence greeted his question. The man saw then that there was +no one in the room save a baby sitting on a mat in the middle of the +floor, barricaded on all sides with pillows. + +With a deeper frown the man turned to go, when a gleeful “Ah--goo!” + halted his steps midway. He wheeled sharply. + +“Er--eh?” he queried, uncertainly eyeing his small son on the floor. + +“Ah--goo!” observed the infant (who had been very lonesome), with +greater emphasis; and this time he sent into his father's eyes the most +bewitching of smiles. + +“Well, by George!” murmured the man, weakly, a dawning amazement driving +the frown from his face. + +“Spgggh--oo--wah!” gurgled the boy, holding out two tiny fists. + +A slow smile came to the man's face. + +“Well, I'll--be--darned,” he muttered half-shamefacedly, wholly +delightedly. “If the rascal doesn't act as if he--knew me!” + +“Ah--goo--spggghh!” grinned the infant, toothlessly, but entrancingly. + +With almost a stealthy touch Cyril closed the door back of him, and +advanced a little dubiously toward his son. His countenance carried a +mixture of guilt, curiosity, and dogged determination so ludicrous that +it was a pity none but baby eyes could see it. As if to meet more +nearly on a level this baffling new acquaintance, Cyril got to his +knees--somewhat stiffly, it must be confessed--and faced his son. + +“Goo--eee--ooo--yah!” crowed the baby now, thrashing legs and arms about +in a transport of joy at the acquisition of this new playmate. + +“Well, well, young man, you--you don't say so!” stammered the +growingly-proud father, thrusting a plainly timid and unaccustomed +finger toward his offspring. “So you do know me, eh? Well, who am I?” + +“Da--da!” gurgled the boy, triumphantly clutching the outstretched +finger, and holding on with a tenacity that brought a gleeful chuckle to +the lips of the man. + +“Jove! but aren't you the strong little beggar, though! Needn't tell me +you don't know a good thing when you see it! So I'm 'da-da,' am I?” + he went on, unhesitatingly accepting as the pure gold of knowledge the +shameless imitation vocabulary his son was foisting upon him. “Well, I +expect I am, and--” + +“Oh, Cyril!” The door had opened, and Marie was in the room. If she gave +a start of surprise at her husband's unaccustomed attitude, she quickly +controlled herself. “Julia said you wanted me. I must have been going +down the back stairs when you came up the front, and--” + +“Please, Mrs. Henshaw, is it Dot you have in here, or Dimple?” asked a +new voice, as the second nurse entered by another door. + +Before Mrs. Henshaw could answer, Cyril, who had got to his feet, turned +sharply. + +“Is it--_who_?” he demanded. + +“Oh! Oh, Mr. Henshaw,” stammered the girl. “I beg your pardon. I didn't +know you were here. It was only that I wanted to know which baby it was. +We thought we had Dot with us, until--” + +“Dot! Dimple!” exploded the man. “Do you mean to say you have given my +_sons_ the ridiculous names of '_Dot_' and '_Dimple_'?” + +“Why, no--yes--well, that is--we had to call them something,” faltered +the nurse, as with a despairing glance at her mistress, she plunged +through the doorway. + +Cyril turned to his wife. + +“Marie, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded. + +“Why, Cyril, dear, don't--don't get so wrought up,” she begged. “It's +only as Mary said, we _had_ to call them something, and--” + +“Wrought up, indeed!” interrupted Cyril, savagely. “Who wouldn't be? +'Dot' and 'Dimple'! Great Scott! One would think those boys were a +couple of kittens or puppies; that they didn't know anything--didn't +have any brains! But they have--if the other is anything like this one, +at least,” he declared, pointing to his son on the floor, who, at +this opportune moment joined in the conversation to the extent of an +appropriate “Ah--goo--da--da!” + +“There, hear that, will you?” triumphed the father. “What did I tell +you? That's the way he's been going on ever since I came into the room; +The little rascal knows me--so soon!” + +Marie clapped her fingers to her lips and turned her back suddenly, +with a spasmodic little cough; but her husband, if he noticed the +interruption, paid no heed. + +“Dot and Dimple, indeed!” he went on wrathfully. “That settles it. We'll +name those boys to-day, Marie, _to-day!_ Not once again will I let the +sun go down on a Dot and a Dimple under my roof.” + +Marie turned with a quick little cry of happiness. + +“Oh, Cyril, I'm so glad! I've so wanted to have them named, you know! +And shall we call them Franz and Felix, as we'd talked?” + +“Franz, Felix, John, James, Paul, Charles--anything, so it's sane and +sensible! I'd even adopt Calderwell's absurd Bildad and--er--Tomdad, or +whatever it was, rather than have those poor little chaps insulted a +day longer with a 'Dot' and a 'Dimple.' Great Scott!” And, entirely +forgetting what he had come to the nursery for, Cyril strode from the +room. + +“Ah--goo--spggggh!” commented baby from the middle of the floor. + + +It was on a very windy March day that Bertram Henshaw's son, Bertram, +Jr., arrived at the Strata. Billy went so far into the Valley of the +Shadow of Death for her baby that it was some days before she realized +in all its importance the presence of the new member of her family. Even +when the days had become weeks, and Bertram, Jr., was a month and a +half old, the extreme lassitude and weariness of his young mother was a +source of ever-growing anxiety to her family and friends. Billy was so +unlike herself, they all said. + +“If something could only rouse her,” suggested the Henshaw's old +family physician one day. “A certain sort of mental shock--if not too +severe--would do the deed, I think, and with no injury--only benefit. +Her physical condition is in just the state that needs a stimulus to +stir it into new life and vigor.” + +As it happened, this was said on a certain Monday. Two days later +Bertram's sister Kate, on her way with her husband to Mr. Hartwell's old +home in Vermont, stopped over in Boston for a two days' visit. She made +her headquarters at Cyril's home, but very naturally she went, without +much delay, to pay her respects to Bertram, Jr. + +“Mr. Hartwell's brother isn't well,” she explained to Billy, after +the greetings were over. “You know he's the only one left there, since +Mother and Father Hartwell came West. We shall go right on up to Vermont +in a couple of days, but we just had to stay over long enough to see the +baby; and we hadn't ever seen the twins, either, you know. By the way, +how perfectly ridiculous Cyril is over those boys!” + +“Is he?” smiled Billy, faintly. + +“Yes. One would think there were never any babies born before, to hear +him talk. He thinks they're the most wonderful things in the world--and +they are cunning little fellows, I'll admit. But Cyril thinks they +_know_ so much,” went on Kate, laughingly. “He's always bragging of +something one or the other of them has done. Think of it--_Cyril!_ Marie +says it all started from the time last January when he discovered the +nurses had been calling them Dot and Dimple.” + +“Yes, I know,” smiled Billy again, faintly, lifting a thin, white, very +un-Billy-like hand to her head. + +Kate frowned, and regarded her sister-in-law thoughtfully. + +“Mercy! how you look, Billy!” she exclaimed, with cheerful tactlessness. +“They said you did, but, I declare, you look worse than I thought.” + +Billy's pale face reddened perceptibly. + +“Nonsense! It's just that I'm so--so tired,” she insisted. “I shall be +all right soon. How did you leave the children?” + +“Well, and happy--'specially little Kate, because mother was going away. +Kate is mistress, you know, when I'm gone, and she takes herself very +seriously.” + +“Mistress! A little thing like her! Why, she can't be more than ten or +eleven,” murmured Billy. + +“She isn't. She was ten last month. But you'd think she was forty, the +airs she gives herself, sometimes. Oh, of course there's Nora, and the +cook, and Miss Winton, the governess, there to really manage things, +and Mother Hartwell is just around the corner; but little Kate _thinks_ +she's managing, so she's happy.” + +Billy suppressed a smile. Billy was thinking that little Kate came +naturally by at least one of her traits. + +“Really, that child is impossible, sometimes,” resumed Mrs. Hartwell, +with a sigh. “You know the absurd things she was always saying two or +three years ago, when we came on to Cyril's wedding.” + +“Yes, I remember.” + +“Well, I thought she would get over it. But she doesn't. She's worse, if +anything; and sometimes her insight, or intuition, or whatever you may +call it, is positively uncanny. I never know what she's going to remark +next, when I take her anywhere; but it's safe to say, whatever it is, +it'll be unexpected and _usually_ embarrassing to somebody. And--is +that the baby?” broke off Mrs. Hartwell, as a cooing laugh and a woman's +voice came from the next room. + +“Yes. The nurse has just brought him in, I think,” said Billy. + +“Then I'll go right now and see him,” rejoined Kate, rising to her feet +and hurrying into the next room. + +Left alone, Billy lay back wearily in her reclining-chair. She wondered +why Kate always tired her so. She wished she had had on her blue kimono, +then perhaps Kate would not have thought she looked so badly. Blue was +always more becoming to her than-- + +Billy turned her head suddenly. From the next room had come Kate's +clear-cut, decisive voice. + +“Oh, no, I don't think he looks a bit like his father. That little +snubby nose was never the Henshaw nose.” + +Billy drew in her breath sharply, and pulled herself half erect in her +chair. From the next room came Kate's voice again, after a low murmur +from the nurse. + +“Oh, but he isn't, I tell you. He isn't one bit of a Henshaw baby! The +Henshaw babies are always _pretty_ ones. They have more hair, and they +look--well, different.” + +Billy gave a low cry, and struggled to her feet. + +“Oh, no,” spoke up Kate, in answer to another indistinct something from +the nurse. “I don't think he's near as pretty as the twins. Of +course the twins are a good deal older, but they have such a _bright_ +look,--and they did have, from the very first. I saw it in their tiniest +baby pictures. But this baby--” + +“_This_ baby is _mine_, please,” cut in a tremulous, but resolute voice; +and Mrs. Hartwell turned to confront Bertram, Jr.'s mother, manifestly +weak and trembling, but no less manifestly blazing-eyed and determined. + +“Why, Billy!” expostulated Mrs. Hartwell, as Billy stumbled forward and +snatched the child into her arms. + +“Perhaps he doesn't look like the Henshaw babies. Perhaps he isn't as +pretty as the twins. Perhaps he hasn't much hair, and does have a snub +nose. He's my baby just the same, and I shall not stay calmly by and see +him abused! Besides, _I_ think he's prettier than the twins ever thought +of being; and he's got all the hair I want him to have, and his nose +is just exactly what a baby's nose ought to be!” And, with a superb +gesture, Billy turned and bore the baby away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. BILLY AND THE ENORMOUS RESPONSIBILITY + + +When the doctor heard from the nurse of Mrs. Hartwell's visit and what +had come of it, he only gave a discreet smile, as befitted himself and +the occasion; but to his wife privately, that night, the doctor said, +when he had finished telling the story: + +“And I couldn't have prescribed a better pill if I'd tried!” + +“_Pill_--Mrs. Hartwell! Oh, Harold,” reproved the doctor's wife, mildly. + +But the doctor only chuckled the more, and said: + +“You wait and see.” + +If Billy's friends were worried before because of her lassitude and lack +of ambition, they were almost as worried now over her amazing alertness +and insistent activity. Day by day, almost hour by hour, she seemed to +gain in strength; and every bit she acquired she promptly tested almost +to the breaking point, so plainly eager was she to be well and strong. +And always, from morning until night, and again from night until +morning, the pivot of her existence, around which swung all thoughts, +words, actions, and plans, was the sturdy little plump-cheeked, +firm-fleshed atom of humanity known as Bertram, Jr. Even Aunt Hannah +remonstrated with her at last. + +“But, Billy, dear,” she exclaimed, “one would almost get the idea that +you thought there wasn't a thing in the world but that baby!” + +Billy laughed. + +“Well, do you know, sometimes I 'most think there isn't,” she retorted +unblushingly. + +“Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah; then, a little severely, she demanded: +“And who was it that just last September was calling this same +only-object-in-the-world a third person in your home?” + +“Third person, indeed! Aunt Hannah, did I? Did I really say such a +dreadful thing as that? But I didn't know, then, of course. I couldn't +know how perfectly wonderful a baby is, especially such a baby as +Bertram, Jr., is. Why, Aunt Hannah, that little thing knows a whole lot +already. He's known me for weeks; I know he has. And ages and ages ago +he began to give me little smiles when he saw me. They were smiles--real +smiles! Oh, yes, I know nurse said they weren't smiles at the first,” + admitted Billy, in answer to Aunt Hannah's doubting expression. “I know +nurse said it was only wind on his stomach. Think of it--wind on his +stomach! Just as if I didn't know the difference between my own baby's +smile and wind on his stomach! And you don't know how soon he began to +follow my moving finger with his eyes!” + +“Yes, I tried that one day, I remember,” observed Aunt Hannah demurely. +“I moved my finger. He looked at the ceiling--_fixedly_.” + +“Well, probably he _wanted_ to look at the ceiling, then,” defended the +young mother, promptly. “I'm sure I wouldn't give a snap for a baby if +he didn't sometimes have a mind of his own, and exercise it!” + +“Oh, Billy, Billy,” laughed Aunt Hannah, with a shake of her head as +Billy turned away, chin uptilted. + +By the time Bertram, Jr., was three months old, Billy was unmistakably +her old happy, merry self, strong and well. Affairs at the Strata once +more were moving as by clockwork--only this time it was a baby's hand +that set the clock, and that wound it, too. + +Billy told her husband very earnestly that now they had entered upon a +period of Enormous Responsibility. The Life, Character, and Destiny of a +Human Soul was intrusted to their care, and they must be Wise, Faithful, +and Efficient. They must be at once Proud and Humble at this their Great +Opportunity. They must Observe, Learn, and Practice. First and foremost +in their eyes must always be this wonderful Important Trust. + +Bertram laughed at first very heartily at Billy's instructions, which, +he declared, were so bristling with capitals that he could fairly see +them drop from her lips. Then, when he found how really very much in +earnest she was, and how hurt she was at his levity, he managed to pull +his face into something like sobriety while she talked to him, though he +did persist in dropping kisses on her cheeks, her chin, her finger-tips, +her hair, and the little pink lobes of her ears--“just by way of +punctuation” to her sentences, he said. And he told her that he wasn't +really slighting her lips, only that they moved so fast he could not +catch them. Whereat Billy pouted, and told him severely that he was a +bad, naughty boy, and that he did not deserve to be the father of the +dearest, most wonderful baby in the world. + +“No, I know I don't,” beamed Bertram, with cheerful unrepentance; “but I +am, just the same,” he finished triumphantly. And this time he contrived +to find his wife's lips. + +“Oh, Bertram,” sighed Billy, despairingly. + +“You're an old dear, of course, and one just can't be cross with you; +but you don't, you just _don't_ realize your Immense Responsibility.” + +“Oh, yes, I do,” maintained Bertram so seriously that even Billy herself +almost believed him. + +In spite of his assertions, however, it must be confessed that Bertram +was much more inclined to regard the new member of his family as just +his son rather than as an Important Trust; and there is little doubt +that he liked to toss him in the air and hear his gleeful crows of +delight, without any bother of Observing him at all. As to the Life and +Character and Destiny intrusted to his care, it is to be feared that +Bertram just plain gloried in his son, poked him in the ribs, and +chuckled him under the chin whenever he pleased, and gave never so much +as a thought to Character and Destiny. It is to be feared, too, that he +was Proud without being Humble, and that the only Opportunity he really +appreciated was the chance to show off his wife and baby to some less +fortunate fellow-man. + +But not so Billy. Billy joined a Mothers' Club and entered a class in +Child Training with an elaborate system of Charts, Rules, and Tests. She +subscribed to each new “Mothers' Helper,” and the like, that she came +across, devouring each and every one with an eagerness that was tempered +only by a vague uneasiness at finding so many differences of opinion +among Those Who Knew. + +Undeniably Billy, if not Bertram, was indeed realizing the Enormous +Responsibility, and was keeping ever before her the Important Trust. + +In June Bertram took a cottage at the South Shore, and by the time the +really hot weather arrived the family were well settled. It was only an +hour away from Boston, and easy of access, but William said he guessed +he would not go; he would stay in Boston, sleeping at the house, and +getting his meals at the club, until the middle of July, when he was +going down in Maine for his usual fishing trip, which he had planned to +take a little earlier than usual this year. + +“But you'll be so lonesome, Uncle William,” Billy demurred, “in this +great house all alone!” + +“Oh, no, I sha'n't,” rejoined Uncle William. “I shall only be sleeping +here, you know,” he finished, with a slightly peculiar smile. + +It was well, perhaps, that Billy did not exactly realize the +significance of that smile, nor the unconscious emphasis on the word +“sleeping,” for it would have troubled her not a little. + +William, to tell the truth, was quite anticipating that sleeping. +William's nights had not been exactly restful since the baby came. His +evenings, too, had not been the peaceful things they were wont to be. + +Some of Billy's Rules and Tests were strenuously objected to on the part +of her small son, and the young man did not hesitate to show it. Billy +said that it was good for the baby to cry, that it developed his lungs; +but William was very sure that it was not good for _him_. Certainly, +when the baby did cry, William never could help hovering near the center +of disturbance, and he always _had_ to remind Billy that it might be a +pin, you know, or some cruel thing that was hurting. As if he, William, +a great strong man, could sit calmly by and smoke a pipe, or lie in his +comfortable bed and sleep, while that blessed little baby was crying +his heart out like that! Of course, if one did not _know_ he was +crying--Hence William's anticipation of those quiet, restful nights when +he could not know it. + +Very soon after Billy's arrival at the cottage, Aunt Hannah and Alice +Greggory came down for a day's visit. Aunt Hannah had been away from +Boston for several weeks, so it was some time since she had seen the +baby. + +“My, but hasn't he grown!” she exclaimed, picking the baby up and +stooping to give him a snuggling kiss. The next instant she almost +dropped the little fellow, so startling had been Billy's cry. + +“No, no, wait, Aunt Hannah, please,” Billy was entreating, hurrying to +the little corner cupboard. In a moment she was back with a small bottle +and a bit of antiseptic cotton. “We always sterilize our lips now before +we kiss him--it's so much safer, you know.” + +Aunt Hannah sat down limply, the baby still in her arms. + +“Fiddlededee, Billy! What an absurd idea! What have you got in that +bottle?” + +“Why, Aunt Hannah, it's just a little simple listerine,” bridled Billy, +“and it isn't absurd at all. It's very sensible. My 'Hygienic Guide for +Mothers' says--” + +“Well, I suppose I may kiss his hand,” interposed Aunt Hannah, just a +little curtly, “without subjecting myself to a City Hospital treatment!” + +Billy laughed shamefacedly, but she still held her ground. + +“No, you can't--nor even his foot. He might get them in his mouth. Aunt +Hannah, why does a baby think that everything, from his own toes to his +father's watch fob and the plush balls on a caller's wrist-bag, is made +to eat? As if I could sterilize everything, and keep him from getting +hold of germs somewhere!” + +“You'll have to have a germ-proof room for him,” laughed Alice Greggory, +playfully snapping her fingers at the baby in Aunt Hannah's lap. + +Billy turned eagerly. + +“Oh, did you read about that, too?” she cried. “I thought it was _so_ +interesting, and I wondered if I could do it.” + +Alice stared frankly. + +“You don't mean to say they actually _have_ such things,” she +challenged. + +“Well, I read about them in a magazine,” asserted Billy, “--how you +could have a germ-proof room. They said it was very simple, too. Just +pasteurize the air, you know, by heating it to one hundred and ten +and one-half degrees Fahrenheit for seventeen and one-half minutes. I +remember just the figures.” + +“Simple, indeed! It sounds so,” scoffed Aunt Hannah, with uplifted +eyebrows. + +“Oh, well, I couldn't do it, of course,” admitted Billy, regretfully. +“Bertram never'd stand for that in the world. He's always rushing in to +show the baby off to every Tom, Dick and Harry and his wife that comes; +and of course if you opened the nursery door, that would let in those +germ things, and you _couldn't_ very well pasteurize your callers by +heating them to one hundred and ten and one-half degrees for seventeen +and one-half minutes! I don't see how you could manage such a room, +anyway, unless you had a system of--of rooms like locks, same as they do +for water in canals.” + +“Oh, my grief and conscience--locks, indeed!” almost groaned Aunt +Hannah. “Here, Alice, will you please take this child--that is, if you +have a germ-proof certificate about you to show to his mother. I want to +take off my bonnet and gloves.” + +“Take him? Of course I'll take him,” laughed Alice; “and right under his +mother's nose, too,” she added, with a playful grimace at Billy. “And +we'll make pat-a-cakes, and send the little pigs to market, and have +such a beautiful time that we'll forget there ever was such a thing in +the world as an old germ. Eh, babykins?” + +“Babykins” cooed his unqualified approval of this plan; but his mother +looked troubled. + +“That's all right, Alice. You may play with him,” she frowned +doubtfully; “but you mustn't do it long, you know--not over five +minutes.” + +“Five minutes! Well, I like that, when I've come all the way from Boston +purposely to see him,” pouted Alice. “What's the matter now? Time for +his nap?” + +“Oh, no, not for--thirteen minutes,” replied Billy, consulting the watch +at her belt. “But we never play with Baby more than five minutes at a +time. My 'Scientific Care of Infants' says it isn't wise; that with some +babies it's positively dangerous, until after they're six months old. +It makes them nervous, and forces their mind, you know,” she explained +anxiously. “So of course we'd want to be careful. Bertram, Jr., isn't +quite four, yet.” + +“Why, yes, of course,” murmured Alice, politely, stopping a pat-a-cake +before it was half baked. + +The infant, as if suspecting that he was being deprived of his lawful +baby rights, began to fret and whimper. + +“Poor itty sing,” crooned Aunt Hannah, who, having divested herself of +bonnet and gloves, came hurriedly forward with outstretched hands. “Do +they just 'buse 'em? Come here to your old auntie, sweetems, and we'll +go walkee. I saw a bow-wow--such a tunnin' ickey wickey bow-wow on the +steps when I came in. Come, we go see ickey wickey bow-wow?” + +“Aunt Hannah, _please!_” protested Billy, both hands upraised in horror. +“_Won't_ you say 'dog,' and leave out that dreadful 'ickey wickey'? Of +course he can't understand things now, really, but we never know when +he'll begin to, and we aren't ever going to let him hear baby-talk at +all, if we can help it. And truly, when you come to think of it, it is +absurd to expect a child to talk sensibly and rationally on the mental +diet of 'moo-moos' and 'choo-choos' served out to them. Our Professor of +Metaphysics and Ideology in our Child Study Course says that nothing is +so receptive and plastic as the Mind of a Little Child, and that it is +perfectly appalling how we fill it with trivial absurdities that haven't +even the virtue of being accurate. So that's why we're trying to be so +careful with Baby. You didn't mind my speaking, I know, Aunt Hannah.” + +“Oh, no, of course not, Billy,” retorted Aunt Hannah, a little tartly, +and with a touch of sarcasm most unlike her gentle self. “I'm sure +I shouldn't wish to fill this infant's plastic mind with anything so +appalling as trivial inaccuracies. May I be pardoned for suggesting, +however,” she went on as the baby's whimper threatened to become a lusty +wail, “that this young gentleman cries as if he were sleepy and hungry?” + +“Yes, he is,” admitted Billy. + +“Well, doesn't your system of scientific training allow him to be given +such trivial absurdities as food and naps?” inquired the lady, mildly. + +“Of course it does, Aunt Hannah,” retorted Billy, laughing in spite of +herself. “And it's almost time now. There are only a few more minutes to +wait.” + +“Few more minutes to wait, indeed!” scorned Aunt Hannah. “I suppose the +poor little fellow might cry and cry, and you wouldn't set that clock +ahead by a teeny weeny minute!” + +“Certainly not,” said the young mother, decisively. “My 'Daily Guide for +Mothers' says that a time for everything and everything in its time, is +the very A B C and whole alphabet of Right Training. He does everything +by the clock, and to the minute,” declared Billy, proudly. + +Aunt Hannah sniffed, obviously skeptical and rebellious. Alice Greggory +laughed. + +“Aunt Hannah looks as if she'd like to bring down her clock that strikes +half an hour ahead,” she said mischievously; but Aunt Hannah did not +deign to answer this. + +“How long do you rock him?” she demanded of Billy. “I suppose I may do +that, mayn't I?” + +“Mercy, I don't rock him at all, Aunt Hannah,” exclaimed Billy. + +“Nor sing to him?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“But you did--before I went away. I remember that you did.” + +“Yes, I know I did,” admitted Billy, “and I had an awful time, too. +Some evenings, every single one of us, even to Uncle William, had to +try before we could get him off to sleep. But that was before I got my +'Efficiency of Mother and Child,' or my 'Scientific Training,' and, oh, +lots of others. You see, I didn't know a thing then, and I loved to rock +him, so I did it--though the nurse said it wasn't good for him; but I +didn't believe _her_. I've had an awful time changing; but I've done it. +I just put him in his little crib, or his carriage, and after a while +he goes to sleep. Sometimes, now, he doesn't cry hardly any. I'm afraid, +to-day, though, he will,” she worried. + +“Yes, I'm afraid he will,” almost screamed Aunt Hannah, in order to make +herself heard above Bertram, Jr., who, by this time, was voicing his +opinion of matters and things in no uncertain manner. + +It was not, after all, so very long before peace and order reigned; and, +in due course, Bertram, Jr., in his carriage, lay fast asleep. Then, +while Aunt Hannah went to Billy's room for a short rest, Billy and Alice +went out on to the wide veranda which faced the wonderful expanse of sky +and sea. + +“Now tell me of yourself,” commanded Billy, almost at once. “It's been +ages since I've heard or seen a thing of you.” + +“There's nothing to tell.” + +“Nonsense! But there must be,” insisted Billy. “You know it's months +since I've seen anything of you, hardly.” + +“I know. We feel quite neglected at the Annex,” said Alice. + +“But I don't go anywhere,” defended Billy. “I can't. There isn't time.” + +“Even to bring us the extra happiness?” smiled Alice. + +A quick change came to Billy's face. Her eyes glowed deeply. + +“No; though I've had so much that ought to have gone--such loads +and loads of extra happiness, which I couldn't possibly use myself! +Sometimes I'm so happy, Alice, that--that I'm just frightened. It +doesn't seem as if anybody ought to be so happy.” + +“Oh, Billy, dear,” demurred Alice, her eyes filling suddenly with tears. + +“Well, I've got the Annex. I'm glad I've got that for the overflow, +anyway,” resumed Billy, trying to steady her voice. “I've sent a whole +lot of happiness up there mentally, if I haven't actually carried it; so +I'm sure you must have got it. Now tell me of yourself.” + +“There's nothing to tell,” insisted Alice, as before. + +“You're working as hard as ever?” + +“Yes--harder.” + +“New pupils?” + +“Yes, and some concert engagements--good ones, for next season. +Accompaniments, you know.” + +Billy nodded. + +“Yes; I've heard of you already twice, lately, in that line, and very +flatteringly, too.” + +“Have you? Well, that's good.” + +“Hm-m.” There was a moment's silence, then, abruptly, Billy changed the +subject. “I had a letter from Belle Calderwell, yesterday.” She paused +expectantly, but there was no comment. + +“You don't seem interested,” she frowned, after a minute. + +Alice laughed. + +“Pardon me, but--I don't know the Lady, you see. Was it a good letter?” + +“You know her brother.” + +“Very true.” Alice's cheeks showed a deeper color. “Did she say anything +of him?” + +“Yes. She said he was coming back to Boston next winter.” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes. She says that this time he declares he really _is_ going to settle +down to work,” murmured Billy, demurely, with a sidelong glance at her +companion. “She says he's engaged to be married--one of her friends over +there.” + +There was no reply. Alice appeared to be absorbed in watching a tiny +white sail far out at sea. + +Again Billy was silent. Then, with studied carelessness, she said: + +“Yes, and you know Mr. Arkwright, too. She told of him.” + +“Yes? Well, what of him?” Alice's voice was studiedly indifferent. + +“Oh, there was quite a lot of him. Belle had just been to hear him +sing, and then her brother had introduced him to her. She thinks he's +perfectly wonderful, in every way, I should judge. In fact, she simply +raved over him. It seems that while we've been hearing nothing from him +all winter, he's been winning no end of laurels for himself in Paris and +Berlin. He's been studying, too, of course, as well as singing; and +now he's got a chance to sing somewhere--create a rôle, or +something--Belle said she wasn't quite clear on the matter herself, but +it was a perfectly splendid chance, and one that was a fine feather in +his cap.” + +“Then he won't be coming home--that is, to Boston--at all this winter, +probably,” said Alice, with a cheerfulness that sounded just a little +forced. + +“Not until February. But he is coming then. He's been engaged for six +performances with the Boston Opera Company--as a star tenor, mind you! +Isn't that splendid?” + +“Indeed it is,” murmured Alice. + +“Belle writes that Hugh says he's improved wonderfully, and that even he +can see that his singing is marvelous. He says Paris is wild over him; +but--for my part, I wish he'd come home and stay here where he belongs,” + finished Billy, a bit petulantly. + +“Why, why, Billy!” murmured her friend, a curiously startled look coming +into her eyes. + +“Well, I do,” maintained Billy; then, recklessly, she added: “I had such +beautiful plans for him, once, Alice. Oh, if you only could have cared +for him, you'd have made such a splendid couple!” + +A vivid scarlet flew to Alice's face. + +“Nonsense!” she cried, getting quickly to her feet and bending over +one of the flower boxes along the veranda railing. “Mr. Arkwright +never thought of marrying me--and I'm not going to marry anybody but my +music.” + +Billy sighed despairingly. + +“I know that's what you say now; but if--” She stopped abruptly. Around +the turn of the veranda had appeared Aunt Hannah, wheeling Bertram, Jr., +still asleep in his carriage. + +“I came out the other door,” she explained softly. “And it was so lovely +I just had to go in and get the baby. I thought it would be so nice for +him to finish his nap out here.” + +Billy arose with a troubled frown. + +“But, Aunt Hannah, he mustn't--he can't stay out here. I'm sorry, but +we'll have to take him back.” + +Aunt Hannah's eyes grew mutinous. + +“But I thought the outdoor air was just the thing for him. I'm sure your +scientific hygienic nonsense says _that!_” + +“They do--they did--that is, some of them do,” acknowledged Billy, +worriedly; “but they differ, so! And the one I'm going by now says that +Baby should always sleep in an _even_ temperature--seventy degrees, if +possible; and that's exactly what the room in there was, when I left +him. It's not the same out here, I'm sure. In fact I looked at the +thermometer to see, just before I came out myself. So, Aunt Hannah, I'm +afraid I'll have to take him back.” + +“But you used to have him sleep out of doors all the time, on that +little balcony out of your room,” argued Aunt Hannah, still plainly +unconvinced. + +“Yes, I know I did. I was following the other man's rules, then. As I +said, if only they wouldn't differ so! Of course I want the best; but +it's so hard to always know the best, and--” + +At this very inopportune moment Master Bertram took occasion to wake +up, which brought even a deeper wrinkle of worry to his fond mother's +forehead; for she said that, according to the clock, he should have been +sleeping exactly ten and one-half more minutes, and that of course he +couldn't commence the next thing until those ten and one-half minutes +were up, or else his entire schedule for the day would be shattered. +So what she should do with him for those should-have-been-sleeping ten +minutes and a half, she did not know. All of which drew from Aunt Hannah +the astounding exclamation of: + +“Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, if you aren't the--the limit!” + Which, indeed, she must have been, to have brought circumspect Aunt +Hannah to the point of actually using slang. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. A NIGHT OFF + + +The Henshaw family did not return to the Strata until late in September. +Billy said that the sea air seemed to agree so well with the baby it +would be a pity to change until the weather became really too cool at +the shore to be comfortable. + +William came back from his fishing trip in August, and resumed his old +habit of sleeping at the house and taking his meals at the club. To be +sure, for a week he went back and forth between the city and the beach +house; but it happened to be a time when Bertram, Jr., was cutting a +tooth, and this so wore upon William's sympathy--William still could not +help insisting it _might_ be a pin--that he concluded peace lay only in +flight. So he went back to the Strata. + +Bertram had stayed at the cottage all summer, painting industriously. +Heretofore he had taken more of a vacation through the summer months, +but this year there seemed to be nothing for him to do but to paint. He +did not like to go away on a trip and leave Billy, and she declared she +could not take the baby nor leave him, and that she did not need any +trip, anyway. + +“All right, then, we'll just stay at the beach, and have a fine vacation +together,” he had answered her. + +As Bertram saw it, however, he could detect very little “vacation” + to it. Billy had no time for anything but the baby. When she was not +actually engaged in caring for it, she was studying how to care for it. +Never had she been sweeter or dearer, and never had Bertram loved her +half so well. He was proud, too, of her devotion, and of her triumphant +success as a mother; but he did wish that sometimes, just once in a +while, she would remember she was a wife, and pay a little attention to +him, her husband. + +Bertram was ashamed to own it, even to himself, but he was feeling just +a little abused that summer; and he knew that, in his heart, he was +actually getting jealous of his own son, in spite of his adoration of +the little fellow. He told himself defensively that it was not to be +expected that he should not want the love of his wife, the attentions of +his wife, and the companionship of his wife--a part of the time. It was +nothing more than natural that occasionally he should like to see her +show some interest in subjects not mentioned in Mothers' Guides and +Scientific Trainings of Infants; and he did not believe he could be +blamed for wanting his residence to be a home for himself as well as a +nursery for his offspring. + +Even while he thus discontentedly argued with himself, however, Bertram +called himself a selfish brute just to think such things when he had +so dear and loving a wife as Billy, and so fine and splendid a baby as +Bertram, Jr. He told himself, too, that very likely when they were back +in their own house again, and when motherhood was not so new to her, +Billy would not be so absorbed in the baby. She would return to her old +interest in her husband, her music, her friends, and her own personal +appearance. Meanwhile there was always, of course, for him, his +painting. So he would paint, accepting gladly what crumbs of attention +fell from the baby's table, and trust to the future to make Billy none +the less a mother, perhaps, but a little more the wife. + +Just how confidently he was counting on this coming change, Bertram +hardly realized himself; but certainly the family was scarcely settled +at the Strata before the husband gayly proposed one evening that he and +Billy should go to the theater to see “Romeo and Juliet.” + +Billy was clearly both surprised and shocked. + +“Why, Bertram, I can't--you know I can't!” she exclaimed reprovingly. + +Bertram's heart sank; but he kept a brave front. + +“Why not?” + +“What a question! As if I'd leave Baby!” + +“But, Billy, dear, you'd be gone less than three hours, and you say +Delia's the most careful of nurses.” + +Billy's forehead puckered into an anxious frown. + +“I can't help it. Something might happen to him, Bertram. I couldn't be +happy a minute.” + +“But, dearest, aren't you _ever_ going to leave him?” demanded the young +husband, forlornly. + +“Why, yes, of course, when it's reasonable and necessary. I went out to +the Annex yesterday afternoon. I was gone almost two whole hours.” + +“Well, did anything happen?” + +“N-no; but then I telephoned, you see, several times, so I _knew_ +everything was all right.” + +“Oh, well, if that's all you want, I could telephone, you know, between +every act,” suggested Bertram, with a sarcasm that was quite lost on the +earnest young mother. + +“Y-yes, you could do that, couldn't you?” conceded Billy; “and, of +course, I _haven't_ been anywhere much, lately.” + +“Indeed I could,” agreed Bertram, with a promptness that carefully hid +his surprise at her literal acceptance of what he had proposed as a huge +joke. “Come, is it a go? Shall I telephone to see if I can get seats?” + +“You think Baby'll surely be all right?” + +“I certainly do.” + +“And you'll telephone home between every act?” + +“I will.” Bertram's voice sounded almost as if he were repeating the +marriage service. + +“And we'll come straight home afterwards as fast as John and Peggy can +bring us?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Then I think--I'll--go,” breathed Billy, tremulously, plainly showing +what a momentous concession she thought she was making. “I do love +'Romeo and Juliet,' and I haven't seen it for ages!” + +“Good! Then I'll find out about the tickets,” cried Bertram, so elated +at the prospect of having an old-time evening out with his wife that +even the half-hourly telephones did not seem too great a price to pay. + +When the time came, they were a little late in starting. Baby +was fretful, and though Billy usually laid him in his crib and +unhesitatingly left the room, insisting that he should go to sleep by +himself in accordance with the most approved rules in her Scientific +Training; yet to-night she could not bring herself to the point of +leaving the house until he was quiet. Hurried as they were when they +did start, Billy was conscious of Bertram's frowning disapproval of her +frock. + +“You don't like it, of course, dear, and I don't blame you,” she smiled +remorsefully. + +“Oh, I like it--that is, I did, when it was new,” rejoined her husband, +with apologetic frankness. “But, dear, didn't you have anything else? +This looks almost--well, mussy, you know.” + +“No--well, yes, maybe there were others,” admitted Billy; “but this +was the quickest and easiest to get into, and it all came just as I +was getting Baby ready for bed, you know. I am a fright, though, I'll +acknowledge, so far as clothes go. I haven't had time to get a thing +since Baby came. I must get something right away, I suppose.” + +“Yes, indeed,” declared Bertram, with emphasis, hurrying his wife into +the waiting automobile. + +Billy had to apologize again at the theater, for the curtain had already +risen on the ancient quarrel between the houses of Capulet and Montague, +and Billy knew her husband's special abhorrence of tardy arrivals. +Later, though, when well established in their seats, Billy's mind was +plainly not with the players on the stage. + +“Do you suppose Baby _is_ all right?” she whispered, after a time. + +“Sh-h! Of course he is, dear!” + +There was a brief silence, during which Billy peered at her program in +the semi-darkness. Then she nudged her husband's arm ecstatically. + +“Bertram, I couldn't have chosen a better play if I'd tried. There +are _five_ acts! I'd forgotten there were so many. That means you can +telephone four times!” + +“Yes, dear.” Bertram's voice was sternly cheerful. + +“You must be sure they tell you exactly how Baby is.” + +“All right, dear. Sh-h! Here's Romeo.” + +Billy subsided. She even clapped a little in spasmodic enthusiasm. +Presently she peered at her program again. + +“There wouldn't be time, I suppose, to telephone between the scenes,” + she hazarded wistfully. “There are sixteen of those!” + +“Well, hardly! Billy, you aren't paying one bit of attention to the +play!” + +“Why, of course I am,” whispered Billy, indignantly. “I think it's +perfectly lovely, and I'm perfectly contented, too--since I found +out about those five acts, and as long as I _can't_ have the sixteen +scenes,” she added, settling back in her seat. + +As if to prove that she was interested in the play, her next whisper, +some time later, had to do with one of the characters on the stage. + +“Who's that--the nurse? Mercy! We wouldn't want her for Baby, would we?” + +In spite of himself Bertram chuckled this time. Billy, too, laughed at +herself. Then, resolutely, she settled into her seat again. + +The curtain was not fairly down on the first act before Billy had laid +an urgent hand on her husband's arm. + +“Now, remember; ask if he's waked up, or anything,” she directed. “And +be sure to say I'll come right home if they need me. Now hurry.” + +“Yes, dear.” Bertram rose with alacrity. “I'll be back right away.” + +“Oh, but I don't want you to hurry _too_ much,” she called after him, +softly. “I want you to take plenty of time to ask questions.” + +“All right,” nodded Bertram, with a quizzical smile, as he turned away. + +Obediently Bertram asked all the question she could think of, then came +back to his wife. There was nothing in his report that even Billy could +disapprove of, or worry about; and with almost a contented look on her +face she turned toward the stage as the curtain went up on the second +act. + +“I love this balcony scene,” she sighed happily. + +Romeo, however, had not half finished his impassioned love-making when +Billy clutched her husband's arm almost fiercely. + +“Bertram,” she fairly hissed in a tragic whisper, “I've just happened +to think! Won't it be awful when Baby falls in love? I know I shall just +hate that girl for taking him away from me!” + +“Sh-h! _Billy!_” expostulated her husband, choking with half-stifled +laughter. “That woman in front heard you, I know she did!” + +“Well, I shall,” sighed Billy, mournfully, turning back to the stage. + + “'Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, + That I shall say good night, till it be morrow,”' + +sighed Juliet passionately to her Romeo. + +“Mercy! I hope not,” whispered Billy flippantly in Bertram's ear. “I'm +sure I don't want to stay here till to-morrow! I want to go home and see +Baby.” + +“_Billy!_” pleaded Bertram so despairingly, that Billy, really +conscience-smitten, sat back in her seat and remained, for the rest of +the act, very quiet indeed. + +Deceived by her apparent tranquillity, Bertram turned as the curtain +went down. + +“Now, Billy, surely you don't think it'll be necessary to telephone so +soon as this again,” he ventured. + +Billy's countenance fell. + +“But, Bertram, you _said_ you would! Of course if you aren't willing +to--but I've been counting on hearing all through this horrid long act, +and--” + +“Goodness me, Billy, I'll telephone every minute for you, of course, if +you want me to,” cried Bertram, springing to his feet, and trying not to +show his impatience. + +He was back more promptly this time. + +“Everything O. K.,” he smiled reassuringly into Billy's anxious eyes. +“Delia said she'd just been up, and the little chap was sound asleep.” + +To the man's unbounded surprise, his wife grew actually white. + +“Up! Up!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean that Delia went down-stairs to +_stay_, and left my baby up there alone?” + +“But, Billy, she said he was all right,” murmured Bertram, softly, +casting uneasy sidelong glances at his too interested neighbors. + +“'All right'! Perhaps he was, _then_--but he may not be, later. Delia +should stay in the next room all the time, where she could hear the +least thing.” + +“Yes, dear, she will, I'm sure, if you tell her to,” soothed Bertram, +quickly. “It'll be all right next time.” + +Billy shook her head. She was obviously near to crying. + +“But, Bertram, I can't stand it to sit here enjoying myself all safe and +comfortable, and know that Baby is _alone_ up there in that great big +room! Please, _please_ won't you go and telephone Delia to go up _now_ +and stay there?” + +Bertram, weary, sorely tried, and increasingly aware of those annoyingly +interested neighbors, was on the point of saying a very decided no; but +a glance into Billy's pleading eyes settled it. Without a word he went +back to the telephone. + +The curtain was up when he slipped into his seat, very red of face. In +answer to Billy's hurried whisper he shook his head; but in the short +pause between the first and second scenes he said, in a low voice: + +“I'm sorry, Billy, but I couldn't get the house at all.” + +“Couldn't get them! But you'd just been talking with them!” + +“That's exactly it, probably. I had just telephoned, so they weren't +watching for the bell. Anyhow, I couldn't get them.” + +“Then you didn't get Delia at all!” + +“Of course not.” + +“And Baby is still--all alone!” + +“But he's all right, dear. Delia's keeping watch of him.” + +For a moment there was silence; then, with clear decisiveness came +Billy's voice. + +“Bertram, I am going home.” + +“Billy!” + +“I am.” + +“Billy, for heaven's sake don't be a silly goose! The play's half over +already. We'll soon be going, anyway.” + +Billy's lips came together in a thin little determined line. + +“Bertram, I am going home now, please,” she said. “You needn't come with +me; I can go alone.” + +Bertram said two words under his breath which it was just as well, +perhaps, that Billy--and the neighbors--did not hear; then he gathered +up their wraps and, with Billy, stalked out of the theater. + +At home everything was found to be absolutely as it should be. +Bertram, Jr., was peacefully sleeping, and Delia, who had come up from +downstairs, was sewing in the next room. + +“There, you see,” observed Bertram, a little sourly. + +Billy drew a long, contented sigh. + +“Yes, I see; everything is all right. But that's exactly what I wanted +to do, Bertram, you know--to _see for myself_,” she finished happily. + +And Bertram, looking at her rapt face as she hovered over the baby's +crib, called himself a brute and a beast to mind _anything_ that could +make Billy look like that. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. “SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT” + + +Bertram did not ask Billy very soon again to go to the theater. For some +days, indeed, he did not ask her to do anything. Then, one evening, he +did beg for some music. + +“Billy, you haven't played to me or sung to me since I could remember,” + he complained. “I want some music.” + +Billy gave a merry laugh and wriggled her fingers experimentally. + +“Mercy, Bertram! I don't believe I could play a note. You know I'm all +out of practice.” + +“But why _don't_ you practice?” + +“Why, Bertram, I can't. In the first place I don't seem to have any time +except when Baby's asleep; and I can't play then-I'd wake him up.” + +Bertram sighed irritably, rose to his feet, and began to walk up and +down the room. He came to a pause at last, his eyes bent a trifle +disapprovingly on his wife. + +“Billy, dear, _don't_ you wear anything but those wrapper things +nowadays?” he asked plaintively. + +Again Billy laughed. But this time a troubled frown followed the laugh. + +“I know, Bertram, I suppose they do look dowdy, sometimes,” she +confessed; “but, you see, I hate to wear a really good dress--Baby +rumples them up so; and I'm usually in a hurry to get to him mornings, +and these are so easy to slip into, and so much more comfortable for me +to handle him in!” + +“Yes, of course, of course; I see,” mumbled Bertram, listlessly taking +up his walk again. + +Billy, after a moment's silence, began to talk animatedly. Baby had done +a wonderfully cunning thing that morning, and Billy had not had a chance +yet to tell Bertram. Baby was growing more and more cunning anyway, +these days, and there were several things she believed she had not told +him; so she told them now. + +Bertram listened politely, interestedly. He told himself that he _was_ +interested, too. Of course he was interested in the doings of his own +child! But he still walked up and down the room a little restlessly, +coming to a halt at last by the window, across which the shade had not +been drawn. + +“Billy,” he cried suddenly, with his old boyish eagerness, “there's +a glorious moon. Come on! Let's take a little walk--a real +fellow-and-his-best-girl walk! Will you?” + +“Mercy! dear, I couldn't,” cried Billy springing to her feet. “I'd love +to, though, if I could,” she added hastily, as she saw disappointment +cloud her husband's face. “But I told Delia she might go out. It isn't +her regular evening, of course, but I told her I didn't mind staying +with Baby a bit. So I'll have to go right up now. She'll be going soon. +But, dear, you go and take your walk. It'll do you good. Then you can +come back and tell me all about it--only you must come in quietly, so +not to wake the baby,” she finished, giving her husband an affectionate +kiss, as she left the room. + +After a disconsolate five minutes of solitude, Bertram got his hat and +coat and went out for his walk--but he told himself he did not expect to +enjoy it. + +Bertram Henshaw knew that the old rebellious jealousy of the summer had +him fast in its grip. He was heartily ashamed of himself, but he could +not help it. He wanted Billy, and he wanted her then. He wanted to talk +to her. He wanted to tell her about a new portrait commission he had +just obtained; and he wanted to ask her what she thought of the idea of +a brand-new “Face of a Girl” for the Bohemian Ten Exhibition next March. +He wanted--but then, what would be the use? She would listen, of course, +but he would know by the very looks of her face that she would not be +really thinking of what he was saying; and he would be willing to wager +his best canvas that in the very first pause she would tell about the +baby's newest tooth or latest toy. Not but that he liked to hear about +the little fellow, of course; and not but that he was proud as Punch +of him, too; but that he would like sometimes to hear Billy talk of +something else. The sweetest melody in the world, if dinned into one's +ears day and night, became something to be fled from. + +And Billy ought to talk of something else, too! Bertram, Jr., wonderful +as he was, really was not the only thing in the world, or even the only +baby; and other people--outsiders, their friends--had a right to +expect that sometimes other matters might be considered--their own, for +instance. But Billy seemed to have forgotten this. No matter whether +the subject of conversation had to do with the latest novel or a trip +to Europe, under Billy's guidance it invariably led straight to Baby's +Jack-and-Jill book, or to a perambulator journey in the Public Garden. +If it had not been so serious, it would have been really funny the way +all roads led straight to one goal. He himself, when alone with Billy, +had started the most unusual and foreign subjects, sometimes, just to +see if there were not somewhere a little bypath that did not bring up in +his own nursery. He never, however, found one. + +But it was not funny; it was serious. Was this glorious gift on +parenthood to which he had looked forward as the crowning joy of his +existence, to be nothing but a tragedy that would finally wreck his +domestic happiness? It could not be. It must not be. He must be patient, +and wait. Billy loved him. He was sure she did. By and by this obsession +of motherhood, which had her so fast in its grasp, would relax. She +would remember that her husband had rights as well as her child. Once +again she would give him the companionship, love, and sympathetic +interest so dear to him. Meanwhile there was his work. He must bury +himself in that. And fortunate, indeed, he was, he told himself, that he +had something so absorbing. + +It was at this point in his meditations that Bertram rounded a corner +and came face to face with a man who stopped him short with a jovial: + +“Isn't it--by George, it is Bertie Henshaw! Well, what do you think of +that for luck?--and me only two days home from 'Gay Paree'!” + +“Oh, Seaver! How are you? You _are_ a stranger!” Bertram's voice and +handshake were a bit more cordial than they would have been had he not +at the moment been feeling so abused and forlorn. In the old days he had +liked this Bob Seaver well. Seaver was an artist like himself, and was +good company always. But Seaver and his crowd were a little too Bohemian +for William's taste; and after Billy came, she, too, had objected to +what she called “that horrid Seaver man.” In his heart, Bertram knew +that there was good foundation for their objections, so he had avoided +Seaver for a time; and for some years, now, the man had been abroad, +somewhat to Bertram's relief. To-night, however, Seaver's genial smile +and hearty friendliness were like a sudden burst of sunshine on a rainy +day--and Bertram detested rainy days. He was feeling now, too, as if he +had just had a whole week of them. + +“Yes, I am something of a stranger here,” nodded Seaver. “But I tell you +what, little old Boston looks mighty good to me, all the same. Come on! +You're just the fellow we want. I'm on my way now to the old stamping +ground. Come--right about face, old chap, and come with me!” + +Bertram shook his head. + +“Sorry--but I guess I can't, to-night,” he sighed. Both gesture and +words were unhesitating, but the voice carried the discontent of a small +boy, who, while the sun is still shining, has been told to come into the +house. + +“Oh, rats! Yes, you can, too. Come on! Lots of the old crowd will be +there--Griggs, Beebe, Jack Jenkins, and Tully. We need you to complete +the show.” + +“Jack Jenkins? Is he here?” A new eagerness had come into Bertram's +voice. + +“Sure! He came on from New York last night. Great boy, Jenkins! Just +back from Paris fairly covered with medals, you know.” + +“Yes, so I hear. I haven't seen him for four years.” + +“Better come to-night then.” + +“No-o,” began Bertram, with obvious reluctance. “It's already nine +o'clock, and--” + +“Nine o'clock!” cut in Seaver, with a broad grin. “Since when has your +limit been nine o'clock? I've seen the time when you didn't mind nine +o'clock in the morning, Bertie! What's got--Oh, I remember. I met +another friend of yours in Berlin; chap named Arkwright--and say, he's +some singer, you bet! You're going to hear of him one of these days. +Well, he told me all about how you'd settled down now--son and heir, +fireside bliss, pretty wife, and all the fixings. But, I say, Bertie, +doesn't she let you out--_any_?” + +“Nonsense, Seaver!” flared Bertram in annoyed wrath. + +“Well, then, why don't you come to-night? If you want to see Jenkins +you'll have to; he's going back to New York to-morrow.” + +For only a brief minute longer did Bertram hesitate; then he turned +squarely about with an air of finality. + +“Is he? Well, then, perhaps I will,” he said. “I'd hate to miss Jenkins +entirely.” + +“Good!” exclaimed his companion, as they fell into step. “Have a cigar?” + +“Thanks. Don't mind if I do.” + +If Bertram's chin was a little higher and his step a little more decided +than usual, it was all merely by way of accompaniment to his thoughts. + +Certainly it was right that he should go, and it was sensible. Indeed, +it was really almost imperative--due to Billy, as it were--after that +disagreeable taunt of Seaver's. As if she did not want him to go when +and where he pleased! As if she would consent for a moment to figure +in the eyes of his friends as a tyrannical wife who objected to her +husband's passing a social evening with his friends! To be sure, in this +particular case, she might not favor Seaver's presence, but even she +would not mind this once--and, anyhow, it was Jenkins that was the +attraction, not Seaver. Besides, he himself was no undeveloped boy now. +He was a man, presumedly able to take care of himself. Besides, again, +had not Billy herself told him to go out and enjoy the evening without +her, as she had to stay with the baby? He would telephone her, of +course, that he had met some old friends, and that he might be late; +then she would not worry. + +And forthwith, having settled the matter in his mind, and to his +complete satisfaction, Bertram gave his undivided attention to Seaver, +who had already plunged into an account of a recent Art Exhibition he +had attended in Paris. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. GHOSTS THAT WALKED FOR BERTRAM + + +October proved to be unusually mild, and about the middle of the month, +Bertram, after much unselfish urging on the part of Billy, went to a +friend's camp in the Adirondacks for a week's stay. He came back with an +angry, lugubrious face--and a broken arm. + +“Oh, Bertram! And your right one, too--the same one you broke before!” + mourned Billy, tearfully. + +“Of course,” retorted Bertram, trying in vain to give an air of +jauntiness to his reply. “Didn't want to be too changeable, you know!” + +“But how did you do it, dear?” + +“Fell into a silly little hole covered with underbrush. But--oh, Billy, +what's the use? I did it, and I can't undo it--more's the pity!” + +“Of course you can't, you poor boy,” sympathized Billy; “and you sha'n't +be tormented with questions. We'll just be thankful 'twas no worse. You +can't paint for a while, of course; but we won't mind that. It'll just +give Baby and me a chance to have you all to ourselves for a time, and +we'll love that!' + +“Yes, of course,” sighed Bertram, so abstractedly that Billy bridled +with pretty resentment. + +“Well, I like your enthusiasm, sir,” she frowned. “I'm afraid you don't +appreciate the blessings you do have, young man! Did you realize what +I said? I remarked that you could be with _Baby_ and _me_,” she +emphasized. + +Bertram laughed, and gave his wife an affectionate kiss. + +“Indeed I do appreciate my blessings, dear--when those blessings are +such treasures as you and Baby, but--” Only his doleful eyes fixed on +his injured arm finished his sentence. + +“I know, dear, of course, and I understand,” murmured Billy, all +tenderness at once. + + +They were not easy for Bertram--those following days. Once again he +was obliged to accept the little intimate personal services that he +so disliked. Once again he could do nothing but read, or wander +disconsolately into his studio and gaze at his half-finished “Face of +a Girl.” Occasionally, it is true, driven nearly to desperation by the +haunting vision in his mind's eye, he picked up a brush and attempted +to make his left hand serve his will; but a bare half-dozen irritating, +ineffectual strokes were usually enough to make him throw down his +brush in disgust. He never could do anything with his left hand, he told +himself dejectedly. + +Many of his hours, of course, he spent with Billy and his son, and they +were happy hours, too; but they always came to be restless ones before +the day was half over. Billy was always devotion itself to him--when she +was not attending to the baby; he had no fault to find with Billy. And +the baby was delightful--he could find no fault with the baby. But the +baby _was_ fretful--he was teething, Billy said--and he needed a great +deal of attention; so, naturally, Bertram drifted out of the nursery, +after a time, and went down into his studio, where were his dear, empty +palette, his orderly brushes, and his tantalizing “Face of a Girl.” From +the studio, generally, Bertram went out on to the street. + +Sometimes he dropped into a fellow-artist's studio. Sometimes he +strolled into a club or café where he knew he would be likely to find +some friend who would help him while away a tiresome hour. Bertram's +friends quite vied with each other in rendering this sort of aid, so +much so, indeed, that--naturally, perhaps--Bertram came to call on their +services more and more frequently. + +Particularly was this the case when, after the splints were removed, +Bertram found, as the days passed, that his arm was not improving as it +should improve. This not only disappointed and annoyed him, but worried +him. He remembered sundry disquieting warnings given by the physician +at the time of the former break--warnings concerning the probable +seriousness of a repetition of the injury. To Billy, of course, Bertram +said nothing of all this; but just before Christmas he went to see a +noted specialist. + +An hour later, almost in front of the learned surgeon's door, Bertram +met Bob Seaver. + +“Great Scott, Bertie, what's up?” ejaculated Seaver. “You look as if +you'd seen a ghost.” + +“I have,” answered Bertram, with grim bitterness. “I've seen the ghost +of--of every 'Face of a Girl' I ever painted.” + +“Gorry! So bad as that? No wonder you look as if you'd been disporting +in graveyards,” chuckled Seaver, laughing at his own joke “What's the +matter--arm on a rampage to day?” + +He paused for reply, but as Bertram did not answer at once, he resumed, +with gay insistence: “Come on! You need cheering up. Suppose we go down +to Trentini's and see who's there.” + +“All right,” agreed Bertram, dully. “Suit yourself.” + +Bertram was not thinking of Seaver, Trentini's, or whom he might find +there. Bertram was thinking of certain words he had heard less than +half an hour ago. He was wondering, too, if ever again he could think of +anything but those words. + +“The truth?” the great surgeon had said. “Well, the truth is--I'm sorry +to tell you the truth, Mr. Henshaw, but if you will have it--you've +painted the last picture you'll ever paint with your right hand, I fear. +It's a bad case. This break, coming as it did on top of the serious +injury of two or three years ago, was bad enough; but, to make matters +worse, the bone was imperfectly set and wrongly treated, which could not +be helped, of course, as you were miles away from skilled surgeons at +the time of the injury. We'll do the best we can, of course; but--well, +you asked for the truth, you remember; so I had to give it to you.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. THE MOTHER--THE WIFE + + +Bertram made up his mind at once that, for the present, at least, +he would tell no one what the surgeon had said to him. He had placed +himself under the man's care, and there was nothing to do but to take +the prescribed treatment and await results as patiently as he could. +Meanwhile there was no need to worry Billy, or William, or anybody else +with the matter. + +Billy was so busy with her holiday plans that she was only vaguely aware +of what seemed to be an increase of restlessness on the part of her +husband during those days just before Christmas. + +“Poor dear, is the arm feeling horrid to-day?” she asked one morning, +when the gloom on her husband's face was deeper than usual. + +Bertram frowned and did not answer directly. + +“Lots of good I am these days!” he exclaimed, his moody eyes on the +armful of many-shaped, many-sized packages she carried. “What are those +for-the tree?” + +“Yes; and it's going to be so pretty, Bertram,” exulted Billy. “And, do +you know, Baby positively acts as if he suspected things--little as he +is,” she went on eagerly. “He's as nervous as a witch. I can't keep him +still a minute!” + +“How about his mother?” hinted Bertram, with a faint smile. + +Billy laughed. + +“Well, I'm afraid she isn't exactly calm herself,” she confessed, as she +hurried out of the room with her parcels. + +Bertram looked after her longingly, despondently. + +“I wonder what she'd say if she--knew,” he muttered. “But she sha'n't +know--till she just has to,” he vowed suddenly, under his breath, +striding into the hall for his hat and coat. + +Never had the Strata known such a Christmas as this was planned to be. +Cyril, Marie, and the twins were to be there, also Kate, her husband +and three children, Paul, Egbert, and little Kate, from the West. On +Christmas Day there was to be a big family dinner, with Aunt Hannah down +from the Annex. Then, in concession to the extreme youth of the young +host and his twin cousins, there was to be an afternoon tree. The shades +were to be drawn and the candles lighted, however, so that there might +be no loss of effect. In the evening the tree was to be once more loaded +with fascinating packages and candy-bags, and this time the Greggorys, +Tommy Dunn, and all the rest from the Annex were to have the fun all +over again. + +From garret to basement the Strata was aflame with holly, and aglitter +with tinsel. Nowhere did there seem to be a spot that did not have its +bit of tissue paper or its trail of red ribbon. And everything--holly, +ribbon, tissue, and tinsel--led to the mysteriously closed doors of the +great front drawing-room, past which none but Billy and her accredited +messengers might venture. No wonder, indeed, that even Baby scented +excitement, and that Baby's mother was not exactly calm. No wonder, too, +that Bertram, with his helpless right arm, and his heavy heart, felt +peculiarly forlorn and “out of it.” No wonder, also, that he took +himself literally out of it with growing frequency. + +Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell and little Kate were to stay at the Strata. The +boys, Paul and Egbert, were to go to Cyril's. Promptly at the appointed +time, two days before Christmas, they arrived. And from that hour until +two days after Christmas, when the last bit of holly, ribbon, tissue, +and tinsel disappeared from the floor, Billy moved in a whirl of anxious +responsibility that was yet filled with fun, frolic, and laughter. + +It was a great success, the whole affair. Everybody seemed pleased and +happy--that is, everybody but Bertram; and he very plainly tried to seem +pleased and happy. Even Cyril unbent to the extent of not appearing to +mind the noise one bit; and Sister Kate (Bertram said) found only +the extraordinarily small number of four details to change in the +arrangements. Baby obligingly let his teeth-getting go, for the +occasion, and he and the twins, Franz and Felix, were the admiration and +delight of all. Little Kate, to be sure, was a trifle disconcerting once +or twice, but everybody was too absorbed to pay much attention to her. +Billy did, however, remember her opening remarks. + +“Well, little Kate, do you remember me?” Billy had greeted her +pleasantly. + +“Oh, yes,” little Kate had answered, with a winning smile. “You're my +Aunt Billy what married my Uncle Bertram instead of Uncle William as you +said you would first.” + +Everybody laughed, and Billy colored, of course; but little Kate went on +eagerly: + +“And I've been wanting just awfully to see you,” she announced. + +“Have you? I'm glad, I'm sure. I feel highly flattered,” smiled Billy. + +“Well, I have. You see, I wanted to ask you something. Have you ever +wished that you _had_ married Uncle William instead of Uncle Bertram, or +that you'd tried for Uncle Cyril before Aunty Marie got him?” + +“Kate!” gasped her horrified mother. “I told you--You see,” she broke +off, turning to Billy despairingly. “She's been pestering me with +questions like that ever since she knew she was coming. She never has +forgotten the way you changed from one uncle to the other. You may +remember; it made a great impression on her at the time.” + +“Yes, I--I remember,” stammered Billy, trying to laugh off her +embarrassment. + +“But you haven't told me yet whether you did wish you'd married Uncle +William, or Uncle Cyril,” interposed little Kate, persistently. + +“No, no, of course not!” exclaimed Billy, with a vivid blush, casting +her eyes about for a door of escape, and rejoicing greatly when she +spied Delia with the baby coming toward them. “There, look, my dear, +here's your new cousin, little Bertram!” she exclaimed. “Don't you want +to see him?” + +Little Kate turned dutifully. + +“Yes'm, Aunt Billy, but I'd rather see the twins. Mother says _they're_ +real pretty and cunning.” + +“Er--y-yes, they are,” murmured Billy, on whom the emphasis of the +“they're” had not been lost. + +Naturally, as may be supposed, therefore, Billy had not forgotten little +Kate's opening remarks. + +Immediately after Christmas Mr. Hartwell and the boys went back to their +Western home, leaving Mrs. Hartwell and her daughter to make a round of +visits to friends in the East. For almost a week after Christmas they +remained at the Strata; and it was on the last day of their stay that +little Kate asked the question that proved so momentous in results. + +Billy, almost unconsciously, had avoided tête-á-têtes with her +small guest. But to-day they were alone together. + +“Aunt Billy,” began the little girl, after a meditative gaze into the +other's face, “you _are_ married to Uncle Bertram, aren't you?” + +“I certainly am, my dear,” smiled Billy, trying to speak unconcernedly. + +“Well, then, what makes you forget it?” + +“What makes me forget--Why, child, what a question! What do you mean? I +don't forget it!” exclaimed Billy, indignantly. + +“Then what _did_ mother mean? I heard her tell Uncle William myself--she +didn't know I heard, though--that she did wish you'd remember you were +Uncle Bertram's wife as well as Cousin Bertram's mother.” + +Billy flushed scarlet, then grew very white. At that moment Mrs. +Hartwell came into the room. Little Kate turned triumphantly. + +“There, she hasn't forgotten, and I knew she hadn't, mother! I asked her +just now, and she said she hadn't.” + +“Hadn't what?” questioned Mrs. Hartwell, looking a little apprehensively +at her sister-in-law's white face and angry eyes. + +“Hadn't forgotten that she was Uncle Bertram's wife.” + +“Kate,” interposed Billy, steadily meeting her sister-in-law's gaze, +“will you be good enough to tell me what this child is talking about?” + +Mrs. Hartwell sighed, and gave an impatient gesture. + +“Kate, I've a mind to take you home on the next train,” she said to her +daughter. “Run away, now, down-stairs. Your Aunt Billy and I want to +talk. Come, come, hurry! I mean what I say,” she added warningly, as she +saw unmistakable signs of rebellion on the small young face. + +“I wish,” pouted little Kate, rising reluctantly, and moving toward the +door, “that you didn't always send me away just when I wanted most to +stay!” + +“Well, Kate?” prompted Billy, as the door closed behind the little girl. + +“Yes, I suppose I'll have to say it now, as long as that child has put +her finger in the pie. But I hadn't intended to speak, no matter what I +saw. I promised myself I wouldn't, before I came. I know, of course, how +Bertram and Cyril, and William, too, say that I'm always interfering +in affairs that don't concern me--though, for that matter, if my own +brother's affairs don't concern me, I don't know whose should! + +“But, as I said, I wasn't going to speak this time, no matter what I +saw. And I haven't--except to William, and Cyril, and Aunt Hannah; but +I suppose somewhere little Kate got hold of it. It's simply this, Billy. +It seems to me it's high time you began to realize that you're Bertram's +wife as well as the baby's mother.” + +“That, I am--I don't think I quite understand,” said Billy, unsteadily. + +“No, I suppose you don't,” sighed Kate, “though where your eyes are, I +don't see--or, rather, I do see: they're on the baby, _always_. It's all +very well and lovely, Billy, to be a devoted mother, and you certainly +are that. I'll say that much for you, and I'll admit I never thought you +would be. But _can't_ you see what you're doing to Bertram?” + +“_Doing to Bertram!_--by being a devoted mother to his son!” + +“Yes, doing to Bertram. Can't you see what a change there is in the +boy? He doesn't act like himself at all. He's restless and gloomy and +entirely out of sorts.” + +“Yes, I know; but that's his arm,” pleaded Billy. “Poor boy--he's so +tired of it!” + +Kate shook her head decisively. + +“It's more than his arm, Billy. You'd see it yourself if you weren't +blinded by your absorption in that baby. Where is Bertram every evening? +Where is he daytimes? Do you realize that he's been at home scarcely one +evening since I came? And as for the days--he's almost never here.” + +“But, Kate, he can't paint now, you know, so of course he doesn't +need to stay so closely at home,” defended Billy. “He goes out to find +distraction from himself.” + +“Yes, 'distraction,' indeed,” sniffed Kate. “And where do you suppose +he finds it? Do you _know_ where he finds it? I tell you, Billy, Bertram +Henshaw is not the sort of man that should find too much 'distraction' +outside his home. His tastes and his temperament are altogether too +Bohemian, and--” + +Billy interrupted with a peremptorily upraised hand. + +“Please remember, Kate, you are speaking of my husband to his wife; and +his wife has perfect confidence in him, and is just a little particular +as to what you say.” + +“Yes; well, I'm speaking of my brother, too, whom I know very well,” + shrugged Kate. “All is, you may remember sometime that I warned +you--that's all. This trusting business is all very pretty; but I think +'twould be a lot prettier, and a vast deal more sensible, if you'd give +him a little attention as well as trust, and see if you can't keep him +at home a bit more. At least you'll know whom he's with, then. Cyril +says he saw him last week with Bob Seaver.” + +“With--Bob--Seaver?” faltered Billy, changing color. + +“Yes. I see you remember him,” smiled Kate, not quite agreeably. +“Perhaps now you'll take some stock in what I've said, and remember it.” + +“I'll remember it, certainly,” returned Billy, a little proudly. “You've +said a good many things to me, in the past, Mrs. Hartwell, and I've +remembered them all--every one.” + +It was Kate's turn to flush, and she did it. + +“Yes, I know. And I presume very likely sometimes there _hasn't_ been +much foundation for what I've said. I think this time, however, you'll +find there is,” she finished, with an air of hurt dignity. + +Billy made no reply, perhaps because Delia, at that moment, brought in +the baby. + +Mrs. Hartwell and little Kate left the Strata the next morning. Until +then Billy contrived to keep, before them, a countenance serene, and a +manner free from unrest. Even when, after dinner that evening, Bertram +put on his hat and coat and went out, Billy refused to meet her +sister-in-law's meaning gaze. But in the morning, after they had left +the house, Billy did not attempt to deceive herself. Determinedly, then, +she set herself to going over in her mind the past months since the baby +came; and she was appalled at what she found. Ever in her ears, too, was +that feared name, “Bob Seaver”; and ever before her eyes was that night +years ago when, as an eighteen-year-old girl, she had followed Bertram +and Bob Seaver into a glittering café at eleven o'clock at night, +because Bertram had been drinking and was not himself. She remembered +Bertram's face when he had seen her, and what he had said when she +begged him to come home. She remembered, too, what the family had said +afterward. But she remembered, also, that years later Bertram had told +her what that escapade of hers had really done for him, and that he +believed he had actually loved her from that moment. After that night, +at all events, he had had little to do with Bob Seaver. + +And now Seaver was back again, it seemed--and with Bertram. They had +been seen together. But if they had, what could she do? Surely she could +hardly now follow them into a public café and demand that Seaver let +her husband come home! But she could keep him at home, perhaps. (Billy +quite brightened at this thought.) Kate had said that she was so +absorbed in Baby that her husband received no attention at all. Billy +did not believe this was true; but if it were true, she could at least +rectify that mistake. If it were attention that he wanted--he should +want no more. Poor Bertram! No wonder that he had sought distraction +outside! When one had a horrid broken arm that would not let one do +anything, what else could one do? + +Just here Billy suddenly remembered the book, “A Talk to Young Wives.” + If she recollected rightly, there was a chapter that covered the very +claim Kate had been making. Billy had not thought of the book for +months, but she went at once to get it now. There might be, after all, +something in it that would help her. + +“The Coming of the First Baby.” Billy found the chapter without +difficulty and settled herself to read, her countenance alight with +interest. In a surprisingly short time, however, a new expression came +to her face; and at last a little gasp of dismay fell from her lips. She +looked up then, with a startled gaze. + +_Had_ her walls possessed eyes and ears all these past months, only to +give instructions to an unseen hand that it might write what the eyes +and ears had learned? For it was such sentences as these that the +conscience-smitten Billy read: + +“Maternity is apt to work a miracle in a woman's life, but sometimes it +spells disaster so far as domestic bliss is concerned. The young mother, +wrapped up in the delights and duties of motherhood, utterly forgets +that she has a husband. She lives and moves and has her being in the +nursery. She thinks baby, talks baby, knows only baby. She refuses to +dress up, because it is easier to take care of baby in a frowzy wrapper. +She will not go out with her husband for fear something might happen to +the baby. She gives up her music because baby won't let her practice. +In vain her husband tries to interest her in his own affairs. She has +neither eyes nor ears for him, only for baby. + +“Now no man enjoys having his nose put out of joint, even by his own +child. He loves his child devotedly, and is proud of him, of course; +but that does not keep him from wanting the society of his wife +occasionally, nor from longing for her old-time love and sympathetic +interest. It is an admirable thing, certainly, for a woman to be a +devoted mother; but maternal affection can be carried too far. Husbands +have some rights as well as offspring; and the wife who neglects +her husband for her babies does so at her peril. Home, with the wife +eternally in the nursery, is apt to be a dull and lonely thing to the +average husband, so he starts out to find amusement for himself--and he +finds it. Then is the time when the new little life that is so precious, +and that should have bound the two more closely together, becomes the +wedge that drives them apart.” + +Billy did not read any more. With a little sobbing cry she flung the +book back into her desk, and began to pull off her wrapper. Her fingers +shook. Already she saw herself a Monster, a Wicked Destroyer of Domestic +Bliss with her thoughtless absorption in Baby, until he had become that +Awful Thing--a _Wedge_. And Bertram--poor Bertram, with his broken arm! +She had not played to him, nor sung to him, nor gone out with him. And +when had they had one of their good long talks about Bertram's work and +plans? + +But it should all be changed now. She would play, and sing, and go out +with him. She would dress up, too. He should see no more wrappers. She +would ask about his work, and seem interested. She _was_ interested. She +remembered now, that just before he was hurt, he had told her of a +new portrait, and of a new “Face of a Girl” that he had planned to do. +Lately he had said nothing about these. He had seemed discouraged--and +no wonder, with his broken arm! But she would change all that. He should +see! And forthwith Billy hurried to her closet to pick out her prettiest +house frock. + +Long before dinner Billy was ready, waiting in the drawing-room. She had +on a pretty little blue silk gown that she knew Bertram liked, and she +watched very anxiously for Bertram to come up the steps. She remembered +now, with a pang, that he had long since given up his peculiar ring; but +she meant to meet him at the door just the same. + +Bertram, however, did not come. At a quarter before six he telephoned +that he had met some friends, and would dine at the club. + +“My, my, how pretty we are!” exclaimed Uncle William, when they went +down to dinner together. “New frock?” + +“Why, no, Uncle William,” laughed Billy, a little tremulously. “You've +seen it dozens of times!” + +“Have I?” murmured the man. “I don't seem to remember it. Too bad +Bertram isn't here to see you. Somehow, you look unusually pretty +to-night.” + +And Billy's heart ached anew. + +Billy spent the evening practicing--softly, to be sure, so as not to +wake Baby--but _practicing_. + +As the days passed Billy discovered that it was much easier to say she +would “change things” than it was really to change them. She changed +herself, it is true--her clothes, her habits, her words, and her +thoughts; but it was more difficult to change Bertram. In the first +place, he was there so little. She was dismayed when she saw how very +little, indeed, he was at home--and she did not like to ask him outright +to stay. That was not in accordance with her plans. Besides, the “Talk +to Young Wives” said that indirect influence was much to be preferred, +always, to direct persuasion--which last, indeed, usually failed to +produce results. + +So Billy “dressed up,” and practiced, and talked (of anything but the +baby), and even hinted shamelessly once or twice that she would like to +go to the theater; but all to little avail. True, Bertram brightened +up, for a minute, when he came home and found her in a new or a favorite +dress, and he told her how pretty she looked. He appeared to like to +have her play to him, too, even declaring once or twice that it was +quite like old times, yes, it was. But he never noticed her hints about +the theater, and he did not seem to like to talk about his work, even a +little bit. + +Billy laid this last fact to his injured arm. She decided that he had +become blue and discouraged, and that he needed cheering up, especially +about his work; so she determinedly and systematically set herself to +doing it. + +She talked of the fine work he had done, and of the still finer work he +would yet do, when his arm was well. She told him how proud she was of +him, and she let him see how dear his Art was to her, and how badly she +would feel if she thought he had really lost all his interest in his +work and would never paint again. She questioned him about the new +portrait he was to begin as soon as his arm would let him; and she tried +to arouse his enthusiasm in the picture he had planned to show in the +March Exhibition of the Bohemian Ten, telling him that she was sure his +arm would allow him to complete at least one canvas to hang. + +In none of this, however, did Bertram appear in the least interested. +The one thing, indeed, which he seemed not to want to talk about, was +his work; and he responded to her overtures on the subject with only +moody silence, or else with almost irritable monosyllables; all of which +not only grieved but surprised Billy very much. For, according to +the “Talk to Young Wives,” she was doing exactly what the ideal, +sympathetic, interested-in-her-husband's-work wife should do. + +When February came, bringing with it no change for the better, Billy was +thoroughly frightened. Bertram's arm plainly was not improving. He was +more gloomy and restless than ever. He seemed not to want to stay at +home at all; and Billy knew now for a certainty that he was spending +more and more time with Bob Seaver and “the boys.” + +Poor Billy! Nowhere could she look these days and see happiness. Even +the adored baby seemed, at times, almost to give an added pang. Had he +not become, according to the “Talk to Young Wives” that awful thing, a +_Wedge_? The Annex, too, carried its sting; for where was the need of +an overflow house for happiness now, when there was no happiness to +overflow? Even the little jade idol on Billy's mantel Billy could not +bear to see these days, for its once bland smile had become a hideous +grin, demanding, “Where, now, is your heap plenty velly good luckee?” + +But, before Bertram, Billy still carried a bravely smiling face, and to +him still she talked earnestly and enthusiastically of his work--which +last, as it happened, was the worst course she could have pursued; for +the one thing poor Bertram wished to forget, just now, was--his work. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. CONSPIRATORS + + +Early in February came Arkwright's appearance at the Boston Opera +House--the first since he had sung there as a student a few years +before. He was an immediate and an unquestioned success. His portrait +adorned the front page of almost every Boston newspaper the next +morning, and captious critics vied with each other to do him honor. His +full history, from boyhood up, was featured, with special emphasis on +his recent triumphs in New York and foreign capitals. He was interviewed +as to his opinion on everything from vegetarianism to woman's suffrage; +and his preferences as to pies and pastimes were given headline +prominence. There was no doubt of it. Mr. M. J. Arkwright was a star. + +All Arkwright's old friends, including Billy, Bertram, Cyril, Marie, +Calderwell, Alice Greggory, Aunt Hannah, and Tommy Dunn, went to hear +him sing; and after the performance he held a miniature reception, +with enough adulation to turn his head completely around, he declared +deprecatingly. Not until the next evening, however, did he have an +opportunity for what he called a real talk with any of his friends; +then, in Calderwell's room, he settled back in his chair with a sigh of +content. + +For a time his own and Calderwell's affairs occupied their attention; +then, after a short pause, the tenor asked abruptly: + +“Is there anything--wrong with the Henshaws, Calderwell?” + +Calderwell came suddenly erect in his chair. + +“Thank you! I hoped you'd introduce that subject; though, for that +matter, if you hadn't, I should. Yes, there is--and I'm looking to you, +old man, to get them out of it.” + +“I?” Arkwright sat erect now. + +“Yes.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“In a way, the expected has happened--though I know now that I didn't +really expect it to happen, in spite of my prophecies. You may remember +I was always skeptical on the subject of Bertram's settling down to a +domestic hearthstone. I insisted 'twould be the turn of a girl's head +and the curve of her cheek that he wanted to paint.” + +Arkwright looked up with a quick frown. + +“You don't mean that Henshaw has been cad enough to find another--” + +Calderwell threw up his hand. + +“No, no, not that! We haven't that to deal with--yet, thank goodness! +There's no woman in it. And, really, when you come right down to it, if +ever a fellow had an excuse to seek diversion, Bertram Henshaw has--poor +chap! It's just this. Bertram broke his arm again last October.” + +“Yes, so I hear, and I thought he was looking badly.” + +“He is. It's a bad business. 'Twas improperly set in the first place, +and it's not doing well now. In fact, I'm told on pretty good authority +that the doctor says he probably will never use it again.” + +“Oh, by George! Calderwell!” + +“Yes. Tough, isn't it? 'Specially when you think of his work, and +know--as I happen to--that he's particularly dependent on his right hand +for everything. He doesn't tell this generally, and I understand Billy +and the family know nothing of it--how hopeless the case is, I mean. +Well, naturally, the poor fellow has been pretty thoroughly discouraged, +and to get away from himself he's gone back to his old Bohemian habits, +spending much of his time with some of his old cronies that are none too +good for him--Seaver, for instance.” + +“Bob Seaver? Yes, I know him.” Arkwright's lips snapped together +crisply. + +“Yes. He said he knew you. That's why I'm counting on your help.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean I want you to get Henshaw away from him, and keep him away.” + +Arkwright's face darkened with an angry flush. + +“Great Scott, Calderwell! What are you talking about? Henshaw is no kid +to be toted home, and I'm no nursery governess to do the toting!” + +Calderwell laughed quietly. + +“No; I don't think any one would take you for a nursery governess, +Arkwright, in spite of the fact that you are still known to some of +your friends as 'Mary Jane.' But you can sing a song, man, which will +promptly give you a through ticket to their innermost sacred circle. +In fact, to my certain knowledge, Seaver is already planning a jamboree +with you at the right hand of the toastmaster. There's your chance. Once +in, stay in--long enough to get Henshaw out.” + +“But, good heavens, Calderwell, it's impossible! What can I do?” + demanded Arkwright, savagely. “I can't walk up to the man, take him by +the ear, and say: 'Here, you, sir--march home!' Neither can I come +the 'I-am-holier-than-thou' act, and hold up to him the mirror of his +transgressions.” + +“No, but you can get him out of it _some_ way. You can find a way--for +Billy's sake.” + +There was no answer, and, after a moment, Calderwell went on more +quietly. + +“I haven't seen Billy but two or three times since I came back to +Boston--but I don't need to, to know that she's breaking her heart over +something. And of course that something is--Bertram.” + +There was still no answer. Arkwright got up suddenly, and walked to the +window. + +“You see, I'm helpless,” resumed Calderwell. “I don't paint pictures, +nor sing songs, nor write stories, nor dance jigs for a living--and you +have to do one or another to be in with that set. And it's got to be a +Johnny-on-the-spot with Bertram. All is, something will have to be done +to get him out of the state of mind and body he's in now, or--” + +Arkwright wheeled sharply. + +“When did you say this jamboree was going to be?” he demanded. + +“Next week, some time. The date is not settled. They were going to +consult you.” + +“Hm-m,” commented Arkwright. And, though his next remark was a complete +change of subject, Calderwell gave a contented sigh. + + +If, when the proposition was first made to him, Arkwright was doubtful +of his ability to be a successful “Johnny-on-the-spot,” he was even more +doubtful of it as the days passed, and he was attempting to carry out +the suggestion. + +He had known that he was undertaking a most difficult and delicate task, +and he soon began to fear that it was an impossible one, as well. With +a dogged persistence, however, he adhered to his purpose, ever on the +alert to be more watchful, more tactful, more efficient in emergencies. + +Disagreeable as was the task, in a way, in another way it was a great +pleasure to him. He was glad of the opportunity to do anything for +Billy; and then, too, he was glad of something absorbing enough to take +his mind off his own affairs. He told himself, sometimes, that this +helping another man to fight his tiger skin was assisting himself to +fight his own. + +Arkwright was trying very hard not to think of Alice Greggory these +days. He had come back hoping that he was in a measure “cured” of his +“folly,” as he termed it; but the first look into Alice Greggory's +blue-gray eyes had taught him the fallacy of that idea. In that very +first meeting with Alice, he feared that he had revealed his secret, for +she was plainly so nervously distant and ill at ease with him that he +could but construe her embarrassment and chilly dignity as pity for him +and a desire to show him that she had nothing but friendship for him. +Since then he had seen but little of her, partly because he did not wish +to see her, and partly because his time was so fully occupied. Then, +too, in a round-about way he had heard a rumor that Calderwell was +engaged to be married; and, though no feminine name had been mentioned +in connection with the story, Arkwright had not hesitated to supply in +his own mind that of Alice Greggory. + +Beginning with the “jamboree,” which came off quite in accordance with +Calderwell's prophecies, Arkwright spent the most of such time as was +not given to his professional duties in deliberately cultivating the +society of Bertram and his friends. To this extent he met with no +difficulty, for he found that M. J. Arkwright, the new star in the +operatic firmament, was obviously a welcome comrade. Beyond this it was +not so easy. Arkwright wondered, indeed, sometimes, if he were making +any progress at all. But still he persevered. + +He walked with Bertram, he talked with Bertram, unobtrusively he +contrived to be near Bertram almost always, when they were together with +“the boys.” Gradually he won from him the story of what the surgeon had +said to him, and of how black the future looked in consequence. This +established a new bond between them, so potent that Arkwright ventured +to test it one day by telling Bertram the story of the tiger skin--the +first tiger skin in his uncle's library years ago, and of how, since +then, any difficulty he had encountered he had tried to treat as a +tiger skin. In telling the story he was careful to draw no moral for +his listener, and to preach no sermon. He told the tale, too, with all +possible whimsical lightness of touch, and immediately at its conclusion +he changed the subject. But that he had not failed utterly in his design +was evidenced a few days later when Bertram grimly declared that he +guessed _his_ tiger skin was a lively beast, all right. + +The first time Arkwright went home with Bertram, his presence was almost +a necessity. Bertram was not quite himself that night. Billy admitted +them. She had plainly been watching and waiting. Arkwright never forgot +the look on her face as her eyes met his. There was a curious mixture +of terror, hurt pride, relief, and shame, overtopped by a fierce loyalty +which almost seemed to say aloud the words: “Don't you dare to blame +him!” + +Arkwright's heart ached with sympathy and admiration at the proudly +courageous way in which Billy carried off the next few painful minutes. +Even when he bade her good night a little later, only her eyes said +“thank you.” Her lips were dumb. + +Arkwright often went home with Bertram after that. Not that it was +always necessary--far from it. Some time, indeed, elapsed before he +had quite the same excuse again for his presence. But he had found that +occasionally he could get Bertram home earlier by adroit suggestions of +one kind or another; and more and more frequently he was succeeding in +getting him home for a game of chess. + +Bertram liked chess, and was a fine player. Since breaking his arm he +had turned to games with the feverish eagerness of one who looks for +something absorbing to fill an unrestful mind. It was Seaver's skill +in chess that had at first attracted Bertram to the man long ago; but +Bertram could beat him easily--too easily for much pleasure in it now. +So they did not play chess often these days. Bertram had found that, in +spite of his injury, he could still take part in other games, and some +of them, if not so intricate as chess, were at least more apt to take +his mind off himself, especially if there were a bit of money up to add +zest and interest. + +As it happened, however, Bertram learned one day that Arkwright could +play chess--and play well, too, as he discovered after their first +game together. This fact contributed not a little to such success as +Arkwright was having in his efforts to wean Bertram from his undesirable +companions; for Bertram soon found out that Arkwright was more than a +match for himself, and the occasional games he did succeed in winning +only whetted his appetite for more. Many an evening now, therefore, was +spent by the two men in Bertram's den, with Billy anxiously hovering +near, her eyes longingly watching either her husband's absorbed face or +the pretty little red and white ivory figures, which seemed to possess +so wonderful a power to hold his attention. In spite of her joy at the +chessmen's efficacy in keeping Bertram at home, however, she was almost +jealous of them. + +“Mr. Arkwright, couldn't you show _me_ how to play, sometime?” she said +wistfully, one evening, when the momentary absence of Bertram had left +the two alone together. “I used to watch Bertram and Marie play years +ago; but I never knew how to play myself. Not that I can see where the +fun is in just sitting staring at a chessboard for half an hour at a +time, though! But Bertram likes it, and so I--I want to learn to stare +with him. Will you teach me?” + +“I should be glad to,” smiled Arkwright. + +“Then will you come, maybe, sometimes when Bertram is at the doctor's? +He goes every Tuesday and Friday at three o'clock for treatment. I'd +rather you came then for two reasons: first, because I don't want +Bertram to know I'm learning, till I can play _some_; and, secondly, +because--because I don't want to take you away--from him.” + +The last words were spoken very low, and were accompanied by a painful +blush. It was the first time Billy had ever hinted to Arkwright, in +words, that she understood what he was trying to do. + +“I'll come next Tuesday,” promised Arkwright, with a cheerfully +unobservant air. Then Bertram came in, bringing the book of Chess +Problems, for which he had gone up-stairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. CHESS + + +Promptly at three o'clock Tuesday afternoon Arkwright appeared at the +Strata, and for the next hour Billy did her best to learn the names and +the moves of the pretty little ivory men. But at the end of the hour she +was almost ready to give up in despair. + +“If there weren't so many kinds, and if they didn't all insist on doing +something different, it wouldn't be so bad,” she sighed. “But how can +you be expected to remember which goes diagonal, and which crisscross, +and which can't go but one square, and which can skip 'way across the +board, 'specially when that little pawn-thing can go straight ahead +_two_ squares sometimes, and the next minute only one (except when +it takes things, and then it goes crooked one square) and when that +tiresome little horse tries to go all ways at once, and can jump 'round +and hurdle over _anybody's_ head, even the king's--how can you expect +folks to remember? But, then, Bertram remembers,” she added, resolutely, +“so I guess I can.” + +Whenever possible, after that, Arkwright came on Tuesdays and Fridays, +and, in spite of her doubts, Billy did very soon begin to “remember.” + Spurred by her great desire to play with Bertram and surprise him, Billy +spared no pains to learn well her lessons. Even among the baby's books +and playthings these days might be found a “Manual of Chess,” for Billy +pursued her study at all hours; and some nights even her dreams were of +ruined, castles where kings and queens and bishops disported themselves, +with pawns for servants, and where a weird knight on horseback used the +castle's highest tower for a hurdle, landing always a hundred yards to +one side of where he would be expected to come down. + +It was not long, of course, before Billy could play a game of chess, +after a fashion, but she knew just enough to realize that she actually +knew nothing; and she knew, too, that until she could play a really good +game, her moves would not hold Bertram's attention for one minute. Not +at present, therefore, was she willing Bertram should know what she was +attempting to do. + +Billy had not yet learned what the great surgeon had said to Bertram. +She knew only that his arm was no better, and that he never voluntarily +spoke of his painting. Over her now seemed to be hanging a vague horror. +Something was the matter. She knew that. But what it was she could +not fathom. She realized that Arkwright was trying to help, and her +gratitude, though silent, knew no bounds. Not even to Aunt Hannah or +Uncle William could she speak of this thing that was troubling her. That +they, too, understood, in a measure, she realized. But still she said no +word. Billy was wearing a proud little air of aloofness these days that +was heart-breaking to those who saw it and read it aright for what it +was: loyalty to Bertram, no matter what happened. And so Billy pored +over her chessboard feverishly, tirelessly, having ever before her +longing eyes the dear time when Bertram, across the table from her, +should sit happily staring for half an hour at a move she had made. + +Whatever Billy's chess-playing was to signify, however, in her own life, +it was destined to play a part in the lives of two friends of hers that +was most unexpected. + +During Billy's very first lesson, as it chanced, Alice Greggory called +and found Billy and Arkwright so absorbed in their game that they did +not at first hear Eliza speak her name. + +The quick color that flew to Arkwright's face at sight of herself was +construed at once by Alice as embarrassment on his part at being found +tête-á-tête with Bertram Henshaw's wife. And she did not like +it. She was not pleased that he was there. She was less pleased that he +blushed for being there. + +It so happened that Alice found him there again several times. Alice +gave a piano lesson at two o'clock every Tuesday and Friday afternoon to +a little Beacon Street neighbor of Billy's, and she had fallen into the +habit of stepping in to see Billy for a few minutes afterward, which +brought her there at a little past three, just after the chess lesson +was well started. + +If, the first time that Alice Greggory found Arkwright opposite Billy at +the chess-table, she was surprised and displeased, the second and third +times she was much more so. When it finally came to her one day with +sickening illumination, that always the tête-á-têtes were +during Bertram's hour at the doctor's, she was appalled. + +What could it mean? Had Arkwright given up his fight? Was he playing +false to himself and to Bertram by trying thus, on the sly, to win the +love of his friend's wife? Was this man, whom she had so admired for his +brave stand, and to whom all unasked she had given her heart's best +love (more the pity of it!)--was this idol of hers to show feet of clay, +after all? She could not believe it. And yet-- + +Sick at heart, but imbued with the determination of a righteous cause, +Alice Greggory resolved, for Billy's sake, to watch and wait. If +necessary she should speak to some one--though to whom she did not know. +Billy's happiness should not be put in jeopardy if she could help it. +Indeed, no! + +As the weeks passed, Alice came to be more and more uneasy, distressed, +and grieved. Of Billy she could believe no evil; but of Arkwright +she was beginning to think she could believe everything that was +dishonorable and despicable. And to believe that of the man she still +loved--no wonder that Alice did not look nor act like herself these +days. + +Incensed at herself because she did love him, angry at him because he +seemed to be proving himself so unworthy of that love, and genuinely +frightened at what she thought was the fast-approaching wreck of all +happiness for her dear friend, Billy, Alice did not know which way +to turn. At the first she had told herself confidently that she would +“speak to somebody.” But, as time passed, she saw the impracticability +of that idea. Speak to somebody, indeed! To whom? When? Where? What +should she say? Where was her right to say anything? She was not dealing +with a parcel of naughty children who had pilfered the cake jar! She +was dealing with grown men and women, who, presumedly, knew their own +affairs, and who, certainly, would resent any interference from her. On +the other hand, could she stand calmly by and see Bertram lose his wife, +Arkwright his honor, Billy her happiness, and herself her faith in human +nature, all because to do otherwise would be to meddle in other people's +business? Apparently she could, and should. At least that seemed to be +the rôle which she was expected to play. + +It was when Alice had reached this unhappy frame of mind that Arkwright +himself unexpectedly opened the door for her. + +The two were alone together in Bertram Henshaw's den. It was Tuesday +afternoon. Alice had called to find Billy and Arkwright deep in their +usual game of chess. Then a matter of domestic affairs had taken Billy +from the room. + +“I'm afraid I'll have to be gone ten minutes, or more,” she had said, as +she rose from the table reluctantly. “But you might be showing Alice the +moves, Mr. Arkwright,” she had added, with a laugh, as she disappeared. + +“Shall I teach you the moves?” he had smiled, when they were alone +together. + +Alice's reply had been so indignantly short and sharp that Arkwright, +after a moment's pause, had said, with a whimsical smile that yet +carried a touch of sadness: + +“I am forced to surmise from your answer that you think it is _you_ who +should be teaching _me_ moves. At all events, I seem to have been making +some moves lately that have not suited you, judging by your actions. +Have I offended you in any way, Alice?” + +The girl turned with a quick lifting of her head. Alice knew that if +ever she were to speak, it must be now. Never again could she hope for +such an opportunity as this. Suddenly throwing circumspect caution quite +aside, she determined that she would speak. Springing to her feet she +crossed the room and seated herself in Billy's chair at the chess-table. + +“Me! Offend me!” she exclaimed, in a low voice. “As if I were the one +you were offending!” + +“Why, _Alice!_” murmured the man, in obvious stupefaction. + +Alice raised her hand, palm outward. + +“Now don't, _please_ don't pretend you don't know,” she begged, almost +piteously. “Please don't add that to all the rest. Oh, I understand, +of course, it's none of my affairs, and I wasn't going to speak,” she +choked; “but, to-day, when you gave me this chance, I had to. At first +I couldn't believe it,” she plunged on, plainly hurrying against Billy's +return. “After all you'd told me of how you meant to fight it--your +tiger skin. And I thought it merely _happened_ that you were here alone +with her those days I came. Then, when I found out they were _always_ +the days Mr. Henshaw was away at the doctor's, I had to believe.” + +She stopped for breath. Arkwright, who, up to this moment had shown that +he was completely mystified as to what she was talking about, suddenly +flushed a painful red. He was obviously about to speak, but she +prevented him with a quick gesture. + +“There's a little more I've got to say, please. As if it weren't bad +enough to do what you're doing _at all_, but you must needs take it at +such a time as this when--when her husband _isn't_ doing just what he +ought to do, and we all know it--it's so unfair to take her now, and +try to--to win--And you aren't even fair with him,” she protested +tremulously. “You pretend to be his friend. You go with him everywhere. +It's just as if you were _helping_ to--to pull him down. You're one with +the whole bunch.” (The blood suddenly receded from Arkwright's +face, leaving it very white; but if Alice saw it, she paid no heed.) +“Everybody says you are. Then to come here like this, on the sly, when +you know he can't be here, I--Oh, can't you see what you're doing?” + +There was a moment's pause, then Arkwright spoke. A deep pain looked +from his eyes. He was still very pale, and his mouth had settled into +sad lines. + +“I think, perhaps, it may be just as well if I tell you what I _am_ +doing--or, rather, trying to do,” he said quietly. + +Then he told her. + +“And so you see,” he added, when he had finished the tale, “I haven't +really accomplished much, after all, and it seems the little I have +accomplished has only led to my being misjudged by you, my best friend.” + +Alice gave a sobbing cry. Her face was scarlet. Horror, shame, and +relief struggled for mastery in her countenance. + +“Oh, but I didn't know, I didn't know,” she moaned, twisting her hands +nervously. “And now, when you've been so brave, so true--for me to +accuse you of--Oh, can you _ever_ forgive me? But you see, knowing that +you _did_ care for her, it did look--” She choked into silence, and +turned away her head. + +He glanced at her tenderly, mournfully. + +“Yes,” he said, after a minute, in a low voice. “I can see how it did +look; and so I'm going to tell you now something I had meant never to +tell you. There really couldn't have been anything in that, you see, +for I found out long ago that it was gone--whatever love there had been +for--Billy.” + +“But your--tiger skin!” + +“Oh, yes, I thought it was alive,” smiled Arkwright, sadly, “when I +asked you to help me fight it. But one day, very suddenly, I discovered +that it was nothing but a dead skin of dreams and memories. But I made +another discovery, too. I found that just beyond lay another one, and +that was very much alive.” + +“Another one?” Alice turned to him in wonder. “But you never asked me to +help you fight--that one!” + +He shook his head. + +“No; I couldn't, you see. You couldn't have helped me. You'd only have +hindered me.” + +“Hindered you?” + +“Yes. You see, it was my love for--you, that I was fighting--then.” + +Alice gave a low cry and flushed vividly; but Arkwright hurried on, his +eyes turned away. + +“Oh, I understand. I know. I'm not asking for--anything. I heard some +time ago of your engagement to Calderwell. I've tried many times to +say the proper, expected pretty speeches, but--I couldn't. I will +now, though. I do. You have all my tenderest best wishes for your +happiness--dear. If long ago I hadn't been such a blind fool as not to +know my own heart--” + +“But--but there's some mistake,” interposed Alice, palpitatingly, with +hanging head. “I--I'm not engaged to Mr. Calderwell.” + +Arkwright turned and sent a keen glance into her face. + +“You're--not?” + +“No.” + +“But I heard that Calderwell--” He stopped helplessly. + +“You heard that Mr. Calderwell was engaged, very likely. But--it so +happens he isn't engaged--to me,” murmured Alice, faintly. + +“But, long ago you said--” Arkwright paused, his eyes still keenly +searching her face. + +“Never mind what I said--long ago,” laughed Alice, trying unsuccessfully +to meet his gaze. “One says lots of things, at times, you know.” + +Into Arkwright's eyes came a new light, a light that plainly needed but +a breath to fan it into quick fire. + +“Alice,” he said softly, “do you mean that maybe now--I needn't try to +fight--that other tiger skin?” + +There was no answer. + +Arkwright reached out a pleading hand. + +“Alice, dear, I've loved you so long,” he begged unsteadily. “Don't +you think that sometime, if I was very, very patient, you could just +_begin_--to care a little for me?” + +Still there was no answer. Then, slowly, Alice shook her head. Her face +was turned quite away--which was a pity, for if Arkwright could have +seen the sudden tender mischief in her eyes, his own would not have +become so somber. + +“Not even a little bit?” + +“I couldn't ever--begin,” answered a half-smothered voice. + +“Alice!” cried the man, heart-brokenly. + +Alice turned now, and for a fleeting instant let him see her eyes, +glowing with the love so long kept in relentless exile. + +“I couldn't, because, you see-I began--long ago,” she whispered. + +“Alice!” It was the same single word, but spoken with a world of +difference, for into it now was crowded all the glory and the wonder of +a great love. “Alice!” breathed the man again; and this time the word +was, oh, so tenderly whispered into the little pink and white ear of the +girl in his arms. + +“I got delayed,” began Billy, in the doorway. + +“Oh-h!” she broke off, beating a hushed, but precipitate, retreat. + +Fully thirty minutes later, Billy came to the door again. This time her +approach was heralded by a snatch of song. + +“I hope you'll excuse my being gone so long,” she smiled, as she +entered the room where her two guests sat decorously face to face at the +chess-table. + +“Well, you know you said you'd be gone ten minutes,” Arkwright reminded +her, politely. + +“Yes, I know I did.” And Billy, to her credit, did not even smile at the +man who did not know ten minutes from fifty. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. BY A BABY'S HAND + + +After all, it was the baby's hand that did it, as was proper, and +perhaps to be expected; for surely, was it not Bertram, Jr.'s place to +show his parents that he was, indeed, no Wedge, but a dear and precious +Tie binding two loving, loyal hearts more and more closely together? +It would seem, indeed, that Bertram, Jr., thought so, perhaps, and very +bravely he set about it; though, to carry out his purpose, he had to +turn his steps into an unfamiliar way--a way of pain, and weariness, and +danger. + +It was Arkwright who told Bertram that the baby was very sick, and +that Billy wanted him. Bertram went home at once to find a distracted, +white-faced Billy, and a twisted, pain-racked little creature, who it +was almost impossible to believe was the happy, laughing baby boy he had +left that morning. + +For the next two weeks nothing was thought of in the silent old Beacon +Street house but the tiny little life hovering so near Death's door +that twice it appeared to have slipped quite across the threshold. +All through those terrible weeks it seemed as if Billy neither ate +nor slept; and always at her side, comforting, cheering, and helping +wherever possible was Bertram, tender, loving, and marvelously +thoughtful. + +Then came the turning point when the universe itself appeared to +hang upon a baby's breath. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, came the +fluttering back of the tiny spirit into the longing arms stretched so +far, far out to meet and hold it. And the father and the mother, looking +into each other's sleepless, dark-ringed eyes, knew that their son was +once more theirs to love and cherish. + +When two have gone together with a dear one down into the Valley of the +Shadow of Death, and have come back, either mourning or rejoicing, they +find a different world from the one they had left. Things that were +great before seem small, and some things that were small seem great. +At least Bertram and Billy found their world thus changed when together +they came back bringing their son with them. + +In the long weeks of convalescence, when the healthy rosiness stole +bit by bit into the baby's waxen face, and the light of recognition and +understanding crept day by day into the baby's eyes, there was many a +quiet hour for heart-to-heart talks between the two who so anxiously and +joyously hailed every rosy tint and fleeting sparkle. And there was +so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to talk about! And always, +running through everything, was that golden thread of joy, beside which +all else paled--that they had Baby and each other. As if anything else +mattered! + +To be sure, there was Bertram's arm. Very early in their talks Billy +found out about that. But Billy, with Baby getting well, was not to be +daunted, even by this. + +“Nonsense, darling--not paint again, indeed! Why, Bertram, of course you +will,” she cried confidently. + +“But, Billy, the doctor said,” began Bertram; but Billy would not even +listen. + +“Very well, what if he did, dear?” she interrupted. “What if he did +say you couldn't use your right arm much again?” Billy's voice broke +a little, then quickly steadied into something very much like triumph. +“You've got your left one!” + +Bertram shook his head. + +“I can't paint with that.” + +“Yes, you can,” insisted Billy, firmly. “Why, Bertram, what do you +suppose you were given two arms for if not to fight with both of them? +And I'm going to be ever so much prouder of what you paint now, because +I'll know how splendidly you worked to do it. Besides, there's Baby. As +if you weren't ever going to paint for Baby! Why, Bertram, I'm going to +have you paint Baby, one of these days. Think how pleased he'll be to +see it when he grows up! He's nicer, anyhow, than any old 'Face of a +Girl' you ever did. Paint? Why, Bertram, darling, of course you're going +to paint, and better than you ever did before!” + +Bertram shook his head again; but this time he smiled, and patted +Billy's cheek with the tip of his forefinger. + +“As if I could!” he disclaimed. But that afternoon he went into his +long-deserted studio and hunted up his last unfinished picture. For +some time he stood motionless before it; then, with a quick gesture of +determination, he got out his palette, paints, and brushes. This time +not until he had painted ten, a dozen, a score of strokes, did he drop +his brush with a sigh and carefully erase the fresh paint on the canvas. +The next day he worked longer, and this time he allowed a little, a very +little, of what he had done to remain. + +The third day Billy herself found him at his easel. + +“I wonder--do you suppose I could?” he asked fearfully. + +“Why, dearest, of course you can! Haven't you noticed? Can't you see how +much more you can do with your left hand now? You've _had_ to use it, +you see. _I've_ seen you do a lot of things with it, lately, that you +never used to do at all. And, of course, the more you do with it, the +more you can!” + +“I know; but that doesn't mean that I can paint with it,” sighed +Bertram, ruefully eyeing the tiny bit of fresh color his canvas showed +for his long afternoon's work. + +“You wait and see,” nodded Billy, with so overwhelming a cheery +confidence that Bertram, looking into her glowing face, was conscious +of a curious throb of exultation, almost as if already the victory were +his. + +But it was not always of Bertram's broken arm, nor even of his work that +they talked. Bertram, hanging over the baby's crib to assure himself +that the rosiness and the sparkle were really growing more apparent +every day, used to wonder sometimes how ever in the world he could have +been jealous of his son. He said as much one day to Billy. + +To Billy it was a most astounding idea. + +“You mean you were actually jealous of your own baby?” she gasped. +“Why, Bertram, how could--And was that why you--you sought distraction +and--Oh, but, Bertram, that was all my f-fault,” she quavered +remorsefully. “I wouldn't play, nor sing, nor go to walk, nor anything; +and I wore horrid frowzy wrappers all the time, and--” + +“Oh, come, come, Billy,” expostulated the man. “I'm not going to have +you talk like that about _my wife!_” + +“But I did--the book said I did,” wailed Billy. + +“The book? Good heavens! Are there any books in this, too?” demanded +Bertram. + +“Yes, the same one; the--the 'Talks to Young Wives,'” nodded Billy. +And then, because some things had grown small to them, and some others +great, they both laughed happily. + +But even this was not quite all; for one evening, very shyly, Billy +brought out the chessboard. + +“Of course I can't play well,” she faltered; “and maybe you don't want +to play with me at all.” + +But Bertram, when he found out why she had learned, was very sure he did +want very much to play with her. + +Billy did not beat, of course. But she did several times experience--for +a few blissful minutes--the pleasure of seeing Bertram sit motionless, +studying the board, because of a move she had made. And though, in the +end, her king was ignominiously trapped with not an unguarded square +upon which to set his poor distracted foot, the memory of those blissful +minutes when she had made Bertram “stare” more than paid for the final +checkmate. + +By the middle of June the baby was well enough to be taken to the +beach, and Bertram was so fortunate as to secure the same house they had +occupied before. Once again William went down in Maine for his fishing +trip, and the Strata was closed. In the beach house Bertram was painting +industriously--with his left hand. Almost he was beginning to feel +Billy's enthusiasm. Almost he was believing that he _was_ doing good +work. It was not the “Face of a Girl,” now. It was the face of a baby: +smiling, laughing, even crying, sometimes; at other times just gazing +straight into your eyes with adorable soberness. Bertram still went +into Boston twice a week for treatment, though the treatment itself had +changed. The great surgeon had sent him to still another specialist. + +“There's a chance--though perhaps a small one,” he had said. “I'd like +you to try it, anyway.” + +As the summer advanced, Bertram thought sometimes that he could see a +slight improvement in his injured arm; but he tried not to think too +much about this. He had thought the same thing before, only to be +disappointed in the end. Besides, he was undeniably interested just now +in seeing if he _could_ paint with his left hand. Billy was so sure, +and she had said that she would be prouder than ever of him, if he +could--and he would like to make Billy proud! Then, too, there was the +baby--he had no idea a baby could be so interesting to paint. He was not +sure but that he was going to like to paint babies even better than he +had liked to paint his “Face of a Girl” that had brought him his first +fame. + +In September the family returned to the Strata. The move was made a +little earlier this year on account of Alice Greggory's wedding. + +Alice was to be married in the pretty living-room at the Annex, just +where Billy herself had been married a few short years before; and Billy +had great plans for the wedding--not all of which she was able to carry +out, for Alice, like Marie before her, had very strong objections to +being placed under too great obligations. + +“And you see, really, anyway,” she told Billy, “I owe the whole thing to +you, to begin with--even my husband.” + +“Nonsense! Of course you don't,” disputed Billy. + +“But I do. If it hadn't been for you I should never have found him +again, and of _course_ I shouldn't have had this dear little home to be +married in. And I never could have left mother if she hadn't had +Aunt Hannah and the Annex which means you. And if I hadn't found Mr. +Arkwright, I might never have known how--how I could go back to my old +home (as I am going on my honeymoon trip), and just know that every one +of my old friends who shakes hands with me isn't pitying me now, because +I'm my father's daughter. And that means you; for you see I never would +have known that my father's name was cleared if it hadn't been for you. +And--” + +“Oh, Alice, please, please,” begged Billy, laughingly raising two +protesting hands. “Why don't you say that it's to me you owe just +breathing, and be done with it?” + +“Well, I will, then,” avowed Alice, doggedly. “And it's true, too, for, +honestly, my dear, I don't believe I would have been breathing to-day, +nor mother, either, if you hadn't found us that morning, and taken us +out of those awful rooms.” + +“I? Never! You wouldn't let me take you out,” laughed Billy. “You proud +little thing! Maybe _you've_ forgotten how you turned poor Uncle William +and me out into the cold, cold world that morning, just because we dared +to aspire to your Lowestoft teapot; but I haven't!” + +“Oh, Billy, please, _don't_,” begged Alice, the painful color staining +her face. “If you knew how I've hated myself since for the way I acted +that day--and, really, you did take us away from there, you know.” + +“No, I didn't. I merely found two good tenants for Mr. and Mrs. Delano,” + corrected Billy, with a sober face. + +“Oh, yes, I know all about that,” smiled Alice, affectionately; “and you +got mother and me here to keep Aunt Hannah company and teach Tommy Dunn; +and you got Aunt Hannah here to keep us company and take care of Tommy +Dunn; and you got Tommy Dunn here so Aunt Hannah and we could have +somebody to teach and take care of; and, as for the others,--” But Billy +put her hands to her ears and fled. + +The wedding was to be on the fifteenth. From the West Kate wrote that +of course it was none of her affairs, particularly as neither of the +interested parties was a relation, but still she should think that for +a man in Mr. Arkwright's position, nothing but a church wedding would +do at all, as, of course, he did, in a way, belong to the public. Alice, +however, declared that perhaps he did belong to the public, when he was +Don Somebody-or-other in doublet and hose; but when he was just plain +Michael Jeremiah Arkwright in a frock coat he was hers, and she did not +propose to make a Grand Opera show of her wedding. And as Arkwright, +too, very much disapproved of the church-wedding idea, the two were +married in the Annex living-room at noon on the fifteenth as originally +planned, in spite of Mrs. Kate Hartwell's letter. + +It was soon after the wedding that Bertram told Billy he wished she +would sit for him with Bertram, Jr. + +“I want to try my hand at you both together,” he coaxed. + +“Why, of course, if you like, dear,” agreed Billy, promptly, “though I +think Baby is just as nice, and even nicer, alone.” + +Once again all over Bertram's studio began to appear sketches of Billy, +this time a glorified, tender Billy, with the wonderful mother-love in +her eyes. Then, after several sketches of trial poses, Bertram began his +picture of Billy and the baby together. + +Even now Bertram was not sure of his work. He knew that he could not yet +paint with his old freedom and ease; he knew that his stroke was not so +sure, so untrammeled. But he knew, too, that he had gained wonderfully, +during the summer, and that he was gaining now, every day. To Billy he +said nothing of all this. Even to himself he scarcely put his hope into +words; but in his heart he knew that what he was really painting his +“Mother and Child” picture for was the Bohemian Ten Club Exhibition in +March--if he could but put upon canvas the vision that was spurring him +on. + +And so Bertram worked all through those short winter days, not always +upon the one picture, of course, but upon some picture or sketch that +would help to give his still uncertain left hand the skill that had +belonged to its mate. And always, cheering, encouraging, insisting on +victory, was Billy, so that even had Bertram been tempted, sometimes, +to give up, he could not have done so--and faced Billy's grieved, +disappointed eyes. And when at last his work was completed, and the +pictured mother and child in all their marvelous life and beauty seemed +ready to step from the canvas, Billy drew a long ecstatic breath. + +“Oh, Bertram, it _is_, it is the best work you have ever done.” Billy +was looking at the baby. Always she had ignored herself as part of the +picture. “And won't it be fine for the Exhibition!” + +Bertram's hand tightened on the chair-back in front of him. For a moment +he could not speak. Then, a bit huskily, he asked: + +“Would you dare--risk it?” + +“Risk it! Why, Bertram Henshaw, I've meant that picture for the +Exhibition from the very first--only I never dreamed you could get it so +perfectly lovely. _Now_ what do you say about Baby being nicer than any +old 'Face of a Girl' that you ever did?” she triumphed. + +And Bertram, who, even to himself, had not dared whisper the +word exhibition, gave a tremulous laugh that was almost a sob, so +overwhelming was his sudden realization of what faith and confidence had +meant to Billy, his wife. + +If there was still a lingering doubt in Bertram's mind, it must +have been dispelled in less than an hour after the Bohemian Ten Club +Exhibition flung open its doors on its opening night. Once again Bertram +found his picture the cynosure of all admiring eyes, and himself the +center of an enthusiastic group of friends and fellow-artists who vied +with each other in hearty words of congratulation. And when, later, +the feared critics, whose names and opinions counted for so much in his +world, had their say in the daily press and weekly reviews, Bertram +knew how surely indeed he had won. And when he read that “Henshaw's +work shows now a peculiar strength, a sort of reserve power, as it were, +which, beautiful as was his former work, it never showed before,” he +smiled grimly, and said to Billy: + +“I suppose, now, that was the fighting I did with my good left hand, eh, +dear?” + +But there was yet one more drop that was to make Bertram's cup of joy +brim to overflowing. It came just one month after the Exhibition in the +shape of a terse dozen words from the doctor. Bertram fairly flew home +that day. He had no consciousness of any means of locomotion. He thought +he was going to tell his wife at once his great good news; but when he +saw her, speech suddenly fled, and all that he could do was to draw her +closely to him with his left arm and hide his face. + +“Why, Bertram, dearest, what--what is it?” stammered the thoroughly +frightened Billy. “Has anything-happened?” + +“No, no--yes--yes, everything has happened. I mean, it's going to +happen,” choked the man. “Billy, that old chap says that I'm going to +have my arm again. Think of it--my good right arm that I've lost so +long!” + +“_Oh, Bertram!_” breathed Billy. And she, too, fell to sobbing. + +Later, when speech was more coherent, she faltered: + +“Well, anyway, it doesn't make any difference _how_ many beautiful +pictures you p-paint, after this, Bertram, I _can't_ be prouder of any +than I am of the one your l--left hand did.” + +“Oh, but I have you to thank for all that, dear.” + +“No, you haven't,” disputed Billy, blinking teary eyes; “but--” she +paused, then went on spiritedly, “but, anyhow, I--I don't believe any +one--not even Kate--can say _now_ that--that I've been a hindrance to +you in your c-career!” + +“Hindrance!” scoffed Bertram, in a tone that left no room for doubt, and +with a kiss that left even less, if possible. + +Billy, for still another minute, was silent; then, with a wistfulness +that was half playful, half serious, she sighed: + +“Bertram, I believe being married is something like clocks, you know, +'specially at the first.” + +“Clocks, dear?” + +“Yes. I was out to Aunt Hannah's to-day. She was fussing with her +clock--the one that strikes half an hour ahead--and I saw all those +quantities of wheels, little and big, that have to go just so, with +all the little cogs fitting into all the other little cogs just exactly +right. Well, that's like marriage. See? There's such a lot of +little cogs in everyday life that have to be fitted so they'll run +smoothly--that have to be adjusted, 'specially at the first.” + +“Oh, Billy, what an idea!” + +“But it's so, really, Bertram. Anyhow, I know my cogs were always +getting out of place at the first,” laughed Billy. “And I was like Aunt +Hannah's clock, too, always going off half an hour ahead of time. And +maybe I shall be so again, sometimes. But, Bertram,”--her voice shook a +little--“if you'll just look at my face you'll see that I tell the right +time there, just as Aunt Hannah's clock does. I'm sure, always, I'll +tell the right time there, even if I do go off half an hour ahead!” + +“As if I didn't know that,” answered Bertram, very low and tenderly. +“Besides, I reckon I have some cogs of my own that need adjusting!” + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS BILLY MARRIED *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: + +• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + +• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + +• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ + +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™'s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org. + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact. + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate. + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate. + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic +works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org. + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |