Miss Billy Married

E >> Eleanor H. Porter >> Miss Billy Married

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

``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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18