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

``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 rle, 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!''

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