Miss Billy Married

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

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``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 0. 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 carne 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 he 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
caf 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.''

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