Miss Billy Married

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

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``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 tte-
-ttes 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 caf
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 caf
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.

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