Miss Billy Married

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

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He walked with Bertram, he talked with Bertram,
unobtrusively he contrived to be near Bertram
almost always, when they were together
with ``the boys.'' Gradually he won from him
the story of what the surgeon had said to him,
and of how black the future looked in
consequence. This established a new bond between
them, so potent that Arkwright ventured to test
it one day by telling Bertram the story of the
tiger skin--the first tiger skin in his uncle's
library years ago, and of how, since then, any
difficulty he had encountered he had tried to treat
as a tiger skin. In telling the story he was careful
to draw no moral for his listener, and to preach
no sermon. He told the tale, too, with all possible
whimsical lightness of touch, and immediately
at its conclusion he changed the subject.
But that he had not failed utterly in his design
was evidenced a few days later when Bertram
grimly declared that he guessed _his_ tiger skin
was a lively beast, all right.

The first time Arkwright went home with
Bertram, his presence was almost a necessity.
Bertram was not quite himself that night. Billy
admitted them. She had plainly been watching
and waiting. Arkwright never forgot the look
on her face as her eyes met his. There was a
curious mixture of terror, hurt pride, relief, and
shame, overtopped by a fierce loyalty which almost
seemed to say aloud the words: ``Don't
you dare to blame him!''

Arkwright's heart ached with sympathy and
admiration at the proudly courageous way in
which Billy carried off the next few painful
minutes. Even when he bade her good night a little
later, only her eyes said ``thank you.'' Her lips
were dumb.

Arkwright often went home with Bertram after
that. Not that it was always necessary--
far from it. Some time, indeed, elapsed before
he had quite the same excuse again for his presence.
But he had found that occasionally he
could get Bertram home earlier by adroit
suggestions of one kind or another; and more and
more frequently he was succeeding in getting
him home for a game of chess.

Bertram liked chess, and was a fine player.
Since breaking his arm he had turned to games
with the feverish eagerness of one who looks for
something absorbing to fill an unrestful mind.
It was Seaver's skill in chess that had at first
attracted Bertram to the man long ago; but Bertram
could beat him easily--too easily for much
pleasure in it now. So they did not play chess
often these days. Bertram had found that, in
spite of his injury, he could still take part in
other games, and some of them, if not so intricate
as chess, were at least more apt to take his
mind off himself, especially if there were a bit
of money up to add zest and interest.

As it happened, however, Bertram learned
one day that Arkwright could play chess--and
play well, too, as he discovered after their first
game together. This fact contributed not a
little to such success as Arkwright was having
in his efforts to wean Bertram from his undesirable
companions; for Bertram soon found out
that Arkwright was more than a match for himself,
and the occasional games he did succeed in
winning only whetted his appetite for more.
Many an evening now, therefore, was spent by
the two men in Bertram's den, with Billy
anxiously hovering near, her eyes longingly
watching either her husband's absorbed face or the
pretty little red and white ivory figures, which
seemed to possess so wonderful a power to hold
his attention. In spite of her joy at the chessmen's
efficacy in keeping Bertram at home, however,
she was almost jealous of them.

``Mr. Arkwright, couldn't you show _me_ how to
play, sometime?'' she said wistfully, one evening,
when the momentary absence of Bertram
had left the two alone together. ``I used to
watch Bertram and Marie play years ago; but
I never knew how to play myself. Not that I
can see where the fun is in just sitting staring at
a chessboard for half an hour at a time, though!
But Bertram likes it, and so I--I want to learn
to stare with him. Will you teach me?''

``I should be glad to,'' smiled Arkwright.

``Then will you come, maybe, sometimes
when Bertram is at the doctor's? He goes every
Tuesday and Friday at three o'clock for treatment.
I'd rather you came then for two reasons:
first, because I don't want Bertram to know
I'm learning, till I can play _some_; and, secondly,
because--because I don't want to take you
away--from him.''

The last words were spoken very low, and were
accompanied by a painful blush. It was the
first time Billy had ever hinted to Arkwright,
in words, that she understood what he was trying
to do.

``I'll come next Tuesday,'' promised Arkwright,
with a cheerfully unobservant air. Then Bertram
came in, bringing the book of Chess Problems,
for which he had gone up-stairs.

CHAPTER XXIX

CHESS

Promptly at three o'clock Tuesday afternoon
Arkwright appeared at the Strata, and for the
next hour Billy did her best to learn the names
and the moves of the pretty little ivory men.
But at the end of the hour she was almost ready
to give up in despair.

``If there weren't so many kinds, and if they
didn't all insist on doing something different, it
wouldn't be so bad,'' she sighed. ``But how can
you be expected to remember which goes diagonal,
and which crisscross, and which can't go
but one square, and which can skip 'way across
the board, 'specially when that little pawn-thing
can go straight ahead _two_ squares sometimes,
and the next minute only one (except when it
takes things, and then it goes crooked one square)
and when that tiresome little horse tries to go
all ways at once, and can jump 'round and hurdle
over _anybody's_ head, even the king's--how can
you expect folks to remember? But, then, Bertram
remembers,'' she added, resolutely, ``so I
guess I can.''

Whenever possible, after that, Arkwright came
on Tuesdays and Fridays, and, in spite of her
doubts, Billy did very soon begin to ``remember.''
Spurred by her great desire to play with Bertram
and surprise him, Billy spared no pains to learn
well her lessons. Even among the baby's books
and playthings these days might be found a
``Manual of Chess,'' for Billy pursued her study
at all hours; and some nights even her dreams
were of ruined, castles where kings and queens
and bishops disported themselves, with pawns
for servants, and where a weird knight on horseback
used the castle's highest tower for a hurdle,
landing always a hundred yards to one side of
where he would be expected to come down.

It was not long, of course, before Billy could
play a game of chess, after a fashion, but she
knew just enough to realize that she actually
knew nothing; and she knew, too, that until she
could play a really good game, her moves would
not hold Bertram's attention for one minute.
Not at present, therefore, was she willing Bertram
should know what she was attempting to do.

Billy had not yet learned what the great
surgeon had said to Bertram. She knew only that
his arm was no better, and that he never voluntarily
spoke of his painting. Over her now seemed
to be hanging a vague horror. Something was
the matter. She knew that. But what it was
she could not fathom. She realized that Arkwright
was trying to help, and her gratitude,
though silent, knew no bounds. Not even to
Aunt Hannah or Uncle William could she speak
of this thing that was troubling her. That they,
too, understood, in a measure, she realized. But
still she said no word. Billy was wearing a proud
little air of aloofness these days that was heart-
breaking to those who saw it and read it aright
for what it was: loyalty to Bertram, no matter
what happened. And so Billy pored over her
chessboard feverishly, tirelessly, having ever
before her longing eyes the dear time when Bertram,
across the table from her, should sit happily
staring for half an hour at a move she had
made.

Whatever Billy's chess-playing was to signify,
however, in her own life, it was destined to play
a part in the lives of two friends of hers that was
most unexpected.

During Billy's very first lesson, as it chanced,
Alice Greggory called and found Billy and Arkwright
so absorbed in their game that they did
not at first hear Eliza speak her name.

The quick color that flew to Arkwright's face
at sight of herself was construed at once by Alice
as embarrassment on his part at being found
tte--tte with Bertram Henshaw's wife. And
she did not like it. She was not pleased that he
was there. She was less pleased that he blushed
for being there.

It so happened that Alice found him there
again several times. Alice gave a piano lesson
at two o'clock every Tuesday and Friday afternoon
to a little Beacon Street neighbor of Billy's,
and she had fallen into the habit of stepping in
to see Billy for a few minutes afterward, which
brought her there at a little past three, just after
the chess lesson was well started.

If, the first time that Alice Greggory found
Arkwright opposite Billy at the chess-table, she
was surprised and displeased, the second and third
times she was much more so. When it finally
came to her one day with sickening illumination,
that always the tte--ttes were during Bertram's
hour at the doctor's, she was appalled.

What could it mean? Had Arkwright given
up his fight? Was he playing false to himself
and to Bertram by trying thus, on the sly, to win
the love of his friend's wife? Was this man,
whom she had so admired for his brave stand,
and to whom all unasked she had given her heart's
best love (more the pity of it!)--was this idol
of hers to show feet of clay, after all? She could
not believe it. And yet--

Sick at heart, but imbued with the determination
of a righteous cause, Alice Greggory resolved,
for Billy's sake, to watch and wait. If
necessary she should speak to some one--though
to whom she did not know. Billy's happiness
should not be put in jeopardy if she could help it.
Indeed, no!

As the weeks passed, Alice came to be more
and more uneasy, distressed, and grieved. Of
Billy she could believe no evil; but of Arkwright
she was beginning to think she could believe
everything that was dishonorable and despicable.
And to believe that of the man she still loved--
no wonder that Alice did not look nor act like
herself these days.

Incensed at herself because she did love him,
angry at him because he seemed to be proving
himself so unworthy of that love, and genuinely
frightened at what she thought was the fast-
approaching wreck of all happiness for her dear
friend, Billy, Alice did not know which way to
turn. At the first she had told herself confidently
that she would ``speak to somebody.'' But, as
time passed, she saw the impracticability of that
idea. Speak to somebody, indeed! To whom?
When? Where? What should she say? Where
was her right to say anything? She was not
dealing with a parcel of naughty children who had
pilfered the cake jar! She was dealing with grown
men and women, who, presumedly, knew their
own affairs, and who, certainly, would resent
any interference from her. On the other hand,
could she stand calmly by and see Bertram lose
his wife, Arkwright his honor, Billy her happiness,
and herself her faith in human nature, all
because to do otherwise would be to meddle in other
people's business? Apparently she could, and
should. At least that seemed to be the rle which
she was expected to play.

It was when Alice had reached this unhappy
frame of mind that Arkwright himself unexpectedly
opened the door for her.

The two were alone together in Bertram
Henshaw's den. It was Tuesday afternoon. Alice
had called to find Billy and Arkwright deep in
their usual game of chess. Then a matter of
domestic affairs had taken Billy from the room.

``I'm afraid I'll have to be gone ten minutes,
or more,'' she had said, as she rose from the table
reluctantly. ``But you might be showing Alice
the moves, Mr. Arkwright,'' she had added, with
a laugh, as she disappeared.

``Shall I teach you the moves?'' he had smiled,
when they were alone together.

Alice's reply had been so indignantly short
and sharp that Arkwright, after a moment's
pause, had said, with a whimsical smile that yet
carried a touch of sadness:

``I am forced to surmise from your answer
that you think it is _you_ who should be teaching
_me_ moves. At all events, I seem to have been
making some moves lately that have not suited
you, judging by your actions. Have I offended
you in any way, Alice?''

The girl turned with a quick lifting of her head.
Alice knew that if ever she were to speak, it must
be now. Never again could she hope for such
an opportunity as this. Suddenly throwing
circumspect caution quite aside, she determined
that she would speak. Springing to her feet she
crossed the room and seated herself in Billy's
chair at the chess-table.

``Me! Offend me!'' she exclaimed, in a low
voice. ``As if I were the one you were offending!''

``Why, _Alice!_'' murmured the man, in obvious
stupefaction.

Alice raised her hand, palm outward.

``Now don't, _please_ don't pretend you don't
know,'' she begged, almost piteously. ``Please
don't add that to all the rest. Oh, I understand,
of course, it's none of my affairs, and I wasn't
going to speak,'' she choked; ``but, to-day, when
you gave me this chance, I had to. At first I
couldn't believe it,'' she plunged on, plainly hurrying
against Billy's return. ``After all you'd
told me of how you meant to fight it--your
tiger skin. And I thought it merely _happened_
that you were here alone with her those days I
came. Then, when I found out they were _always_
the days Mr. Henshaw was away at the doctor's,
I had to believe.''

She stopped for breath. Arkwright, who, up
to this moment had shown that he was completely
mystified as to what she was talking
about, suddenly flushed a painful red. He was
obviously about to speak, but she prevented him
with a quick gesture.

``There's a little more I've got to say, please.
As if it weren't bad enough to do what you're
doing _at all_, but you must needs take it at such
a time as this when--when her husband _isn't_
doing just what he ought to do, and we all know
it--it's so unfair to take her now, and try to--
to win-- And you aren't even fair with him,''
she protested tremulously. ``You pretend to
be his friend. You go with him everywhere. It's
just as if you were _helping_ to--to pull him down.
You're one with the whole bunch.'' (The blood
suddenly receded from Arkwright's face, leaving
it very white; but if Alice saw it, she paid no
heed.) ``Everybody says you are. Then to
come here like this, on the sly, when you know
he can't be here, I-- Oh, can't you see what
you're doing?''

There was a moment's pause, then Arkwright
spoke. A deep pain looked from his eyes. He
was still very pale, and his mouth had settled
into sad lines.

``I think, perhaps, it may be just as well if I
tell you what I _am_ doing--or, rather, trying to
do,'' he said quietly.

Then he told her.

``And so you see,'' he added, when he had
finished the tale, ``I haven't really accomplished
much, after all, and it seems the little I have
accomplished has only led to my being misjudged
by you, my best friend.''

Alice gave a sobbing cry. Her face was scarlet.
Horror, shame, and relief struggled for mastery
in her countenance.

``Oh, but I didn't know, I didn't know,'' she
moaned, twisting her hands nervously. ``And
now, when you've been so brave, so true--for
me to accuse you of-- Oh, can you _ever_ forgive
me? But you see, knowing that you _did_ care for
her, it did look--'' She choked into silence,
and turned away her head.

He glanced at her tenderly, mournfully.

``Yes,'' he said, after a minute, in a low voice.
``I can see how it did look; and so I'm going to
tell you now something I had meant never to tell
you. There really couldn't have been anything in
that, you see, for I found out long ago that it was
gone--whatever love there had been for--
Billy.''

``But your--tiger skin!''

``Oh, yes, I thought it was alive,'' smiled
Arkwright, sadly, ``when I asked you to help me
fight it. But one day, very suddenly, I discovered
that it was nothing but a dead skin of dreams
and memories. But I made another discovery,
too. I found that just beyond lay another one,
and that was very much alive.''

``Another one?'' Alice turned to him in
wonder. ``But you never asked me to help you fight
--that one!''

He shook his head.

``No; I couldn't, you see. You couldn't have
helped me. You'd only have hindered me.''

``Hindered you?''

``Yes. You see, it was my love for--you,
that I was fighting--then.''

Alice gave a low cry and flushed vividly; but
Arkwright hurried on, his eyes turned away.

``Oh, I understand. I know. I'm not asking
for--anything. I heard some time ago of your
engagement to Calderwell. I've tried many
times to say the proper, expected pretty speeches,
but--I couldn't. I will now, though. I do.
You have all my tenderest best wishes for your
happiness--dear. If long ago I hadn't been
such a blind fool as not to know my own
heart--''

``But--but there's some mistake,'' interposed
Alice, palpitatingly, with hanging head.
``I--I'm not engaged to Mr. Calderwell.''

Arkwright turned and sent a keen glance into
her face.

``You're--not?''

``No.''

``But I heard that Calderwell--'' He stopped
helplessly.

``You heard that Mr. Calderwell was engaged,
very likely. But--it so happens he isn't engaged--
to me,'' murmured Alice, faintly.

``But, long ago you said--'' Arkwright
paused, his eyes still keenly searching her face.

``Never mind what I said--long ago,'' laughed
Alice, trying unsuccessfully to meet his gaze.
``One says lots of things, at times, you know.''

Into Arkwright's eyes came a new light, a
light that plainly needed but a breath to fan it
into quick fire.

``Alice,'' he said softly, ``do you mean that
maybe now--I needn't try to fight--that other
tiger skin?''

There was no answer.

Arkwright reached out a pleading hand.

``Alice, dear, I've loved you so long,'' he begged
unsteadily. ``Don't you think that sometime,
if I was very, very patient, you could just _begin_
--to care a little for me?''

Still there was no answer. Then, slowly, Alice
shook her head. Her face was turned quite away
--which was a pity, for if Arkwright could have
seen the sudden tender mischief in her eyes, his
own would not have become so somber.

``Not even a little bit?''

``I couldn't ever--begin,'' answered a half-
smothered voice.

``Alice!'' cried the man, heart-brokenly.

Alice turned now, and for a fleeting instant
let him see her eyes, glowing with the love so
long kept in relentless exile.

``I couldn't, because, you see-I began--
long ago,'' she whispered.

``Alice!'' It was the same single word, but
spoken with a world of difference, for into it now
was crowded all the glory and the wonder of a
great love. ``Alice!'' breathed the man again;
and this time the word was, oh, so tenderly whispered
into the little pink and white ear of the girl
in his arms.

``I got delayed,'' began Billy, in the doorway.

``Oh-h!'' she broke off, beating a hushed, but
precipitate, retreat.

Fully thirty minutes later, Billy came to the
door again. This time her approach was heralded
by a snatch of song.

``I hope you'll excuse my being gone so long,''
she smiled, as she entered the room where her
two guests sat decorously face to face at the chess-
table.

``Well, you know you said you'd be gone ten
minutes,'' Arkwright reminded her, politely.

``Yes, I know I did.'' And Billy, to her credit,
did not even smile at the man who did not know
ten minutes from fifty.

CHAPTER XXX

BY A BABY'S HAND

After all, it was the baby's hand that did it,
as was proper, and perhaps to be expected; for
surely, was it not Bertram, Jr.'s place to show
his parents that he was, indeed, no Wedge, but
a dear and precious Tie binding two loving, loyal
hearts more and more closely together? It
would seem, indeed, that Bertram, Jr., thought
so, perhaps, and very bravely he set about it;
though, to carry out his purpose, he had to turn
his steps into an unfamiliar way--a way of pain,
and weariness, and danger.

It was Arkwright who told Bertram that the
baby was very sick, and that Billy wanted him.
Bertram went home at once to find a distracted,
white-faced Billy, and a twisted, pain-racked
little creature, who it was almost impossible to
believe was the happy, laughing baby boy he
had left that morning.

For the next two weeks nothing was thought
of in the silent old Beacon Street house but the
tiny little life hovering so near Death's door that
twice it appeared to have slipped quite across
the threshold. All through those terrible weeks
it seemed as if Billy neither ate nor slept; and
always at her side, comforting, cheering, and
helping wherever possible was Bertram, tender,
loving, and marvelously thoughtful.

Then came the turning point when the universe
itself appeared to hang upon a baby's
breath. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, came
the fluttering back of the tiny spirit into the
longing arms stretched so far, far out to meet and
hold it. And the father and the mother, looking
into each other's sleepless, dark-ringed eyes,
knew that their son was once more theirs to love
and cherish.

When two have gone together with a dear one
down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death,
and have come back, either mourning or rejoicing,
they find a different world from the one they
had left. Things that were great before seem
small, and some things that were small seem
great. At least Bertram and Billy found their
world thus changed when together they came
back bringing their son with them.

In the long weeks of convalescence, when the
healthy rosiness stole bit by bit into the baby's
waxen face, and the light of recognition and
understanding crept day by day into the baby's
eyes, there was many a quiet hour for heart-to-
heart talks between the two who so anxiously
and joyously hailed every rosy tint and fleeting
sparkle. And there was so much to tell, so much
to hear, so much to talk about! And always,
running through everything, was that golden
thread of joy, beside which all else paled--that
they had Baby and each other. As if anything
else mattered!

To be sure, there was Bertram's arm. Very
early in their talks Billy found out about that.
But Billy, with Baby getting well, was not to be
daunted, even by this.

``Nonsense, darling--not paint again,
indeed! Why, Bertram, of course you will,'' she
cried confidently.

``But, Billy, the doctor said,'' began Bertram;
but Billy would not even listen.

``Very well, what if he did, dear?'' she
interrupted. ``What if he did say you couldn't use
your right arm much again?'' Billy's voice broke
a little, then quickly steadied into something very
much like triumph. ``You've got your left one!''

Bertram shook his head.

``I can't paint with that.''

``Yes, you can,'' insisted Billy, firmly. ``Why,
Bertram, what do you suppose you were given
two arms for if not to fight with both of them?
And I'm going to be ever so much prouder of
what you paint now, because I'll know how splendidly
you worked to do it. Besides, there's Baby.
As if you weren't ever going to paint for Baby!
Why, Bertram, I'm going to have you paint Baby,
one of these days. Think how pleased he'll be
to see it when he grows up! He's nicer, anyhow,
than any old `Face of a Girl' you ever did.
Paint? Why, Bertram, darling, of course you're
going to paint, and better than you ever did before!''

Bertram shook his head again; but this time
he smiled, and patted Billy's cheek with the tip
of his forefinger.

``As if I could!'' he disclaimed. But that
afternoon he went into his long-deserted studio and
hunted up his last unfinished picture. For some
time he stood motionless before it; then, with a
quick gesture of determination, he got out his
palette, paints, and brushes. This time not until
he had painted ten, a dozen, a score of strokes,
did he drop his brush with a sigh and carefully
erase the fresh paint on the canvas. The next
day he worked longer, and this time he allowed
a little, a very little, of what he had done to
remain.

The third day Billy herself found him at his
easel.

``I wonder--do you suppose I could?'' he
asked fearfully.

``Why, dearest, of course you can! Haven't
you noticed? Can't you see how much more you
can do with your left hand now? You've _had_ to
use it, you see. _I've_ seen you do a lot of things
with it, lately, that you never used to do at all.
And, of course, the more you do with it, the more
you can!''

``I know; but that doesn't mean that I can
paint with it,'' sighed Bertram, ruefully eyeing
the tiny bit of fresh color his canvas showed for
his long afternoon's work.

``You wait and see,'' nodded Billy, with so
overwhelming a cheery confidence that Bertram,
looking into her glowing face, was conscious of a
curious throb of exultation, almost as if already
the victory were his.

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