Miss Billy Married

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

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Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her
watch.

Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram
to be coming. He had said ``dinner''; and, of
course, after dinner was over he would be coming
home--to her. Very well; she would show him
that she had at least got along without him as
well as he had without her. At all events he
would not find her forlornly sitting with her nose
pressed against the window-pane! And forthwith
Billy established herself in a big chair (with its
back carefully turned toward the door by which
Bertram would enter), and opened a book.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Billy
fidgeted in her chair, twisted her neck to look out
into the hall--and dropped her book with a
bang.

Uncle William jerked himself awake, and
Spunkie opened sleepy eyes. Then both settled
themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked
up her book, and flounced back into her chair.
But she did not read. Disconsolately she sat
staring straight ahead--until a quick step on
the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action.
Assuming a look of absorbed interest she twitched
the book open and held it before her face. . . .
But the step passed by the door: and Billy saw
then that her book was upside down.

Five, ten, fifteen more minutes passed. Billy
still sat, apparently reading, though she had not
turned a page. The book now, however, was
right side up. One by one other minutes passed
till the great clock in the hall struck nine long
strokes.

``Well, well, bless my soul!'' mumbled Uncle
William, resolutely forcing himself to wake up.
``What time was that?''

``Nine o'clock.'' Billy spoke with tragic
distinctness, yet very cheerfully.

``Eh? Only nine?'' blinked Uncle William.
``I thought it must be ten. Well, anyhow, I
believe I'll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually
sleepy.''

Billy said nothing. `` `Only nine,' indeed!''
she was thinking wrathfully.

At the door Uncle William turned.

``You're not going to sit up, my dear, of
course,'' he remarked.

For the second time that evening a cold hand
seemed to clutch Billy's heart.

_Sit up!_ Had it come already to that? Was
she even now a wife who had need to _sit up_ for
her husband?

``I really wouldn't, my dear,'' advised Uncle
William again. ``Good night.''

``Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet,'' Billy
managed to declare brightly. ``Good night.''

Then Uncle William went up-stairs.

Billy turned to her book, which happened to
be one of William's on ``Fake Antiques.''

`` `To collect anything, these days, requires
expert knowledge, and the utmost care and
discrimination,' '' read Billy's eyes. ``So Uncle
William _expected_ Bertram was going to spend the
whole evening as well as stay to dinner!'' ran
Billy's thoughts. `` `The enormous quantity of
bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware
that is now flooding the market, is made on the
Continent--and made chiefly for the American
trade,' '' continued the book.

``Well, who cares if it is,'' snapped Billy, springing
to her feet and tossing the volume aside.
``Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to
play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay
--_gay_--GAY! He's gay. He's down there with
those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd
_rather_ be than be with me! Do you think I want
him to come home and find me moping over a
stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have
him find me gay, too. Now, come, Spunkie;
hurry--wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm
sure.'' And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins,
hung with little soft balls, full in Spunkie's face.

But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie
would not play. She pretended to. She bit at
the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the
dangling balls. For a fleeting instant, even,
something like mischief gleamed in her big yellow eyes.
Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet,
and Spunkie's sleek gray head settled slowly back
into lazy comfort. Spunkie was asleep.

Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.

``And you, too, Spunkie,'' she murmured.
Then she got to her feet and went back to her
chair. This time she picked up a magazine and
began to turn the leaves very fast, one after another.

Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared
at the door to get Spunkie, and to see that everything
was all right for the night.

``Mr. Bertram is not in yet?'' he began doubtfully.

Billy shook her head with a bright smile.

``No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every
minute. Good night.''

``Thank you, ma'am. Good night.''

The old man picked up the sleepy cat and went
down-stairs. A little later Billy heard his quiet
steps coming back through the hall and ascending
the stairs. She listened until from away at the
top of the house she heard his door close. Then
she drew a long breath.

Ten o'clock--after ten o'clock, and Bertram
not there yet! And was this what he called dinner?
Did one eat, then, till ten o'clock, when one
dined with one's friends?

Billy was angry now--very angry. She was
too angry to be reasonable. This thing that her
husband had done seemed monstrous to her,
smarting, as she was, under the sting of hurt
pride and grieved loneliness--the state of mind
into which she had worked herself. No longer
now did she wish to be gay when her husband
came. No longer did she even pretend to assume
indifference. Bertram had done wrong. He had
been unkind, cruel, thoughtless, inconsiderate of
her comfort and happiness. Furthermore he _did
not_ love her as well as she did him or he never,
never could have done it! She would let him see,
when he came, just how hurt and grieved she was
--and how disappointed, too.

Billy was walking the floor now, back and forth,
back and forth.

Half-past ten came, then eleven. As the eleven
long strokes reverberated through the silent
house Billy drew in her breath and held it suspended.
A new look came to her eyes. A growing
terror crept into them and culminated in a
frightened stare at the clock.

Billy ran then to the great outer door and pulled
it open. A cold wind stung her face, and caused
her to shut the door quickly. Back and forth she
began to pace the floor again; but in five minutes
she had run to the door once more. This time
she wore a heavy coat of Bertram's which she
caught up as she passed the hall-rack.

Out on to the broad top step Billy hurried, and
peered down the street. As far as she could see
not a person was in sight. Across the street in
the Public Garden the wind stirred the gray
tree-branches and set them to casting weird
shadows on the bare, frozen ground. A warning
something behind her sent Billy scurrying into
the house just in time to prevent the heavy door's
closing and shutting her out, keyless, in the cold.

Half-past eleven came, and again Billy ran to
the door. This time she put the floor-mat against
the casing so that the door could not close. Once
more she peered wildly up and down the street,
and across into the deserted, wind-swept Garden.

There was only terror now in Billy's face. The
anger was all gone. In Billy's mind there was not
a shadow of doubt--something had happened to
Bertram.

Bertram was ill--hurt--dead! And he was
so good, so kind, so noble; such a dear, dear
husband! If only she could see him once. If only
she could ask his forgiveness for those wicked,
unkind, accusing thoughts. If only she could
tell him again that she did love him. If only--

Far down the street a step rang sharply on the
frosty air. A masculine figure was hurrying toward
the house. Retreating well into the shadow of the
doorway, Billy watched it, her heart pounding
against her side in great suffocating throbs.
Nearer and nearer strode the approaching figure
until Billy had almost sprung to meet it with a
glad cry--almost, but not quite; for the figure
neither turned nor paused, but marched straight
on--and Billy saw then, under the arc light, a
brown-bearded man who was not Bertram at all.

Three times during the next few minutes did
the waiting little bride on the doorstep watch
with palpitating yearning a shadowy form appear,
approach--and pass by. At the third
heart-breaking disappointment, Billy wrung her
hands helplessly.

``I don't see how there can be--so many--
utterly _useless_ people in the world!'' she choked.
Then, thoroughly chilled and sick at heart, she
went into the house and closed the door.

Once again, back and forth, back and forth,
Billy took up her weary vigil. She still wore the
heavy coat. She had forgotten to take it off.
Her face was pitifully white and drawn. Her
eyes were wild. One of her hands was nervously
caressing the rough sleeve of the coat as it hung
from her shoulder.

One--two--three--

Billy gave a sharp cry and ran into the hall.

Yes, it was twelve o'clock. And now, always,
all the rest of the dreary, useless hours that that
clock would tick away through an endless existence,
she would have to live--without Bertram.
If only she could see him once more! But she
could not. He was dead. He must be dead, now.
Here it was twelve o'clock, and--

There came a quick step, the click of a key in
the lock, then the door swung back and Bertram,
big, strong, and merry-eyed, stood before her.

``Well, well, hullo,'' he called jovially. Why,
Billy, what's the matter?'' he broke off, in quite
a different tone of voice.

And then a curious thing happened. Billy,
who, a minute before, had been seeing only a dear,
noble, adorable, _lost_ Bertram, saw now suddenly
only the man that had stayed _happily_ till midnight
with two friends, while she--she--

``Matter! Matter!'' exclaimed Billy sharply,
then. ``Is this what you call staying to dinner,
Bertram Henshaw?''

Bertram stared. A slow red stole to his
forehead. It was his first experience of coming home
to meet angry eyes that questioned his behavior
--and he did not like it. He had been, perhaps,
a little conscience-smitten when he saw how late
he had stayed; and he had intended to say he
was sorry, of course. But to be thus sharply
called to account for a perfectly innocent good
time with a couple of friends--! To come home
and find Billy making a ridiculous scene like
this--! He--he would not stand for it! He--

Bertram's lips snapped open. The angry retort
was almost spoken when something in the piteously
quivering chin and white, drawn face opposite
stopped it just in time.

``Why, Billy--darling!'' he murmured instead.

It was Billy's turn to change. All the anger
melted away before the dismayed tenderness in
those dear eyes and the grieved hurt in that dear
voice.

``Well, you--you--I--'' Billy began to cry.

It was all right then, of course, for the next
minute she was crying on Bertram's big, broad
shoulder; and in the midst of broken words,
kisses, gentle pats, and inarticulate croonings,
the Big, Bad Quarrel, that had been all ready to
materialize, faded quite away into nothingness.

``I didn't have such an awfully good time, anyhow,
avowed Bertram, when speech became
rational. ``I'd rather have been home with you.''

``Nonsense!'' blinked Billy, valiantly. ``Of
course you had a good time; and it was perfectly
right you should have it, too! And I--I hope
you'll have it again.''

``I sha'n't,'' emphasized Bertram, promptly,
``--not and leave you!''

Billy regarded him with adoring eyes.

``I'll tell you; we'll have 'em come here,'' she
proposed gayly.

``Sure we will,'' agreed Bertram.

``Yes; sure we will,'' echoed Billy, with a
contented sigh. Then, a little breathlessly, she
added: ``Anyhow, I'll know--where you are.
I won't think you're--dead!''

``You--blessed--little-goose!'' scolded
Bertram, punctuating each word with a kiss.

Billy drew a long sigh.

``If this is a quarrel I'm going to have them
often,'' she announced placidly.

``Billy!'' The young husband was plainly
aghast.

``Well, I am--because I like the making-up,
dimpled Billy, with a mischievous twinkle as she
broke from his clasp and skipped ahead up the
stairway.

CHAPTER VIII

BILLY CULTIVATES A ``COMFORTABLE INDIFFERENCE''

The next morning, under the uncompromising
challenge of a bright sun, Billy began to be
uneasily suspicious that she had been just a bit
unreasonable and exacting the night before. To
make matters worse she chanced to run across a
newspaper criticism of a new book bearing the
ominous title: ``When the Honeymoon Wanes
A Talk to Young Wives.''

Such a title, of course, attracted her
supersensitive attention at once; and, with a curiously
faint feeling, she picked up the paper and began to
read.

As the most of the criticism was taken up with
quotations from the book, it was such sentences
as these that met her startled eyes:

``Perhaps the first test comes when the young
wife awakes to the realization that while her husband
loves her very much, he can still make
plans with his old friends which do not include
herself. . . . Then is when the foolish wife lets
her husband see how hurt she is that he can want
to be with any one but herself. . . . Then is
when the husband--used all his life to independence,
perhaps--begins to chafe under these new
bonds that hold him so fast. . . . No man likes
to be held up at the end of a threatened scene and
made to give an account of himself. . . . Before
a woman has learned to cultivate a comfortable
indifference to her husband's comings and goings,
she is apt to be tyrannical and exacting.''

`` `Comfortable indifference,' indeed!'' stormed
Billy to herself. ``As if I ever could be comfortably
indifferent to anything Bertram did!''

She dropped the paper; but there were still
other quotations from the book there, she knew;
and in a moment she was back at the table reading them.

``No man, however fondly he loves his wife,
likes to feel that she is everlastingly peering into
the recesses of his mind, and weighing his every
act to find out if he does or does not love her to-
day as well as he did yesterday at this time. . . .
Then, when spontaneity is dead, she is the chief
mourner at its funeral. . . . A few couples never
leave the Garden of Eden. They grow old hand
in hand. They are the ones who bear and forbear;
who have learned to adjust themselves to
the intimate relationship of living together. . . .
A certain amount of liberty, both of action and
thought, must be allowed on each side. . . . The
family shut in upon itself grows so narrow that all
interest in the outside world is lost. . . . No
two people are ever fitted to fill each other's
lives entirely. They ought not to try to do it.
If they do try, the process is belittling to each,
and the result, if it is successful, is nothing less
than a tragedy; for it could not mean the highest
ideals, nor the truest devotion. . . . Brushing up
against other interests and other personalities is
good for both husband and wife. Then to each
other they bring the best of what they have
found, and each to the other continues to be new
and interesting. . . . The young wife, however,
is apt to be jealous of everything that turns her
husband's attention for one moment away from
herself. She is jealous of his thoughts, his words,
his friends, even his business. . . . But the wife
who has learned to be the clinging vine when her
husband wishes her to cling, and to be the sturdy
oak when clinging vines would be tiresome, has
solved a tremendous problem.''

At this point Billy dropped the paper. She
flung it down, indeed, a bit angrily. There were
still a few more words in the criticism, mostly the
critic's own opinion of the book; but Billy did
not care for this. She had read quite enough--
boo much, in fact. All that sort of talk might be
very well, even necessary, perhaps (she told herself),
for ordinary husbands and wives! but for
her and Bertram--

Then vividly before her rose those initial quoted
words:

``Perhaps the first test comes when the young
wife awakes to the realization that while her husband
loves her very much, he can still make
plans with his old friends which do not include
herself.''

Billy frowned, and put her finger to her lips.
Was that then, last night, a ``test''? Had she
been ``tyrannical and exacting''? Was she
``everlastingly peering into the recesses'' of Bertram's
mind and ``weighing his every act''?
Was Bertram already beginning to ``chafe''
under these new bonds that held him?

No, no, never that! She could not believe that.
But what if he should sometime begin to chafe?
What if they two should, in days to come,
degenerate into just the ordinary, everyday married
folk, whom she saw about her everywhere, and
for whom just such horrid books as this must be
written? It was unbelievable, unthinkable. And
yet, that man had said--

With a despairing sigh Billy picked up the paper
once more and read carefully every word again.
When she had finished she stood soberly thoughtful,
her eyes out of the window.

After all, it was nothing but the same old story.
She was exacting. She did want her husband's
every thought. She _gloried_ in peering into every
last recess of his mind if she had half a chance.
She was jealous of his work. She had almost
hated his painting--at times. She had held him
up with a threatened scene only the night before
and demanded that he should give an account
of himself. She had, very likely, been the clinging
vine when she should have been the sturdy
oak.

Very well, then. (Billy lifted her head and
threw back her shoulders.) He should have no
further cause for complaint. She would be an
oak. She would cultivate that comfortable
indifference to his comings and goings. She would
brush up against other interests and personalities
so as to be ``new'' and ``interesting'' to her
husband. She would not be tyrannical, exacting,
or jealous. She would not threaten scenes, nor
peer into recesses. Whatever happened, she
would not let Bertram begin to chafe against
those bonds!

Having arrived at this heroic and (to her)
eminently satisfactory state of mind, Billy turned
from the window and fell to work on a piece of
manuscript music.

`` `Brush up against other interests,' '' she
admonished herself sternly, as she reached for her
pen.

Theoretically it was beautiful; but practically--

Billy began at once to be that oak. Not an
hour after she had first seen the fateful notice of
``When the Honeymoon Wanes,'' Bertram's ring
sounded at the door down-stairs.

Bertram always let himself in with his latchkey;
but, from the first of Billy's being there, he
had given a peculiar ring at the bell which would
bring his wife flying to welcome him if she were
anywhere in the house. To-day, when the bell
sounded, Billy sprang as usual to her feet, with a
joyous ``There's Bertram!'' But the next moment
she fell back.

``Tut, tut, Billy Neilson Henshaw! Learn to
cultivate a comfortable indifference to your
husband's comings and goings,'' she whispered
fiercely. Then she sat down and fell to work again.

A moment later she heard her husband's voice
talking to some one--Pete, she surmised. ``Here?
You say she's here?'' Then she heard Bertram's
quick step on the stairs. The next minute, very
quietly, he came to her door.

``Ho!'' he ejaculated gayly, as she rose to
receive his kiss. ``I thought I'd find you asleep,
when you didn't hear my ring.''

Billy reddened a little.

``Oh, no, I wasn't asleep.''

``But you didn't hear--'' Bertram stopped
abruptly, an odd look in his eyes. ``Maybe you
did hear it, though,'' he corrected.

Billy colored more confusedly. The fact that
she looked so distressed did not tend to clear
Bertram's face.

``Why, of course, Billy, I didn't mean to insist
on your coming to meet me,'' he began a little
stiffly; but Billy interrupted him.

``Why, Bertram, I just love to go to meet you,''
she maintained indignantly. Then, remembering
just in time, she amended: ``That is, I did love
to meet you, until--'' With a sudden realization
that she certainly had not helped matters any,
she came to an embarrassed pause.

A puzzled frown showed on Bertram's face.

``You did love to meet me until--'' he repeated
after her; then his face changed. ``Billy,
you aren't--you _can't_ be laying up last night
against me!'' he reproached her a little irritably.

``Last night? Why, of course not,'' retorted
Billy, in a panic at the bare mention of the
``test'' which--according to ``When the Honeymoon
Wanes''--was at the root of all her misery.
Already she thought she detected in Bertram's
voice signs that he was beginning to chafe
against those ``bonds.'' ``It is a matter of--
of the utmost indifference to me what time you
come home at night, my dear,'' she finished airily,
as she sat down to her work again.

Bertram stared; then he frowned, turned on
his heel and left the room. Bertram, who knew
nothing of the ``Talk to Young Wives'' in the
newspaper at Billy's feet, was surprised, puzzled,
and just a bit angry.

Billy, left alone, jabbed her pen with such force
against her paper that the note she was making
became an unsightly blot.

``Well, if this is what that man calls being
`comfortably indifferent,' I'd hate to try the
_un_comfortable kind,'' she muttered with emphasis.

CHAPTER IX

THE DINNER BILLY TRIED TO GET

Notwithstanding what Billy was disposed to
regard as the non-success of her first attempt to
profit by the ``Talk to Young Wives;'' she still
frantically tried to avert the waning of her honeymoon.
Assiduously she cultivated the prescribed
``indifference,'' and with at least apparent enthusiasm
she sought the much-to-be-desired ``outside
interests.'' That is, she did all this when she
thought of it when something reminded her
of the sword of destruction hanging over her
happiness. At other times, when she was just being
happy without question, she was her old self
impulsive, affectionate, and altogether adorable.

Naturally, under these circumstances, her conduct
was somewhat erratic. For three days, perhaps,
she would fly to the door at her husband's
ring, and hang upon his every movement. Then,
for the next three, she would be a veritable will-o'-
the-wisp for elusiveness, caring, apparently, not
one whit whether her husband came or went
until poor Bertram, at his wit's end, scourged
himself with a merciless catechism as to what he
had done to vex her. Then, perhaps, just when
he had nerved himself almost to the point of asking
her what was the trouble, there would come
another change, bringing back to him the old
Billy, joyous, winsome, and devoted, plainly
caring nothing for anybody or anything but
himself. Scarcely, however, would he become sure
that it was his Billy back again before she was off
once more, quite beyond his reach, singing with
Arkwright and Alice Greggory, playing with
Tommy Dunn, plunging into some club or church
work--anything but being with him.

That all this was puzzling and disquieting to
Bertram, Billy not once suspected. Billy, so far
as she was concerned, was but cultivating a
comfortable indifference, brushing up against outside
interests, and being an oak.

December passed, and January came, bringing
Miss Marguerite Winthrop to her Boston home.
Bertram's arm was ``as good as ever'' now,
according to its owner; and the sittings for the new
portrait began at once. This left Billy even more
to her own devices, for Bertram entered into his
new work with an enthusiasm born of a glad relief
from forced idleness, and a consuming eagerness
to prove that even though he had failed the first
time, he could paint a portrait of Marguerite
Winthrop that would be a credit to himself, a
conclusive retort to his critics, and a source of
pride to his once mortified friends. With his
whole heart, therefore, he threw himself into the
work before him, staying sometimes well into the
afternoon on the days Miss Winthrop could find
time between her social engagements to give him
a sitting.

It was on such a day, toward the middle of the
month, that Billy was called to the telephone at
half-past twelve o'clock to speak to her husband.

``Billy, dear,'' began Bertram at once, ``if you
don't mind I'm staying to luncheon at Miss Winthrop's
kind request. We've changed the pose--
neither of us was satisfied, you know--but we
haven't quite settled on the new one. Miss
Winthrop has two whole hours this afternoon that
she can give me if I'll stay; and, of course, under
the circumstances, I want to do it.''

``Of course,'' echoed Billy. Billy's voice was
indomitably cheerful.

``Thank you, dear. I knew you'd understand,''
sighed Bertram, contentedly. ``You see, really,
two whole hours, so--it's a chance I can't afford
to lose.''

``Of course you can't,'' echoed Billy, again.

``All right then. Good-by till to-night,'' called
the man.

``Good-by,'' answered Billy, still cheerfully.
As she turned away, however, she tossed her head.
``A new pose, indeed!'' she muttered, with some
asperity. ``Just as if there could be a _new_ pose
after all those she tried last year!''

Immediately after luncheon Pete and Eliza
started for South Boston to pay a visit to Eliza's
mother, and it was soon after they left the house
that Bertram called his wife up again.

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