Miss Billy Married

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

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``Say, dearie, I forgot to tell you,'' he began,
``but I met an old friend in the subway this
morning, and I--well, I remembered what you
said about bringing 'em home to dinner next
time, so I asked him for to-night. Do you mind?
It's--''

``Mind? Of course not! I'm glad you did,''
plunged in Billy, with feverish eagerness. (Even
now, just the bare mention of anything connected
with that awful ``test'' night was enough to set
Billy's nerves to tingling.) ``I want you to always
bring them home, Bertram.''

``All right, dear. We'll be there at six o'clock
then. It's--it's Calderwell, this time. You
remember Calderwell, of course.''

``Not--_Hugh_ Calderwell?'' Billy's question
was a little faint.

``Sure!'' Bertram laughed oddly, and lowered
his voice. ``I suspect _once_ I wouldn't have
brought him home to you. I was too jealous.
But now--well, now maybe I want him to see
what he's lost.''

``_Bertram!_''

But Bertram only laughed mischievously, and
called a gay ``Good-by till to-night, then!''

Billy, at her end of the wires, hung up the
receiver and backed against the wall a little
palpitatingly.

Calderwell! To dinner--Calderwell! Did
she remember Calderwell? Did she, indeed! As
if one could easily forget the man that, for a year
or two, had proposed marriage as regularly (and
almost as lightly!) as he had torn a monthly leaf
from his calendar! Besides, was it not he, too,
who had said that Bertram would never love any
girl, _really_; that it would be only the tilt of her
chin or the turn of her head that he loved--to
paint? And now he was coming to dinner--and
with Bertram.

Very well, he should see! He should see that
Bertram _did_ love her; _her_--not the tilt of her
chin nor the turn of her head. He should see how
happy they were, what a good wife she made, and
how devoted and _satisfied_ Bertram was in his
home. He should see! And forthwith Billy
picked up her skirts and tripped up-stairs to select
her very prettiest house-gown to do honor to the
occasion. Up-stairs, however, one thing and another
delayed her, so that it was four o'clock when
she turned her attention to her toilet; and it was
while she was hesitating whether to be stately
and impressive in royally sumptuous blue velvet
and ermine, or cozy and tantalizingly homy{sic} in
bronze-gold crpe de Chine and swan's-down,
that the telephone bell rang again.

Eliza and Pete had not yet returned; so, as
before, Billy answered it. This time Eliza's
shaking voice came to her.

``Is that you, ma'am?''

``Why, yes, Eliza?''

``Yes'm, it's me, ma'am. It's about Uncle
Pete. He's give us a turn that's 'most scared us
out of our wits.''

``Pete! You mean he's sick?''

``Yes, ma'am, he was. That is, he is, too--
only he's better, now, thank goodness,'' panted
Eliza. ``But he ain't hisself yet. He's that white
and shaky! Would you--could you--that is,
would you mind if we didn't come back till into
the evenin', maybe?''

``Why, of course not,'' cried Pete's mistress,
quickly. ``Don't come a minute before he's able,
Eliza. Don't come until to-morrow.''

Eliza gave a trembling little laugh.

``Thank you, ma'am; but there wouldn't be
no keepin' of Uncle Pete here till then. If he
could take five steps alone he'd start now. But
he can't. He says he'll be all right pretty quick,
though. He's had 'em before--these spells--
but never quite so bad as this, I guess; an' he's
worryin' somethin' turrible 'cause he can't start
for home right away.''

``Nonsense!'' cut in Mrs. Bertram Henshaw.

``Yes'm. I knew you'd feel that way,''
stammered Eliza, gratefully. ``You see, I couldn't
leave him to come alone, and besides, anyhow,
I'd have to stay, for mother ain't no more use
than a wet dish-rag at such times, she's that
scared herself. And she ain't very well, too. So
if--if you _could_ get along--''

``Of course we can! And tell Pete not to
worry one bit. I'm so sorry he's sick!''

``Thank you, ma'am. Then we'll be there
some time this evenin','' sighed Eliza.

From the telephone Billy turned away with a
troubled face.

``Pete _is_ ill,'' she was saying to herself. ``I
don't like the looks of it; and he's so faithful he'd
come if--'' With a little cry Billy stopped
short. Then, tremblingly, she sank into the
nearest chair. ``Calderwell--and he's coming to
_dinner!_'' she moaned.

For two benumbed minutes Billy sat staring
at nothing. Then she ran to the telephone and
called the Annex.

Aunt Hannah answered.

``Aunt Hannah, for heaven's sake, if you love
me,'' pleaded Billy, ``send Rosa down instanter!
Pete is sick over to South Boston, and Eliza is
with him; and Bertram is bringing Hugh Calderwell
home to dinner. _Can_ you spare Rosa?''

``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! Of course
I can--I mean I could--but Rosa isn't here,
dear child! It's her day out, you know.''

``O dear, of course it is! I might have known,
if I'd thought; but Pete and Eliza have spoiled
me. They never take days out at meal time--
both together, I mean--until to-night.''

``But, my dear child, what will you do?''

``I don't know. I've got to think. I _must_ do
something!''

``Of course you must! I'd come over myself
if it wasn't for my cold.''

``As if I'd let you!''

``There isn't anybody here, only Tommy.
Even Alice is gone. Oh, Billy, Billy, this only
goes to prove what I've always said, that _no_
woman _ought_ to be a wife until she's an efficient
housekeeper; and--''

``Yes, yes, Aunt Hannah, I know,'' moaned
Billy, frenziedly. ``But I am a wife, and I'm not
an efficient housekeeper; and Hugh Calderwell
won't wait for me to learn. He's coming to-night.
_To-night!_ And I've got to do something. Never
mind. I'll fix it some way. Good-by!''

``But, Billy, Billy! Oh, my grief and conscience,''
fluttered Aunt Hannah's voice across
the wires as Billy snapped the receiver into
place.

For the second time that day Billy backed
palpitatingly against the wall. Her eyes sought
the clock fearfully.

Fifteen minutes past four. She had an hour and
three quarters. She could, of course, telephone
Bertram to dine Calderwell at a club or some
hotel. But to do this now, the very first time,
when it had been her own suggestion that he
``bring them home''--no, no, she could not do
that! Anything but that! Besides, very likely
she could not reach Bertram, anyway. Doubtless
he had left the Winthrops' by this time.

There was Marie. She could telephone Marie.
But Marie could not very well come just now, she
knew; and then, too, there was Cyril to be taken
into consideration. How Cyril would gibe at the
wife who had to call in all the neighbors just
because her husband was bringing home a friend
to dinner! How he would-- Well, he shouldn't!
He should not have the chance. So, there!

With a jerk Mrs. Bertram Henshaw pulled
herself away from the wall and stood erect. Her
eyes snapped, and the very poise of her chin
spelled determination.

Very well, she would show them. Was not
Bertram bringing this man home because he was
proud of her? Mighty proud he would be if she
had to call in half of Boston to get his dinner for
him! Nonsense! She would get it herself. Was
not this the time, if ever, to be an oak? A vine,
doubtless, would lean and cling and telephone,
and whine ``I can't!'' But not an oak. An oak
would hold up its head and say ``I can!'' An
oak would go ahead and get that dinner. She
would be an oak. She would get that dinner.

What if she didn't know how to cook bread and
cake and pies and things? One did not have to
cook bread and cake and pies just to get a dinner
--meat and potatoes and vegetables! Besides,
she _could_ make peach fritters. She knew she
could. She would show them!

And with actually a bit of song on her lips, Billy
skipped up-stairs for her ruffled apron and dust-
cap--two necessary accompaniments to this
dinner-getting, in her opinion.

Billy found the apron and dust-cap with no
difficulty; but it took fully ten of her precious
minutes to unearth from its obscure hiding-place
the blue-and-gold ``Bride's Helper'' cookbook,
one of Aunt Hannah's wedding gifts.

On the way to the kitchen, Billy planned her
dinner. As was natural, perhaps, she chose the
things she herself would like to eat.

``I won't attempt anything very elaborate,''
she said to herself. ``It would be wiser to have
something simple, like chicken pie, perhaps. I
love chicken pie! And I'll have oyster stew first
--that is, after the grapefruit. Just oysters
boiled in milk must be easier than soup to make.
I'll begin with grapefruit with a cherry in it, like
Pete fixes it. Those don't have to be cooked,
anyhow. I'll have fish--Bertram loves the fish
course. Let me see, halibut, I guess, with egg
sauce. I won't have any roast; nothing but the
chicken pie. And I'll have squash and onions.
I can have a salad, easy--just lettuce and stuff.
That doesn't have to be cooked. Oh, and the
peach fritters, if I get time to make them. For
dessert--well, maybe I can find a new pie or
pudding in the cookbook. I want to use that
cookbook for something, after hunting all this
time for it!''

In the kitchen Billy found exquisite neatness,
and silence. The first brought an approving light
to her eyes; but the second, for some unapparent
reason, filled her heart with vague misgiving.
This feeling, however, Billy resolutely cast from
her as she crossed the room, dropped her book
on to the table, and turned toward the shining
black stove.

There was an excellent fire. Glowing points
of light showed that only a good draft was needed
to make the whole mass of coal red-hot. Billy,
however, did not know this. Her experience of
fires was confined to burning wood in open grates
--and wood in open grates had to be poked to
make it red and glowing. With confident alacrity
now, therefore, Billy caught up the poker, thrust
it into the mass of coals and gave them a fine
stirring up. Then she set back the lid of the
stove and went to hunt up the ingredients for
her dinner.

By the time Billy had searched five minutes
and found no chicken, no oysters, and no halibut,
it occurred to her that her larder was not,
after all, an open market, and that one's provisions
must be especially ordered to fit one's needs.
As to ordering them now--Billy glanced at the
clock and shook her head.

``It's almost five, already, and they'd never
get here in time,'' she sighed regretfully. ``I'll
have to have something else.''

Billy looked now, not for what she wanted, but
for what she could find. And she found: some
cold roast lamb, at which she turned up her nose;
an uncooked beefsteak, which she appropriated
doubtfully; a raw turnip and a head of lettuce,
which she hailed with glee; and some beets,
potatoes, onions, and grapefruit, from all of which
she took a generous supply. Thus laden she
went back to the kitchen.

Spread upon the table they made a brave
show.

``Oh, well, I'll have quite a dinner, after all,''
she triumphed, cocking her head happily. ``And
now for the dessert,'' she finished, pouncing on
the cookbook.

It was while she was turning the leaves to find
the pies and puddings that she ran across the
vegetables and found the word ``beets'' staring
her in the face. Mechanically she read the line
below.

``Winter beets will require three hours to cook.
Use hot water.''

Billy's startled eyes sought the clock.

Three hours--and it was five, now!

Frenziedly, then, she ran her finger down the
page.

``Onions, one and one-half hours. Use hot
water. Turnips require a long time, but if cut
thin they will cook in an hour and a quarter.''

``An hour and a quarter, indeed!'' she moaned.

``Isn't there anything anywhere that doesn't
take forever to cook?''

``Early peas-- . . . green corn-- . . . summer
squash-- . . .'' mumbled Billy's dry lips.
``But what do folks eat in January--_January_?''

It was the apparently inoffensive sentence,
``New potatoes will boil in thirty minutes,''
that brought fresh terror to Billy's soul, and set
her to fluttering the cookbook leaves with renewed
haste. If it took _new_ potatoes thirty minutes
to cook, how long did it take old ones? In
vain she searched for the answer. There were
plenty of potatoes. They were mashed, whipped,
scalloped, creamed, fried, and broiled; they were
made into puffs, croquettes, potato border, and
potato snow. For many of these they were boiled
first--``until tender,'' one rule said.

``But that doesn't tell me how long it takes to
get 'em tender,'' fumed Billy, despairingly. ``I
suppose they think anybody ought to know that
--but I don't!'' Suddenly her eyes fell once more
on the instructions for boiling turnips, and her
face cleared. ``If it helps to cut turnips thin,
why not potatoes?'' she cried. ``I _can_ do that,
anyhow; and I will,'' she finished, with a sigh of
relief, as she caught up half a dozen potatoes and
hurried into the pantry for a knife. A few minutes
later, the potatoes, peeled, and cut almost to
wafer thinness, were dumped into a basin of cold
water.

``There! now I guess you'll cook,'' nodded
Billy to the dish in her hand as she hurried to the
stove.

Chilled by an ominous unresponsiveness, Billy
lifted the stove lid and peered inside. Only a mass
of black and graying coals greeted her. The fire
was out.

``To think that even you had to go back on me
like this!'' upbraided Billy, eyeing the dismal
mass with reproachful gaze.

This disaster, however, as Billy knew, was not
so great as it seemed, for there was still the gas
stove. In the old days, under Dong Ling's rule,
there had been no gas stove. Dong Ling disapproved
of ``devil stoves'' that had ``no coalee,
no woodee, but burned like hellee.'' Eliza,
however, did approve of them; and not long after her
arrival, a fine one had been put in for her use. So
now Billy soon had her potatoes with a brisk
blaze under them.

In frantic earnest, then, Billy went to work.
Brushing the discarded onions, turnip, and beets
into a pail under the table, she was still confronted
with the beefsteak, lettuce, and grapefruit.
All but the beefsteak she pushed to one side
with gentle pats.

``You're all right,'' she nodded to them. ``I
can use you. You don't have to be cooked,
bless your hearts! But _you_--!'' Billy scowled
at the beefsteak and ran her finger down the index
of the ``Bride's Helper''--Billy knew how to
handle that book now.

``No, you don't--not for me!'' she muttered,
after a minute, shaking her finger at the
tenderloin on the table. ``I haven't got any `hot
coals,' and I thought a `gridiron' was where they
played football; though it seems it's some sort
of a dish to cook you in, here--but I shouldn't
know it from a teaspoon, probably, if I should
see it. No, sir! It's back to the refrigerator for
you, and a nice cold sensible roast leg of lamb for
me, that doesn't have to be cooked. Understand?
_Cooked_,'' she finished, as she carried the
beefsteak away and took possession of the hitherto
despised cold lamb.

Once more Billy made a mad search through
cupboards and shelves. This time she bore back
in triumph a can of corn, another of tomatoes, and
a glass jar of preserved peaches. In the kitchen
a cheery bubbling from the potatoes on the stove
greeted her. Billy's spirits rose with the steam.

``There, Spunkie,'' she said gayly to the cat,
who had just uncurled from a nap behind the
stove. ``Tell me I can't get up a dinner! And
maybe we'll have the peach fritters, too, ``she
chirped. ``I've got the peach-part, anyway.''

But Billy did not have the peach fritters, after
all. She got out the sugar and the flour, to be
sure, and she made a great ado looking up the
rule; but a hurried glance at the clock sent her
into the dining-room to set the table, and all
thought of the peach fritters was given up.

CHAPTER X

THE DINNER BILLY GOT

At five minutes of six Bertram and Calderwell
came. Bertram gave his peculiar ring and let
himself in with his latchkey; but Billy did not
meet him in the hall, nor in the drawing-room.
Excusing himself, Bertram hurried up-stairs.
Billy was not in her room, nor anywhere on that
floor. She was not in William's room. Coming
down-stairs to the hall again, Bertram confronted
William, who had just come in.

``Where's Billy?'' demanded the young husband,
with just a touch of irritation, as if he
suspected William of having Billy in his pocket.

William stared slightly.

``Why, I don't know. Isn't she here?''

``I'll ask Pete,'' frowned Bertram.

In the dining-room Bertram found no one,
though the table was prettily set, and showed
half a grapefruit at each place. In the kitchen
--in the kitchen Bertram found a din of rattling
tin, an odor of burned food--, a confusion of
scattered pots and pans, a frightened cat who peered
at him from under a littered stove, and a flushed,
disheveled young woman in a blue dust-cap and
ruffled apron, whom he finally recognized as his
wife.

``Why, Billy!'' he gasped.

Billy, who was struggling with something at
the sink, turned sharply.

``Bertram Henshaw,'' she panted, ``I used to
think you were wonderful because you could
paint a picture. I even used to think I was a
little wonderful because I could write a song.
Well, I don't any more! But I'll tell you who _is_
wonderful. It's Eliza and Rosa, and all the rest
of those women who can get a meal on to the
table all at once, so it's fit to eat!''

``Why, Billy!'' gasped Bertram again, falling
back to the door he had closed behind him.
``What in the world does this mean?''

``Mean? It means I'm getting dinner,'' choked
Billy. ``Can't you see?''

``But--Pete! Eliza!''

``They're sick--I mean he's sick; and I said
I'd do it. I'd be an oak. But how did I know
there wasn't anything in the house except stuff
that took hours to cook--only potatoes? And
how did I know that _they_ cooked in no time, and
then got all smushy and wet staying in the water?
And how did I know that everything else would
stick on and burn on till you'd used every dish
there was in the house to cook 'em in?''

``Why, Billy!'' gasped Bertram, for the third
time. And then, because he had been married
only six months instead of six years, he made the
mistake of trying to argue with a woman whose
nerves were already at the snapping point.
``But, dear, it was so foolish of you to do all this!
Why didn't you telephone? Why didn't you get
somebody?''

Like an irate little tigress, Billy turned at bay.

``Bertram Henshaw,'' she flamed angrily, ``if
you don't go up-stairs and tend to that man up
there, I shall _scream_. Now go! I'll be up when I
can.''

And Bertram went.

It was not so very long, after all, before Billy
came in to greet her guest. She was not stately
and imposing in royally sumptuous blue velvet
and ermine; nor yet was she cozy and homy in
bronze-gold crpe de Chine and swan's-down.
She was just herself in a pretty little morning
house gown of blue gingham. She was minus the
dust-cap and the ruffled apron, but she had a dab
of flour on the left cheek, and a smutch of crock
on her forehead. She had, too, a cut finger on her
right hand, and a burned thumb on her left. But
she was Billy--and being Billy, she advanced
with a bright smile and held out a cordial hand--
not even wincing when the cut finger came under
Calderwell's hearty clasp.

``I'm glad to see you,'' she welcomed him.
``You'll excuse my not appearing sooner, I'm
sure, for--didn't Bertram tell you?--I'm playing
Bridget to-night. But dinner is ready now,
and we'll go down, please,'' she smiled, as she
laid a light hand on her guest's arm.

Behind her, Bertram, remembering the scene
in the kitchen, stared in sheer amazement. Bertram,
it might be mentioned again, had been
married six months, not six years.

What Billy had intended to serve for a ``simple
dinner'' that night was: grapefruit with cherries,
oyster stew, boiled halibut with egg sauce, chicken
pie, squash, onions, and potatoes, peach fritters,
a ``lettuce and stuff'' salad, and some new pie
or pudding. What she did serve was: grapefruit
(without the cherries), cold roast lamb, potatoes
(a mush of sogginess), tomatoes (canned, and
slightly burned), corn (canned, and very much
burned), lettuce (plain); and for dessert, preserved
peaches and cake (the latter rather dry and
stale). Such was Billy's dinner.

The grapefruit everybody ate. The cold lamb
too, met with a hearty reception, especially after
the potatoes, corn, and tomatoes were served--
and tasted. Outwardly, through it all, Billy was
gayety itself. Inwardly she was burning up with
anger and mortification. And because she was
all this, there was, apparently, no limit to her
laughter and sparkling repartee as she talked
with Calderwell, her guest--the guest who,
according to her original plans, was to be shown how
happy she and Bertram were, what a good wife
she made, and how devoted and _satisfied_ Bertram
was in his home.

William, picking at his dinner--as only a
hungry man can pick at a dinner that is uneatable--
watched Billy with a puzzled, uneasy
frown. Bertram, choking over the few mouthfuls
he ate, marked his wife's animated face and
Calderwell's absorbed attention, and settled into
gloomy silence.

But it could not continue forever. The preserved
peaches were eaten at last, and the stale
cake left. (Billy had forgotten the coffee--
which was just as well, perhaps.) Then the four
trailed up-stairs to the drawing-room.

At nine o'clock an anxious Eliza and a remorseful,
apologetic Pete came home and descended
to the horror the once orderly kitchen and dining-
room had become. At ten, Calderwell, with very
evident reluctance, tore himself away from Billy's
gay badinage, and said good night. At two
minutes past ten, an exhausted, nerve-racked Billy
was trying to cry on the shoulders of both Uncle
William and Bertram at once.

``There, there, child, don't! It went off all
right,'' patted Uncle William.

``Billy, darling,'' pleaded Bertram, ``please
don't cry so! As if I'd ever let you step foot in
that kitchen again!''

At this Billy raised a tear-wet face, aflame with
indignant determination.

``As if I'd ever let you keep me _from_ it, Bertram
Henshaw, after this!'' she contested. ``I'm
not going to do another thing in all my life but
_cook!_ When I think of the stuff we had to eat,
after all the time I took to get it, I'm simply crazy!
Do you think I'd run the risk of such a thing as
this ever happening again?''

CHAPTER XI

CALDERWELL DOES SOME QUESTIONING

On the day after his dinner with Mr. and Mrs.
Bertram Henshaw, Hugh Calderwell left Boston
and did not return until more than a month had
passed. One of his first acts, when he did come,
was to look up Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the address
which Billy had given him.

Calderwell had not seen Arkwright since they
parted in Paris some two years before, after a six-
months tramp through Europe together. Calderwell
liked Arkwright then, greatly, and he lost
no time now in renewing the acquaintance.

The address, as given by Billy, proved to be an
attractive but modest apartment hotel near the
Conservatory of Music; and Calderwell was
delighted to find Arkwright at home in his
comfortable little bachelor suite.

Arkwright greeted him most cordially.

``Well, well,'' he cried, ``if it isn't Calderwell!
And how's Mont Blanc? Or is it the Killarney
Lakes this time, or maybe the Sphinx that I
should inquire for, eh?''

``Guess again,'' laughed Calderwell, throwing
off his heavy coat and settling himself comfortably
in the inviting-looking morris chair his
friend pulled forward.

``Sha'n't do it,'' retorted Arkwright, with a
smile. ``I never gamble on palpable uncertainties,
except for a chance throw or two, as I gave
a minute ago. Your movements are altogether
too erratic, and too far-reaching, for ordinary
mortals to keep track of.''

``Well, maybe you're right,'' grinned Calderwell,
appreciatively. ``Anyhow, you would have
lost this time, sure thing, for I've been working.''

``Seen the doctor yet?'' queried Arkwright,
coolly, pushing the cigars across the table.

``Thanks--for both,'' sniffed Calderwell, with
a reproachful glance, helping himself. ``Your
good judgment in some matters is still unimpaired,
I see,'' he observed, tapping the little gilded band
which had told him the cigar was an old favorite.
``As to other matters, however,--you're wrong
again, my friend, in your surmise. I am not sick,
and I have been working.''

``So? Well, I'm told they have very good
specialists here. Some one of them ought to
hit your case. Still--how long has it been
running?'' Arkwright's face showed only grave
concern.

``Oh, come, let up, Arkwright,'' snapped
Calderwell, striking his match alight with a vigorous
jerk. ``I'll admit I haven't ever given any _special_
indication of an absorbing passion for work. But
what can you expect of a fellow born with a
whole dozen silver spoons in his mouth? And
that's what I was, according to Bertram Henshaw.
According to him again, it's a wonder I
ever tried to feed myself; and perhaps he's right
--with my mouth already so full.''

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