Miss Billy Married

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

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Billy tried, also, these days, to so conduct
herself that not by any chance could Calderwell
suspect that sometimes she was jealous of Bertram's
art. Not for worlds would she have had
Calderwell begin to get the notion into his head
that his old-time prophecy concerning Bertram's
caring only for the turn of a girl's head or the
tilt of her chin--to paint, was being fulfilled.
Hence, particularly gay and cheerful was Billy
when Calderwell was near. Nor could it be said
that Billy was really unhappy at any time. It
was only that, on occasion, the very depth of her
happiness in Bertram's love frightened her, lest
it bring disaster to herself or Bertram.

Billy still went frequently to the Annex. There
were yet two unfilled rooms in the house. Billy
was hesitating which two of six new friends of
hers to choose as occupants; and it was one day
early in March, after she had been talking the
matter over with Aunt Hannah, that Aunt
Hannah said:

``Dear me, Billy, if you had your way I believe
you'd open another whole house!''

``Do you know?--that's just what I'm thinking
of,'' retorted Billy, gravely. Then she laughed
at Aunt Hannah's shocked gesture of protest.
``Oh, well, I don't expect to,'' she added. ``I
haven't lived very long, but I've lived long enough
to know that you can't always do what you
want to.''

``Just as if there were anything _you_ wanted to
do that you don't do, my dear,'' reproved Aunt
Hannah, mildly.

``Yes, I know.'' Billy drew in her breath with
a little catch. ``I have so much that is lovely;
and that's why I need this house, you know, for
the overflow,'' she nodded brightly. Then, with
a characteristic change of subject, she added:
``My, but you should have tasted of the popovers
I made for breakfast this morning!''

``I should like to,'' smiled Aunt Hannah.
``William says you're getting to be quite a cook.''

``Well, maybe,'' conceded Billy, doubtfully.
``Oh, I can do some things all right; but just
wait till Pete and Eliza go away again, and Bertram
brings home a friend to dinner. That'll
tell the tale. I think now I could have something
besides potato-mush and burned corn--but
maybe I wouldn't, when the time came. If only
I could buy everything I needed to cook with,
I'd be all right. But I can't, I find.''

``Can't buy what you need! What do you
mean?''

Billy laughed ruefully.

``Well, every other question I ask Eliza, she
says: `Why, I don't know; you have to use
your judgment.' Just as if I had any judgment
about how much salt to use, or what dish to take!
Dear me, Aunt Hannah, the man that will grow
judgment and can it as you would a mess of peas,
has got his fortune made!''

``What an absurd child you are, Billy,'' laughed
Aunt Hannah. ``I used to tell Marie-- By the
way, how is Marie? Have you seen her lately?''

``Oh, yes, I saw her yesterday,'' twinkled Billy.
``She had a book of wall-paper samples spread
over the back of a chair, two bunches of samples
of different colored damasks on the table before
her, a `Young Mother's Guide' propped open
in another chair, and a pair of baby's socks in
her lap with a roll each of pink, and white, and
blue ribbon. She spent most of the time, after
I had helped her choose the ribbon, in asking me
if I thought she ought to let the baby cry and
bother Cyril, or stop its crying and hurt the
baby, because her `Mother's Guide' says a certain
amount of crying is needed to develop a baby's
lungs.''

Aunt Hannah laughed, but she frowned, too.

``The idea! I guess Cyril can stand proper
crying--and laughing, too--from his own
child!'' she said then, crisply.

``Oh, but Marie is afraid he can't,'' smiled
Billy. ``And that's the trouble. She says that's
the only thing that worries her--Cyril.''

``Nonsense!'' ejaculated Aunt Hannah.

``Oh, but it isn't nonsense to Marie,'' retorted
Billy. ``You should see the preparations she's
made and the precautions she's taken. Actually,
when I saw those baby's socks in her lap, I didn't
know but she was going to put rubber heels on
them! They've built the new house with deadening
felt in all the walls, and Marie's planned
the nursery and Cyril's den at opposite ends of
the house; and she says she shall keep the baby
there _all_ the time--the nursery, I mean, not the
den. She says she's going to teach it to be a quiet
baby and hate noise. She says she thinks she
can do it, too.''

``Humph!'' sniffed Aunt Hannah, scornfully.

``You should have seen Marie's disgust the
other day,'' went on Billy, a bit mischievously.
``Her Cousin Jane sent on a rattle she'd made
herself, all soft worsted, with bells inside. It
was a dear; but Marie was horror-stricken.
`My baby have a rattle?' she cried. `Why,
what would Cyril say? As if he could stand a
rattle in the house!' And if she didn't give that
rattle to the janitor's wife that very day, while
I was there!''

``Humph!'' sniffed Aunt Hannah again, as
Billy rose to go. ``Well, I'm thinking Marie has
still some things to learn in this world--and
Cyril, too, for that matter.''

``I wouldn't wonder,'' laughed Billy, giving
Aunt Hannah a good-by kiss.

CHAPTER XIII

PETE

Bertram Henshaw had no disquieting forebodings
this time concerning his portrait of Marguerite
Winthrop when the doors of the Bohemian
Ten Club Exhibition were thrown open to members
and invited guests. Just how great a popular
success it was destined to be, he could not know,
of course, though he might have suspected it
when he began to receive the admiring and hearty
congratulations of his friends and fellow-artists
on that first evening.

Nor was the Winthrop portrait the only jewel
in his crown on that occasion. His marvelously
exquisite ``The Rose,'' and his smaller ideal
picture, ``Expectation,'' came in for scarcely less
commendation. There was no doubt now. The
originator of the famous ``Face of a Girl'' had
come into his own again. On all sides this was
the verdict, one long-haired critic of international
fame even claiming openly that Henshaw had not
only equaled his former best work, but had gone
beyond it, in both artistry and technique.

It was a brilliant gathering. Society, as usual,
in costly evening gowns and correct swallow-tails
rubbed elbows with names famous in the world of
Art and Letters. Everywhere were gay laughter
and sparkling repartee. Even the austere-faced
J. G. Winthrop unbent to the extent of grim smiles
in response to the laudatory comments bestowed
upon the pictured image of his idol, his beautiful
daughter.

As to the great financier's own opinion of the
work, no one heard him express it except, perhaps,
the artist; and all that he got was a grip of the
hand and a ``Good! I knew you'd fetch it this
time, my boy!'' But that was enough. And,
indeed, no one who knew the stern old man needed
to more than look into his face that evening to
know of his entire satisfaction in this portrait
soon to be the most recent, and the most cherished
addition to his far-famed art collection.

As to Bertram--Bertram was pleased and
happy and gratified, of course, as was natural;
but he was not one whit more so than was Bertram's
wife. Billy fairly radiated happiness and
proud joy. She told Bertram, indeed, that if he
did anything to make her any prouder, it would
take an Annex the size of the Boston Opera House
to hold her extra happiness.

``Sh-h, Billy! Some one will hear you,''
protested Bertram, tragically; but, in spite of his
horrified voice, he did not look displeased.

For the first time Billy met Marguerite
Winthrop that evening. At the outset there was just
a bit of shyness and constraint in the young wife's
manner. Billy could not forget her old insane
jealousy of this beautiful girl with the envied
name of Marguerite. But it was for only a moment,
and soon she was her natural, charming self.

Miss Winthrop was fascinated, and she made
no pretense of hiding it. She even turned to
Bertram at last, and cried:

``Surely, now, Mr. Henshaw, you need never
go far for a model! Why don't you paint your
wife?''

Billy colored. Bertram smiled.

``I have,'' he said. ``I have painted her many
times. In fact, I have painted her so often that
she once declared it was only the tilt of her chin
and the turn of her head that I loved--to
paint,'' he said merrily, enjoying Billy's pretty
confusion, and not realizing that his words really
distressed her. ``I have a whole studio full of
`Billys' at home.''

``Oh, have you, really?'' questioned Miss
Winthrop, eagerly. ``Then mayn't I see them?
Mayn't I, please, Mrs. Henshaw? I'd so love
to!''

``Why, of course you may,'' murmured both
the artist and his wife.

``Thank you. Then I'm coming right away.
May I? I'm going to Washington next week,
you see. Will you let me come to-morrow at--
at half-past three, then? Will it be quite
convenient for you, Mrs. Henshaw?''

``Quite convenient. I shall be glad to see
you,'' smiled Billy. And Bertram echoed his
wife's cordial permission.

``Thank you. Then I'll be there at half-past
three,'' nodded Miss Winthrop, with a smile, as
she turned to give place to an admiring group,
who were waiting to pay their respects to the
artist and his wife.

There was, after all, that evening, one fly in
Billy's ointment.

It fluttered in at the behest of an old
acquaintance--one of the ``advice women,'' as
Billy termed some of her too interested
friends.

``Well, they're lovely, perfectly lovely, of
course, Mrs. Henshaw,'' said this lady, coming up
to say good-night. ``But, all the samee{sic}, I'm
glad my husband is just a plain lawyer. Look
out, my dear, that while Mr. Henshaw is stealing
all those pretty faces for his canvases--just look
out that the fair ladies don't turn around and steal
his heart before you know it. Dear me, but you
must be so proud of him!''

``I am,'' smiled Billy, serenely; and only the
jagged split that rent the glove on her hand, at
that moment, told of the fierce anger behind that
smile.

``As if I couldn't trust Bertram!'' raged Billy
passionately to herself, stealing a surreptitious
glance at her ruined glove. ``And as if there
weren't ever any perfectly happy marriages--
even if you don't ever hear of them, or read of
them!''

Bertram was not home to luncheon on the day
following the opening night of the Bohemian Ten
Club. A matter of business called him away
from the house early in the morning; but he
told his wife that he surely would be on hand for
Miss Winthrop's call at half-past three o'clock
that afternoon.

``Yes, do,'' Billy had urged. ``I think she's
lovely, but you know her so much better than I
do that I want you here. Besides, you needn't
think _I'm_ going to show her all those Billys of
yours. I may be vain, but I'm not quite vain
enough for that, sir!''

``Don't worry,'' her husband had laughed.
``I'll be here.''

As it chanced, however, something occurred
an hour before half-past three o'clock that drove
every thought of Miss Winthrop's call from
Billy's head.

For three days, now, Pete had been at the home
of his niece in South Boston. He had been forced,
finally, to give up and go away. News from him
the day before had been anything but reassuring,
and to-day, Bertram being gone, Billy had suggested
that Eliza serve a simple luncheon and go
immediately afterward to South Boston to see
how her uncle was. This suggestion Eliza had
followed, leaving the house at one o'clock.

Shortly after two Calderwell had dropped in
to bring Bertram, as he expressed it, a bunch of
bouquets he had gathered at the picture show
the night before. He was still in the drawing-
room, chatting with Billy, when the telephone
bell rang.

``If that's Bertram, tell him to come home;
he's got company,'' laughed Calderwell, as Billy
passed into the hall.

A moment later he heard Billy give a startled
cry, followed by a few broken words at short
intervals. Then, before he could surmise what had
happened, she was back in the drawing-room
again, her eyes full of tears.

``It's Pete,'' she choked. ``Eliza says he can't
live but a few minutes. He wants to see me once
more. What shall I do? John's got Peggy out
with Aunt Hannah and Mrs. Greggory. It was so
nice to-day I made them go. But I must get
there some way--Pete is calling for me. Uncle
William is going, and I told Eliza where she might
reach Bertram; but what shall _I_ do? How shall
I go?''

Calderwell was on his feet at once.

``I'll get a taxi. Don't worry--we'll get
there. Poor old soul--of course he wants to see
you! Get on your things. I'll have it here in no
time,'' he finished, hurrying to the telephone.

``Oh, Hugh, I'm so glad I've got _you_ here,''
sobbed Billy, stumbling blindly toward the
stairway. ``I'll be ready in two minutes.''

And she was; but neither then, nor a little later
when she and Calderwell drove hurriedly away
from the house, did Billy once remember that
Miss Marguerite Winthrop was coming to call
that afternoon to see Mrs. Bertram Henshaw and
a roomful of Billy pictures.

Pete was still alive when Calderwell left Billy
at the door of the modest little home where
Eliza's mother lived.

``Yes, you're in time, ma'am,'' sobbed Eliza;
``and, oh, I'm so glad you've come. He's been
askin' and askin' for ye.''

From Eliza Billy learned then that Mr. William
was there, but not Mr. Bertram. They had not
been able to reach Mr. Bertram, or Mr. Cyril.

Billy never forgot the look of reverent adoration
that came into Pete's eyes as she entered the
room where he lay.

``Miss Billy--my Miss Billy! You were so
good-to come,'' he whispered faintly.

Billy choked back a sob.

``Of course I'd come, Pete,'' she said gently,
taking one of the thin, worn hands into both her
soft ones.

It was more than a few minutes that Pete lived.
Four o'clock came, and five, and he was still with
them. Often he opened his eyes and smiled.
Sometimes he spoke a low word to William or
Billy, or to one of the weeping women at the foot
of the bed. That the presence of his beloved
master and mistress meant much to him was
plain to be seen.

``I'm so sorry,'' he faltered once, ``about that
pretty dress--I spoiled, Miss Billy. But you
know--my hands--''

``I know, I know,'' soothed Billy; ``but don't
worry. It wasn't spoiled, Pete. It's all fixed
now.''

``Oh, I'm so glad,'' sighed the sick man. After
another long interval of silence he turned to
William.

``Them socks--the medium thin ones--you'd
oughter be puttin' 'em on soon, sir, now. They're
in the right-hand corner of the bottom drawer--
you know.''

``Yes, Pete; I'll attend to it,'' William managed
to stammer, after he had cleared his throat.

Eliza's turn came next.

``Remember about the coffee,'' Pete said to
her, ``--the way Mr. William likes it. And always
eggs, you know, for--for--'' His voice
trailed into an indistinct murmur, and his eyelids
drooped wearily.

One by one the minutes passed. The doctor
came and went: there was nothing he could do.
At half-past five the thin old face became again
alight with consciousness. There was a good-by
message for Bertram, and one for Cyril. Aunt
Hannah was remembered, and even little Tommy
Dunn. Then, gradually, a gray shadow crept
over the wasted features. The words came more
brokenly. The mind, plainly, was wandering,
for old Pete was young again, and around him
were the lads he loved, William, Cyril, and
Bertram. And then, very quietly, soon after the
clock struck six, Pete fell into the beginning of
his long sleep.

CHAPTER XIV

WHEN BERTRAM CAME HOME

It was a little after half-past three o'clock that
afternoon when Bertram Henshaw hurried up
Beacon Street toward his home. He had been
delayed, and he feared that Miss Winthrop would
already have reached the house. Mindful of
what Billy had said that morning, he knew how
his wife would fret if he were not there when the
guest arrived. The sight of what he surmised to
be Miss Winthrop's limousine before his door
hastened his steps still more. But as he reached
the house, he was surprised to find Miss Winthrop
herself turning away from the door.

``Why, Miss Winthrop,'' he cried, ``you're not
going _now!_ You can't have been here any--yet!''

``Well, no, I--I haven't,'' retorted the lady,
with heightened color and a somewhat peculiar
emphasis. ``My ring wasn't answered.''

``Wasn't answered!'' Bertram reddened
angrily. ``Why, what can that mean? Where's
the maid? Where's my wife? Mrs. Henshaw
must be here! She was expecting you.''

Bertram, in his annoyed amazement, spoke
loudly, vehemently. Hence he was quite plainly
heard by the group of small boys and girls who
had been improving the mild weather for a frolic
on the sidewalk, and who had been attracted to
his door a moment before by the shining magnet
of the Winthrop limousine with its resplendently
liveried chauffeur. As Bertram spoke, one of
the small girls, Bessie Bailey, stepped forward and
piped up a shrill reply.

``She ain't, Mr. Henshaw! She ain't here.
I saw her go away just a little while ago.''

Bertram turned sharply.

``You saw her go away! What do you mean?''

Small Bessie swelled with importance. Bessie
was thirteen, in spite of her diminutive height.
Bessie's mother was dead, and Bessie's caretakers
were gossiping nurses and servants, who
frequently left in her way books that were much
too old for Bessie to read--but she read them.

``I mean she ain't here--your wife, Mr. Henshaw.
She went away. I saw her. I guess likely
she's eloped, sir.''

``Eloped!''

Bessie swelled still more importantly. To her
experienced eyes the situation contained all the
necessary elements for the customary flight of
the heroine in her story-books, as here, now,
was the irate, deserted husband.

``Sure! And 'twas just before you came--
quite a while before. A big shiny black automobile
like this drove up--only it wasn't quite
such a nice one--an' Mrs. Henshaw an' a man
came out of your house an' got in, an' drove
right away _quick!_ They just ran to get into it,
too--didn't they?'' She appealed to her young
mates grouped about her.

A chorus of shrill exclamations brought Mr.
Bertram Henshaw suddenly to his senses. By a
desperate effort he hid his angry annoyance as
he turned to the manifestly embarrassed young
woman who was already descending the steps.

``My dear Miss Winthrop,'' he apologized
contritely, ``I'm sure you'll forgive this seeming
great rudeness on the part of my wife. Notwithstanding
the lurid tales of our young friends here,
I suspect nothing more serious has happened
than that my wife has been hastily summoned to
Aunt Hannah, perhaps. Or, of course, she may
not have understood that you were coming to-day
at half-past three--though I thought she did.
But I'm so sorry--when you were so kind as to
come--'' Miss Winthrop interrupted with a
quick gesture.

``Say no more, I beg of you,'' she entreated.
``Mrs. Henshaw is quite excusable, I'm sure.
Please don't give it another thought,'' she
finished, as with a hurried direction to the man who
was holding open the door of her car, she stepped
inside and bowed her good-byes.

Bertram, with stern self-control, forced
himself to walk nonchalantly up his steps, leisurely
take out his key, and open his door, under the
interested eyes of Bessie Bailey and her friends;
but once beyond their hateful stare, his demeanor
underwent a complete change. Throwing aside
his hat and coat, he strode to the telephone.

``Oh, is that you, Aunt Hannah?'' he called
crisply, a moment later. ``Well, if Billy's there
will you tell her I want to speak to her,
please?''

``Billy?'' answered Aunt Hannah's slow, gentle
tones. ``Why, my dear boy, Billy isn't here!''

``She isn't? Well, when did she leave? She's
been there, hasn't she?''

``Why, I don't think so, but I'll see, if you
like. Mrs. Greggory and I have just this minute
come in from an automobile ride. We would
have stayed longer, but it began to get chilly, and
I forgot to take one of the shawls that I'd laid
out.''

``Yes; well, if you will see, please, if Billy has
been there, and when she left,'' said Bertram,
with grim self-control.

``All right. I'll see,'' murmured Aunt Hannah.
In a few moments her voice again sounded across
the wires. ``Why, no, Bertram, Rosa says she
hasn't been here since yesterday. Isn't she there
somewhere about the house? Didn't you know
where she was going?''

``Well, no, I didn't--else I shouldn't have
been asking you,'' snapped the irate Bertram
and hung up the receiver with most rude haste,
thereby cutting off an astounded ``Oh, my grief
and conscience!'' in the middle of it.

The next ten minutes Bertram spent in going
through the whole house, from garret to basement.
Needless to say, he found nothing to
enlighten him, or to soothe his temper. Four
o'clock came, then half-past, and five. At five
Bertram began to look for Eliza, but in vain.
At half-past five he watched for William; but
William, too, did not come.

Bertram was pacing the floor now, nervously.
He was a little frightened, but more mortified
and angry. That Billy should have allowed Miss
Winthrop to call by appointment only to find
no hostess, no message, no maid, even, to answer
her ring--it was inexcusable! Impulsiveness,
unconventionality, and girlish irresponsibility were
all very delightful, of course--at times; but
not now, certainly. Billy was not a girl any
longer. She was a married woman. _Something_
was due to him, her husband! A pretty picture
he must have made on those steps, trying to
apologize for a truant wife, and to laugh off that
absurd Bessie Bailey's preposterous assertion at
the same time! What would Miss Winthrop
think? What could she think? Bertram fairly
ground his teeth with chagrin, at the situation
in which he found himself.

Nor were matters helped any by the fact that
Bertram was hungry. Bertram's luncheon had
been meager and unsatisfying. That the kitchen
down-stairs still remained in silent, spotless order
instead of being astir with the sounds and smells
of a good dinner (as it should have been) did not
improve his temper. Where Billy was he could
not imagine. He thought, once or twice, of
calling up some of her friends; but something
held him back from that--though he did try to
get Marie, knowing very well that she was probably
over to the new house and would not answer.
He was not surprised, therefore, when he received
no reply to his ring.

That there was the slightest truth in Bessie
Bailey's absurd ``elopement'' idea, Bertram did
not, of course, for an instant believe. The only
thing that rankled about that was the fact that
she had suggested such a thing, and that Miss
Winthrop and those silly children had heard
her. He recognized half of Bessie's friends as
neighborhood youngsters, and he knew very well
that there would be many a quiet laugh at his
expense around various Beacon Street dinner-
tables that night. At the thought of those
dinner-tables, he scowled again. _He_ had no
dinner-table--at least, he had no dinner on it!

Who the man might be Bertram thought he
could easily guess. It was either Arkwright or
Calderwell, of course; and probably that tiresome
Alice Greggory was mixed up in it somehow.
He did wish Billy--

Six o'clock came, then half-past. Bertram was
indeed frightened now, but he was more angry,
and still more hungry. He had, in fact, reached
that state of blind unreasonableness said to be
peculiar to hungry males from time immemorial.

At ten minutes of seven a key clicked in the
lock of the outer door, and William and Billy
entered the hall.

It was almost dark. Bertram could not see
their faces. He had not lighted the hall at all.

``Well,'' he began sharply, ``is this the way
you receive your callers, Billy? I came home
and found Miss Winthrop just leaving--no one
here to receive her! Where've you been? Where's
Eliza? Where's my dinner? Of course I don't
mean to scold, Billy, but there is a limit to even
my patience--and it's reached now. I can't
help suggesting that if you would tend to your
husband and your home a little more, and go
gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright
and Alice Greggory a little less, that-- Where is
Eliza, anyway?'' he finished irritably, switching
on the lights with a snap.

There was a moment of dead silence. At
Bertram's first words Billy and William had
stopped short. Neither had moved since. Now
William turned and began to speak, but Billy
interrupted. She met her husband's gaze steadily.

``I will be down at once to get your dinner,''
she said quietly. ``Eliza will not come to-night.
Pete is dead.''

Bertram started forward with a quick cry.

``Dead! Oh, Billy! Then you were--_there!_
Billy!''

But his wife did not apparently hear him. She
passed him without turning her head, and went
on up the stairs, leaving him to meet the sorrowful,
accusing eyes of William.

CHAPTER XV

AFTER THE STORM

The young husband's apologies were profuse
and abject. Bertram was heartily ashamed of
himself, and was man enough to acknowledge it.
Almost on his knees he begged Billy to forgive
him; and in a frenzy of self-denunciation he
followed her down into the kitchen that night,
piteously beseeching her to speak to him, to just
_look_ at him, even, so that he might know he was
not utterly despised--though he did, indeed,
deserve to be more than despised, he moaned.

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