Miss Billy Married

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

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At first Billy did not speak, or even vouchsafe
a glance in his direction. Very quietly she went
about her preparations for a simple meal, paying
apparently no more attention to Bertram than as
if he were not there. But that her ears were only
seemingly, and not really deaf, was shown very
clearly a little later, when, at a particularly abject
wail on the part of the babbling shadow at her
heels, Billy choked into a little gasp, half laughter,
half sob. It was all over then. Bertram had
her in his arms in a twinkling, while to the floor
clattered and rolled a knife and a half-peeled
baked potato.

Naturally, after that, there could be no more
dignified silences on the part of the injured wife.
There were, instead, half-smiles, tears, sobs, a
tremulous telling of Pete's going and his messages,
followed by a tearful listening to Bertram's story
of the torture he had endured at the hands of
Miss Winthrop, Bessie Bailey, and an empty,
dinnerless house. And thus, in one corner of the
kitchen, some time later, a hungry, desperate
William found them, the half-peeled, cold baked
potato still at their feet.

Torn between his craving for food and his
desire not to interfere with any possible peace-
making, William was obviously hesitating what
to do, when Billy glanced up and saw him. She
saw, too, at the same time, the empty, blazing
gas-stove burner, and the pile of half-prepared
potatoes, to warm which the burner had long
since been lighted. With a little cry she broke
away from her husband's arms.

``Mercy! and here's poor Uncle William,
bless his heart, with not a thing to eat yet!''

They all got dinner then, together, with many
a sigh and quick-coming tear as everywhere they
met some sad reminder of the gentle old hands
that would never again minister to their comfort.

It was a silent meal, and little, after all, was
eaten, though brave attempts at cheerfulness
and naturalness were made by all three. Bertram,
especially, talked, and tried to make sure
that the shadow on Billy's face was at least not
the one his own conduct had brought there.

``For you do--you surely do forgive me, don't
you?'' he begged, as he followed her into the
kitchen after the sorry meal was over.

``Why, yes, dear, yes,'' sighed Billy, trying to
smile.

``And you'll forget?''

There was no answer.

``Billy! And you'll forget?'' Bertram's voice
was insistent, reproachful.

Billy changed color and bit her lip. She looked
plainly distressed.

``Billy!'' cried the man, still more reproachfully.

``But, Bertram, I can't forget--quite yet,''
faltered Billy.

Bertram frowned. For a minute he looked as
if he were about to take up the matter seriously
and argue it with her; but the next moment he
smiled and tossed his head with jaunty playfulness--
Bertram, to tell the truth, had now had
quite enough of what he privately termed
``scenes'' and ``heroics''; and, manlike, he was
very ardently longing for the old easy-going
friendliness, with all unpleasantness banished to
oblivion.

``Oh, but you'll have to forget,'' he claimed,
with cheery insistence, ``for you've promised to
forgive me--and one can't forgive without forgetting.
So, there!'' he finished, with a smilingly
determined ``now-everything-is-just-as-it-was-before'' air.

Billy made no response. She turned hurriedly
and began to busy herself with the dishes at the
sink. In her heart she was wondering: could
she ever forget what Bertram had said? Would
anything ever blot out those awful words: ``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--''? It seemed now that always, for evermore,
they would ring in her ears; always, for
evermore, they would burn deeper and deeper
into her soul. And not once, in all Bertram's
apologies, had he referred to them--those words
he had uttered. He had not said he did not mean
them. He had not said he was sorry he spoke
them. He had ignored them; and he expected
that now she, too, would ignore them. As if
she could!'' 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--'' Oh, if only she could,
indeed,--forget!

When Billy went up-stairs that night she ran
across her ``Talk to Young Wives'' in her desk.
With a half-stifled cry she thrust it far back out
of sight.

``I hate you, I hate you--with all your old
talk about `brushing up against outside interests'!''
she whispered fiercely. ``Well, I've
`brushed'--and now see what I've got for it!''

Later, however, after Bertram was asleep, Billy
crept out of bed and got the book. Under the
carefully shaded lamp in the adjoining room she
turned the pages softly till she came to the sentence:
``Perhaps it would be hard to find a more
utterly unreasonable, irritable, irresponsible creature
than a hungry man.'' With a long sigh she
began to read; and not until some minutes later
did she close the book, turn off the light, and steal
back to bed.

During the next three days, until after the
funeral at the shabby little South Boston house,
Eliza spent only about half of each day at the
Strata. This, much to her distress, left many of
the household tasks for her young mistress to
perform. Billy, however, attacked each new duty
with a feverish eagerness that seemed to make the
performance of it very like some glad penance
done for past misdeeds. And when--on the day
after they had laid the old servant in his last
resting place--a despairing message came from
Eliza to the effect that now her mother was very
ill, and would need her care, Billy promptly told
Eliza to stay as long as was necessary; that they
could get along all right without her.

``But, Billy, what _are_ we going to do?''
Bertram demanded, when he heard the news. ``We
must have somebody!''

``_I'm_ going to do it.''

``Nonsense! As if you could!'' scoffed Bertram.

Billy lifted her chin.

``Couldn't I, indeed,'' she retorted. ``Do you
realize, young man, how much I've done the last
three days? How about those muffins you had
this morning for breakfast, and that cake last
night? And didn't you yourself say that you
never ate a better pudding than that date puff
yesterday noon?''

Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

``My dear love, I'm not questioning your
_ability_ to do it,'' he soothed quickly. ``Still,'' he
added, with a whimsical smile, ``I must remind
you that Eliza has been here half the time, and
that muffins and date puffs, however delicious,
aren't all there is to running a big house like this.
Besides, just be sensible, Billy,'' he went on more
seriously, as he noted the rebellious gleam coming
into his young wife's eyes; ``you'd know you
couldn't do it, if you'd just stop to think. There's
the Carletons coming to dinner Monday, and my
studio Tea to-morrow, to say nothing of the
Symphony and the opera, and the concerts you'd
lose because you were too dead tired to go to them.
You know how it was with that concert yesterday
afternoon which Alice Greggory wanted you
to go to with her.''

``I didn't--want--to go,'' choked Billy,
under her breath.

``And there's your music. You haven't done
a thing with that for days, yet only last week
you told me the publishers were hurrying you for
that last song to complete the group.''

``I haven't felt like--writing,'' stammered
Billy, still half under her breath.

``Of course you haven't,'' triumphed Bertram.
``You've been too dead tired. And that's just
what I say. Billy, you _can't_ do it all yourself!''

``But I want to. I want to--to tend to
things,'' faltered Billy, with a half-fearful glance
into her husband's face.

Billy was hearing very loudly now that accusing
``If you'd tend to your husband and your home
a little more--'' Bertram, however, was not
hearing it, evidently. Indeed, he seemed never
to have heard it--much less to have spoken it.

`` `Tend to things,' '' he laughed lightly.
``Well, you'll have enough to do to tend to the
maid, I fancy. Anyhow, we're going to have one.
I'll just step into one of those--what do you call
'em?--intelligence offices on my way down and
send one up,'' he finished, as he gave his wife a
good-by kiss.

An hour later Billy, struggling with the broom
and the drawing-room carpet, was called to the
telephone. It was her husband's voice that came
to her.

``Billy, for heaven's sake, take pity on me.
Won't you put on your duds and come and engage
your maid yourself?''

``Why, Bertram, what's the matter?''

``Matter? Holy smoke! Well, I've been to
three of those intelligence offices--though why
they call them that I can't imagine. If ever there
was a place utterly devoid of intelligence-but
never mind! I've interviewed four fat ladies,
two thin ones, and one medium with a wart. I've
cheerfully divulged all our family secrets, promised
every other half-hour out, and taken oath
that our household numbers three adult members,
and no more; but I simply _can't_ remember
how many handkerchiefs we have in the wash
each week. Billy, will you come? Maybe you
can do something with them. I'm sure you
can!''

``Why, of course I'll come,'' chirped Billy.
``Where shall I meet you?''

Bertram gave the street and number.

``Good! I'll be there,'' promised Billy, as she
hung up the receiver.

Quite forgetting the broom in the middle of the
drawing-room floor, Billy tripped up-stairs to
change her dress. On her lips was a gay little
song. In her heart was joy.

``I rather guess _now_ I'm tending to my husband
and my home!'' she was crowing to herself.

Just as Billy was about to leave the house the
telephone bell jangled again.

It was Alice Greggory.

``Billy, dear,'' she called, ``can't you come
out? Mr. Arkwright and Mr. Calderwell are
here, and they've brought some new music. We
want you. Will you come?''

``I can't, dear. Bertram wants me. He's sent
for me. I've got some _housewifely_ duties to perform
to-day,'' returned Billy, in a voice so curiously
triumphant that Alice, at her end of the
wires, frowned in puzzled wonder as she turned
away from the telephone.

CHAPTER XVI

INTO TRAINING FOR MARY ELLEN

Bertram told a friend afterwards that he never
knew the meaning of the word ``chaos'' until he
had seen the Strata during the weeks immediately
following the laying away of his old servant.

``Every stratum was aquiver with apprehension,''
he declared; ``and there was never any
telling when the next grand upheaval would rock
the whole structure to its foundations.''

Nor was Bertram so far from being right. It
was, indeed, a chaos, as none knew better than
did Bertram's wife.

Poor Billy! Sorry indeed were these days for
Billy; and, as if to make her cup of woe full to
overflowing, there were Sister Kate's epistolary
``I told you so,'' and Aunt Hannah's ever
recurring lament: ``If only, Billy, you were a
practical housekeeper yourself, they wouldn't
impose on you so!''

Aunt Hannah, to be sure, offered Rosa, and
Kate, by letter, offered advice--plenty of it.
But Billy, stung beyond all endurance, and fairly
radiating hurt pride and dogged determination,
disdained all assistance, and, with head held high,
declared she was getting along very well, very
well indeed!

And this was the way she ``got along.''

First came Nora. Nora was a blue-eyed, black-
haired Irish girl, the sixth that the despairing
Billy had interviewed on that fateful morning
when Bertram had summoned her to his aid.
Nora stayed two days. During her reign the
entire Strata echoed to banged doors, dropped
china, and slammed furniture. At her departure
the Henshaws' possessions were less by four cups,
two saucers, one plate, one salad bowl, two cut
glass tumblers, and a teapot--the latter William's
choicest bit of Lowestoft.

Olga came next. Olga was a Treasure. She
was low-voiced, gentle-eyed, and a good cook.
She stayed a week. By that time the growing
frequency of the disappearance of sundry small
articles of value and convenience led to Billy's
making a reluctant search of Olga's room--and
to Olga's departure; for the room was, indeed, a
treasure house, the Treasure having gathered
unto itself other treasures.

Following Olga came a period of what Bertram
called ``one night stands,'' so frequently were the
dramatis person below stairs changed. Gretchen
drank. Christine knew only four words of English:
salt, good-by, no, and yes; and Billy found
need occasionally of using other words. Mary
was impertinent and lazy. Jennie could not even
boil a potato properly, much less cook a dinner.
Sarah (colored) was willing and pleasant, but
insufferably untidy. Bridget was neatness itself,
but she had no conception of the value of time.
Her meals were always from thirty to sixty
minutes late, and half-cooked at that. Vera
sang--when she wasn't whistling--and as she
was generally off the key, and always off the
tune, her almost frantic mistress dismissed her
before twenty-four hours had passed. Then came
Mary Ellen.

Mary Ellen began well. She was neat, capable,
and obliging; but it did not take her long to
discover just how much--and how little--her
mistress really knew of practical housekeeping.
Matters and things were very different then.
Mary Ellen became argumentative, impertinent,
and domineering. She openly shirked her work,
when it pleased her so to do, and demanded
perquisites and privileges so insolently that even
William asked Billy one day whether Mary Ellen
or Billy herself were the mistress of the Strata:
and Bertram, with mock humility, inquired how
_soon_ Mary Ellen would be wanting the house.
Billy, in weary despair, submitted to this bullying
for almost a week; then, in a sudden accession
of outraged dignity that left Mary Ellen gasping
with surprise, she told the girl to go.

And thus the days passed. The maids came
and the maids went, and, to Billy, each one seemed
a little worse than the one before. Nowhere was
there comfort, rest, or peacefulness. The nights
were a torture of apprehension, and the days an
even greater torture of fulfilment. Noise, confusion,
meals poorly cooked and worse served, dust,
disorder, and uncertainty. And this was _home_,
Billy told herself bitterly. No wonder that Bertram
telephoned more and more frequently that
he had met a friend, and was dining in town. No
wonder that William pushed back his plate almost
every meal with his food scarcely touched, and
then wandered about the house with that hungry,
homesick, homeless look that nearly broke her
heart. No wonder, indeed!

And so it had come. It was true. Aunt Hannah
and Kate and the ``Talk to Young Wives''
were right. She had not been fit to marry Bertram.
She had not been fit to marry anybody.
Her honeymoon was not only waning, but going
into a total eclipse. Had not Bertram already
declared that if she would tend to her husband
and her home a little more--

Billy clenched her small hands and set her
round chin squarely.

Very well, she would show them. She would
tend to her husband and her home. She fancied
she could _learn_ to run that house, and run it well!
And forthwith she descended to the kitchen and
told the then reigning tormentor that her wages
would be paid until the end of the week, but
that her services would be immediately dispensed
with.

Billy was well aware now that housekeeping
was a matter of more than muffins and date puffs.
She could gauge, in a measure, the magnitude of
the task to which she had set herself. But she
did not falter; and very systematically she set
about making her plans.

With a good stout woman to come in twice a
week for the heavier work, she believed she could
manage by herself very well until Eliza could come
back. At least she could serve more palatable
meals than the most of those that had appeared
lately; and at least she could try to make a home
that would not drive Bertram to club dinners,
and Uncle William to hungry wanderings from
room to room. Meanwhile, all the time, she could
be learning, and in due course she would reach
that shining goal of Housekeeping Efficiency,
short of which--according to Aunt Hannah and
the ``Talk to Young Wives''--no woman need
hope for a waneless honeymoon.

So chaotic and erratic had been the household
service, and so quietly did Billy slip into her new
role, that it was not until the second meal after
the maid's departure that the master of the house
discovered what had happened. Then, as his
wife rose to get some forgotten article, he questioned,
with uplifted eyebrows:

``Too good to wait upon us, is my lady now,
eh?''

``My lady is waiting on you,'' smiled Billy.

``Yes, I see _this_ lady is,'' retorted Bertram,
grimly; ``but I mean our real lady in the kitchen.
Great Scott, Billy, how long are you going to
stand this?''

Billy tossed her head airily, though she shook
in her shoes. Billy had been dreading this moment.

``I'm not standing it. She's gone,'' responded
Billy, cheerfully, resuming her seat. ``Uncle
William, sha'n't I give you some more pudding?''

``Gone, so soon?'' groaned Bertram, as William
passed his plate, with a smiling nod. ``Oh,
well,'' went on Bertram, resignedly, ``she stayed
longer than the last one. When is the next one
coming?''

``She's already here.''

Bertram frowned.

``Here? But--you served the dessert, and--''
At something in Billy's face, a quick suspicion
came into his own. ``Billy, you don't mean that
you--_you_--''

``Yes,'' she nodded brightly, ``that's just what
I mean. I'm the next one.''

``Nonsense!'' exploded Bertram, wrathfully.
``Oh, come, Billy, we've been all over this
before. You know I can't have it.''

``Yes, you can. You've got to have it,''
retorted Billy, still with that disarming, airy
cheerfulness. ``Besides, 'twon't be half so bad as you
think. Wasn't that a good pudding to-night?

Didn't you both come back for more? Well, I
made it.''

``Puddings!'' ejaculated Bertram, with an
impatient gesture. ``Billy, as I've said before, it takes
something besides puddings to run this house.''

``Yes, I know it does,'' dimpled Billy, ``and
I've got Mrs. Durgin for that part. She's coming
twice a week, and more, if I need her. Why,
dearie, you don't know anything about how
comfortable you're going to be! I'll leave it to
Uncle William if--''

But Uncle William had gone. Silently he had
slipped from his chair and disappeared. Uncle
William, it might be mentioned in passing, had
never quite forgotten Aunt Hannah's fateful call
with its dire revelations concerning a certain
unwanted, superfluous, third-party husband's
brother. Remembering this, there were times
when he thought absence was both safest and
best. This was one of the times.

``But, Billy, dear,'' still argued Bertram,
irritably, ``how can you? You don't know how.
You've had no experience.''

Billy threw back her shoulders. An ominous
light came to her eyes. She was no longer airily
playful.

``That's exactly it, Bertram. I don't know
how--but I'm going to learn. I haven't had
experience--but I'm going to get it. I _can't_
make a worse mess of it than we've had ever
since Eliza went, anyway!''

``But if you'd get a maid--a good maid,''
persisted Bertram, feebly.

``I had _one_--Mary Ellen. She was a good
maid--until she found out how little her mistress
knew; then--well, you know what it was
then. Do you think I'd let that thing happen to
me again? No, sir! I'm going into training for
--my next Mary Ellen!'' And with a very
majestic air Billy rose from the table and began
to clear away the dishes.

CHAPTER XVII

THE EFFICIENCY STAR--AND BILLY

Billy was not a young woman that did things
by halves. Long ago, in the days of her childhood,
her Aunt Ella had once said of her: ``If
only Billy didn't go into things all over, so; but
whether it's measles or mud pies, I always know
that she'll be the measliest or the muddiest of any
child in town!'' It could not be expected, therefore,
that Billy would begin to play her new rle
now with any lack of enthusiasm. But even had
she needed any incentive, there was still ever
ringing in her ears Bertram's accusing: ``If you'd
tend to your husband and your home a little
more--'' Billy still declared very emphatically
that she had forgiven Bertram; but she knew, in
her heart, that she had not forgotten.

Certainly, as the days passed, it could not be
said that Billy was not tending to her husband
and her home. From morning till night, now,
she tended to nothing else. She seldom touched
her piano--save to dust it--and she never
touched her half-finished song-manuscript, long
since banished to the oblivion of the music
cabinet. She made no calls except occasional flying
visits to the Annex, or to the pretty new home
where Marie and Cyril were now delightfully
settled. The opera and the Symphony were over
for the season, but even had they not been, Billy
could not have attended them. She had no time.
Surely she was not doing any ``gallivanting''
now, she told herself sometimes, a little aggrievedly.

There was, indeed, no time. From morning
until night Billy was busy, flying from one task
to another. Her ambition to have everything
just right was equalled only by her dogged
determination to ``just show them'' that she could do
this thing. At first, of course, hampered as she
was by ignorance and inexperience, each task
consumed about twice as much time as was necessary.
Yet afterwards, when accustomedness had
brought its reward of speed, there was still for
Billy no time; for increased knowledge had only
opened the way to other paths, untrodden and
alluring. Study of cookbooks had led to the
study of food values. Billy discovered suddenly
that potatoes, beef, onions, oranges, and
puddings were something besides vegetables, meat,
fruit, and dessert. They possessed attributes
known as proteids, fats, and carbohydrates.
Faint memories of long forgotten school days
hinted that these terms had been heard before;
but never, Billy was sure, had she fully realized
what they meant.

It was at this juncture that Billy ran across a
book entitled ``Correct Eating for Efficiency.''
She bought it at once, and carried it home in
triumph. It proved to be a marvelous book.
Billy had not read two chapters before she began
to wonder how the family had managed to live
thus far with any sort of success, in the face of
their dense ignorance and her own criminal carelessness
concerning their daily bill of fare.

At dinner that night Billy told Bertram and
William of her discovery, and, with growing
excitement, dilated on the wonderful good that it
was to bring to them.

``Why, you don't know, you can't imagine
what a treasure it is!'' she exclaimed. ``It gives
a complete table for the exact balancing of food.''

``For what?'' demanded Bertram, glancing up.

``The exact balancing of food; and this book
says that's the biggest problem that modern scientists
have to solve.''

``Humph!'' shrugged Bertram. ``Well, you
just balance my food to my hunger, and I'll agree
not to complain.''

``Oh, but, Bertram, it's serious, really,'' urged
Billy, looking genuinely distressed. ``Why, it
says that what you eat goes to make up what you
are. It makes your vital energies. Your brain
power and your body power come from what you
eat. Don't you see? If you're going to paint a
picture you need something different from what
you would if you were going to--to saw wood;
and what this book tells is--is what I ought to
give you to make you do each one, I should think,
from what I've read so far. Now don't you see
how important it is? What if I should give you
the saw-wood kind of a breakfast when you were
just going up-stairs to paint all day? And what
if I should give Uncle William a--a soldier's
breakfast when all he is going to do is to go down
on State Street and sit still all day?''

``But--but, my dear,'' began Uncle William,
looking slightly worried, ``there's my eggs that
I _always_ have, you know.''

``For heaven's sake, Billy, what _have_ you got
hold of now?'' demanded Bertram, with just a
touch of irritation.

Billy laughed merrily.

``Well, I suppose I didn't sound very logical,''
she admitted. ``But the book--you just wait.
It's in the kitchen. I'm going to get it.'' And
with laughing eagerness she ran from the room.

In a moment she had returned, book in hand.

``Now listen. _This_ is the real thing--not
my garbled inaccuracies. `The food which we
eat serves three purposes: it builds the body
substance, bone, muscle, etc., it produces heat in
the body, and it generates vital energy. Nitrogen
in different chemical combinations contributes
largely to the manufacture of body substances;
the fats produce heat; and the starches and
sugars go to make the vital energy. The nitrogenous
food elements we call proteins; the fats
and oils, fats; and the starches and sugars
(because of the predominance of carbon), we call
carbohydrates. Now in selecting the diet for the
day you should take care to choose those foods
which give the proteins, fats, and carbohydrates
in just the right proportion.' ''

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