Miss Billy Married

by Eleanor H. Porter

  "Billy!"

  The music stopped instantly. Billy sprang from her seat, her eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice. Perhaps—perhaps Bertram wanted her. Perhaps he was not going to paint any longer that morning, after all. "Billy!" called the voice again. "Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while? I'm a brute, I know, dear, but my brush will try to keep time with that crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady, anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig, jiggety, jig, jig—! Do you mind, darling, just—just sewing, or doing something still for a while?"

  All the light fled from Billy's face, but her voice, when she spoke, was the quintessence of cheery indifference.

  "Why, no, of course not, dear."

  "Thank you. I knew you wouldn't," sighed Bertram. Then the door shut.

  For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch and sped to the telephone.

  "Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa?" she called when the operator's ring was answered.

  "Mis' Greggory, the lame one?"

  "No; Miss Greggory—Miss Alice."

  "Oh! Yes'm."

  "Then won't you ask her to come to the telephone, please."

  There was a moment's wait, during which Billy's small, well-shod foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor.

  "Oh, is that you, Alice?" she called then. "Are you going to be home for an hour or two?"

  "Why, y-yes; yes, indeed."

  "Then I'm coming over. We'll play duets, sing—anything. I want some music."

  "Do! And—Mr. Arkwright is here. He'll help."

  "Mr. Arkwright? You say he's there? Then I won't—Yes, I will, too." Billy spoke with renewed firmness. "I'll be there right away. Good-by." And she hung up the receiver, and went to tell Pete to order John and Peggy at once.

  "I suppose I ought to have left Alice and Mr. Arkwright alone together," muttered the young wife feverishly, as she hurriedly prepared for departure. "But I'll make it up to them later. I'm going to give them lots of chances. But to-day—to-day I just had to go—somewhere!"

  At the Annex, with Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy sang duets and trios, and reveled in a sonorous wilderness of new music to her heart's content. Then, rested, refreshed, and at peace with all the world, she hurried home to dinner and to Bertram.

  "There! I feel better," she sighed, as she took off her hat in her own room; "and now I'll go find Bertram. Bless his heart—of course he didn't want me to play when he was so busy!"

  Billy went straight to the studio, but Bertram was not there. Neither was he in William's room, nor anywhere in the house. Down-stairs in the dining-room Pete was found looking rather white, leaning back in a chair. He struggled at once to his feet, however, as his mistress entered the room.

  Billy hurried forward with a startled exclamation.

  "Why, Pete, what is it? Are you sick?" she cried, her glance encompassing the half-set table.

  "No, ma'am; oh, no, ma'am!" The old man stumbled forward and began to arrange the knives and forks. "It's just a pesky pain—beggin' yer pardon—in my side. But I ain't sick. No, Miss—ma'am."

  Billy frowned and shook her head. Her eyes were on Pete's palpably trembling hands.

  "But, Pete, you are sick," she protested. "Let Eliza do that."

  Pete drew himself stiffly erect. The color had begun to come back to his face.

  "There hain't no one set this table much but me for more'n fifty years, an' I've got a sort of notion that nobody can do it just ter suit me. Besides, I'm better now. It's gone—that pain."

  "But, Pete, what is it? How long have you had it?"

  "I hain't had it any time, steady. It's the comin' an' goin' kind. It seems silly ter mind it at all; only, when it does come, it sort o' takes the backbone right out o' my knees, and they double up so's I have ter set down. There, ye see? I'm pert as a sparrer, now!" And, with stiff celerity, Pete resumed his task.

  His mistress still frowned.

  "That isn't right, Pete," she demurred, with a slow shake of her head. "You should see a doctor."

  The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little aggressively.

  "Humph! Beggin' yer pardon, Miss—ma'am, but I don't think much o' them doctor chaps."

  Billy shook her head again as she smiled and turned away. Then, as if casually, she asked:

  "Oh, did Mr. Bertram go out, Pete?"

  "Yes, Miss; about five o'clock. He said he'd be back to dinner."

  "Oh! All right."

  From the hall the telephone jangled sharply.

  "I'll go," said Pete's mistress, as she turned and hurried up-stairs.

  It was Bertram's voice that answered her opening "Hullo."

  "Oh, Billy, is that you, dear? Well, you're just the one I wanted. I wanted to say—that is, I wanted to ask you—" The speaker cleared his throat a little nervously, and began all over again. "The fact is, Billy, I've run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them. Would you mind—very much if I did?"

  A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart. She caught her breath with a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the words came.

  "Why, no—no, of course not!" Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful.

  "You sure you won't be—lonesome?" Bertram's voice was vaguely troubled.

  "Of course not!"

  "You've only to say the word, little girl," came Bertram's anxious tones again, "and I won't stay."

  Billy swallowed convulsively. If only, only he would stop and leave her to herself! As if she were going to own up that she was lonesome for him—if he was not lonesome for her!

  "Nonsense! of course you'll stay," called Billy, still in that high-pitched, shaky treble. Then, before Bertram could answer, she uttered a gay "Good-by!" and hung up the receiver.

  Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete's gong sounded for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at her door, and called:

  "Gone to sleep, my dear? Dinner's ready. Didn't you hear the gong?"

  "Yes, I'm coming, Uncle William." Billy spoke with breezy gayety, and threw open the door; but she did not meet Uncle William's eyes. Her head was turned away. Her hands were fussing with the hang of her skirt.

  "Bertram's dining out, Pete tells me," observed William, with cheerful nonchalance, as they went down-stairs together.

  Billy bit her lip and looked up sharply. She had been bracing herself to meet with disdainful indifference this man's pity—the pity due a poor neglected wife whose husband preferred to dine with old classmates rather than with herself. Now she found in William's face, not pity, but a calm, even jovial, acceptance of the situation as a matter of course. She had known she was going to hate that pity; but now, curiously enough, she was conscious only of anger that the pity was not there—that she might hate it.

  She tossed her head a little. So even William—Uncle William—regarded this monstrous thing as an insignificant matter of everyday experience. Maybe he expected it to occur frequently—every night, or so. Doubtless he did expect it to occur every night, or so. Indeed! Very well. As if she were going to show now that she cared whether Bertram were there or not! They should see.

  So with head held high and eyes asparkle, Billy marched into the dining-room and took her accustomed place.

  Chapter VII - The Big Bad Quarrel

  *

  It was a brilliant dinner—because Billy made it so. At first William met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort. Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his h
and shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled. This threatened catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was very grave throughout the rest of the dinner.

  Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in spite of the young woman's gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair before the fire, leaving Billy with only Spunkie for company—Spunkie, who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap.

  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 p
aused, 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?"