Notwithstanding what Billy was disposed to regard as the non-success
of her first attempt to profit by the “Talk to Young Wives;” she still
frantically tried to avert the waning of her honeymoon. Assiduously she
cultivated the prescribed “indifference,” and with at least apparent
enthusiasm she sought the much-to-be-desired “outside interests.” That
is, she did all this when she thought of it when something reminded her
of the sword of destruction hanging over her happiness. At other times,
when she was just being happy without question, she was her old self
impulsive, affectionate, and altogether adorable.
Naturally, under these circumstances, her conduct was somewhat erratic.
For three days, perhaps, she would fly to the door at her husband's
ring, and hang upon his every movement. Then, for the next three,
she would be a veritable will-o'-the-wisp for elusiveness, caring,
apparently, not one whit whether her husband came or went until poor
Bertram, at his wit's end, scourged himself with a merciless catechism
as to what he had done to vex her. Then, perhaps, just when he had
nerved himself almost to the point of asking her what was the trouble,
there would come another change, bringing back to him the old Billy,
joyous, winsome, and devoted, plainly caring nothing for anybody or
anything but himself. Scarcely, however, would he become sure that it
was his Billy back again before she was off once more, quite beyond his
reach, singing with Arkwright and Alice Greggory, playing with Tommy
Dunn, plunging into some club or church work--anything but being with
him.
That all this was puzzling and disquieting to Bertram, Billy not once
suspected. Billy, so far as she was concerned, was but cultivating a
comfortable indifference, brushing up against outside interests, and
being an oak.
December passed, and January came, bringing Miss Marguerite Winthrop to
her Boston home. Bertram's arm was “as good as ever” now, according to
its owner; and the sittings for the new portrait began at once. This
left Billy even more to her own devices, for Bertram entered into his
new work with an enthusiasm born of a glad relief from forced idleness,
and a consuming eagerness to prove that even though he had failed the
first time, he could paint a portrait of Marguerite Winthrop that would
be a credit to himself, a conclusive retort to his critics, and a source
of pride to his once mortified friends. With his whole heart, therefore,
he threw himself into the work before him, staying sometimes well into
the afternoon on the days Miss Winthrop could find time between her
social engagements to give him a sitting.
It was on such a day, toward the middle of the month, that Billy was
called to the telephone at half-past twelve o'clock to speak to her
husband.
“Billy, dear,” began Bertram at once, “if you don't mind I'm staying
to luncheon at Miss Winthrop's kind request. We've changed the
pose--neither of us was satisfied, you know--but we haven't quite
settled on the new one. Miss Winthrop has two whole hours this
afternoon that she can give me if I'll stay; and, of course, under the
circumstances, I want to do it.”
“Of course,” echoed Billy. Billy's voice was indomitably cheerful.
“Thank you, dear. I knew you'd understand,” sighed Bertram, contentedly.
“You see, really, two whole hours, so--it's a chance I can't afford to
lose.”
“Of course you can't,” echoed Billy, again.
“All right then. Good-by till to-night,” called the man.
“Good-by,” answered Billy, still cheerfully. As she turned away,
however, she tossed her head. “A new pose, indeed!” she muttered, with
some asperity. “Just as if there could be a _new_ pose after all those
she tried last year!”
Immediately after luncheon Pete and Eliza started for South Boston to
pay a visit to Eliza's mother, and it was soon after they left the house
that Bertram called his wife up again.
“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 crêpe 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.