February brought busy days. The public opening of the Bohemian Ten Club
Exhibition was to take place the sixth of March, with a private view
for invited guests the night before; and it was at this exhibition that
Bertram planned to show his portrait of Marguerite Winthrop. He also, if
possible, wished to enter two or three other canvases, upon which he was
spending all the time he could get.
Bertram felt that he was doing very good work now. The portrait of
Marguerite Winthrop was coming on finely. The spoiled idol of society
had at last found a pose and a costume that suited her, and she was
graciously pleased to give the artist almost as many sittings as he
wanted. The “elusive something” in her face, which had previously been
so baffling, was now already caught and held bewitchingly on his canvas.
He was confident that the portrait would be a success. He was also much
interested in another piece of work which he intended to show called
“The Rose.” The model for this was a beautiful young girl he had found
selling flowers with her father in a street booth at the North End.
On the whole, Bertram was very happy these days. He could not, to
be sure, spend quite so much time with Billy as he wished; but she
understood, of course, as did he, that his work must come first. He knew
that she tried to show him that she understood it. At the same time, he
could not help thinking, occasionally, that Billy did sometimes mind his
necessary absorption in his painting.
To himself Bertram owned that Billy was, in some ways, a puzzle to him.
Her conduct was still erratic at times. One day he would seem to be
everything to her; the next--almost nothing, judging by the ease with
which she relinquished his society and substituted that of some one
else: Arkwright, or Calderwell, for instance.
And that was another thing. Bertram was ashamed to hint even to himself
that he was jealous of either of those men. Surely, after what had
happened, after Billy's emphatic assertion that she had never loved any
one but himself, it would seem not only absurd, but disloyal, that
he should doubt for an instant Billy's entire devotion to him, and
yet--there were times when he wished he _could_ come home and not
always find Alice Greggory, Calderwell, Arkwright, or all three of them
strumming the piano in the drawing-room! At such times, always, though,
if he did feel impatient, he immediately demanded of himself: “Are you,
then, the kind of husband that begrudges your wife young companions of
her own age and tastes to help her while away the hours that you cannot
possibly spend with her yourself?”
This question, and the answer that his better self always gave to it,
were usually sufficient to send him into some florists for a bunch of
violets for Billy, or into a candy shop on a like atoning errand.
As to Billy--Billy, too, was busy these days chief of her concerns
being, perhaps, attention to that honeymoon of hers, to see that it did
not wane. At least, the most of her thoughts, and many of her actions,
centered about that object.
Billy had the book, now--the “Talk to Young Wives.” For a time she had
worked with only the newspaper criticism to guide her; but, coming at
last to the conclusion that if a little was good, more must be better,
she had shyly gone into a bookstore one day and, with a pink blush, had
asked for the book. Since bringing it home she had studied assiduously
(though never if Bertram was near), keeping it well-hidden, when not in
use, in a remote corner of her desk.
There was a good deal in the book that Billy did not like, and there
were some statements that worried her; but yet there was much that she
tried earnestly to follow. She was still striving to be the oak, and
she was still eagerly endeavoring to brush up against those necessary
outside interests. She was so thankful, in this connection, for Alice
Greggory, and for Arkwright and Hugh Calderwell. It was such a help that
she had them! They were not only very pleasant and entertaining outside
interests, but one or another of them was almost always conveniently
within reach.
Then, too, it pleased her to think that she was furthering the pretty
love story between Alice and Mr. Arkwright. And she _was_ furthering it.
She was sure of that. Already she could see how dependent the man was on
Alice, how he looked to her for approbation, and appealed to her on all
occasions, exactly as if there was not a move that he wanted to make
without her presence near him. Billy was very sure, now, of Arkwright.
She only wished she were as much so of Alice. But Alice troubled her.
Not but that Alice was kindness itself to the man, either. It was only
a peculiar something almost like fear, or constraint, that Billy thought
she saw in Alice's eyes, sometimes, when Arkwright made a particularly
intimate appeal. There was Calderwell, too. He, also, worried Billy. She
feared he was going to complicate matters still more by falling in love
with Alice, himself; and this, certainly, Billy did not want at all. As
this phase of the matter presented itself, indeed, Billy determined to
appropriate Calderwell a little more exclusively to herself, when the
four were together, thus leaving Alice for Arkwright. After all, it was
rather entertaining--this playing at Cupid's assistant. If she _could_
not have Bertram all the time, it was fortunate that these outside
interests were so pleasurable.
Most of the mornings Billy spent in the kitchen, despite the
remonstrances of both Pete and Eliza. Almost every meal, now, was graced
with a palatable cake, pudding, or muffin that Billy would proudly claim
as her handiwork. Pete still served at table, and made strenuous efforts
to keep up all his old duties; but he was obviously growing weaker, and
really serious blunders were beginning to be noticeable. Bertram even
hinted once or twice that perhaps it would be just as well to insist on
his going; but to this Billy would not give her consent. Even when one
night his poor old trembling hands spilled half the contents of a soup
plate over a new and costly evening gown of Billy's own, she still
refused to have him dismissed.
“Why, Bertram, I wouldn't do it,” she declared hotly; “and you wouldn't,
either. He's been here more than fifty years. It would break his heart.
He's really too ill to work, and I wish he would go of his own accord,
of course; but I sha'n't ever tell him to go--not if he spills soup on
every dress I've got. I'll buy more--and more, if it's necessary. Bless
his dear old heart! He thinks he's really serving us--and he is, too.”
“Oh, yes, you're right, he _is!_” sighed Bertram, with meaning emphasis,
as he abandoned the argument.
In addition to her “Talk to Young Wives,” Billy found herself
encountering advice and comment on the marriage question from still
other quarters--from her acquaintances (mostly the feminine ones) right
and left. Continually she was hearing such words as these:
“Oh, well, what can you expect, Billy? You're an old married woman,
now.”
“Never mind, you'll find he's like all the rest of the husbands. You
just wait and see!”
“Better begin with a high hand, Billy. Don't let him fool you!”
“Mercy! If I had a husband whose business it was to look at women's
beautiful eyes, peachy cheeks, and luxurious tresses, I should go
crazy! It's hard enough to keep a man's eyes on yourself when his daily
interests are supposed to be just lumps of coal and chunks of ice,
without flinging him into the very jaws of temptation like asking him to
paint a pretty girl's picture!”
In response to all this, of course, Billy could but laugh, and blush,
and toss back some gay reply, with a careless unconcern. But in her
heart she did not like it. Sometimes she told herself that if there were
not any advice or comment from anybody--either book or woman--if there
were not anybody but just Bertram and herself, life would be just one
long honeymoon forever and forever.
Once or twice Billy was tempted to go to Marie with this honeymoon
question; but Marie was very busy these days, and very preoccupied. The
new house that Cyril was building on Corey Hill, not far from the
Annex, was almost finished, and Marie was immersed in the subject of
house-furnishings and interior decoration. She was, too, still more
deeply engrossed in the fashioning of tiny garments of the softest
linen, lace, and woolen; and there was on her face such a look of
beatific wonder and joy that Billy did not like to so much as hint that
there was in the world such a book as “When the Honeymoon Wanes: A Talk
to Young Wives.”
Billy tried valiantly these days not to mind that Bertram's work was so
absorbing. She tried not to mind that his business dealt, not with lumps
of coal and chunks of ice, but with beautiful women like Marguerite
Winthrop who asked him to luncheon, and lovely girls like his model for
“The Rose” who came freely to his studio and spent hours in the beloved
presence, being studied for what Bertram declared was absolutely the
most wonderful poise of head and shoulders that he had ever seen.
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.