October proved to be unusually mild, and about the middle of the month,
Bertram, after much unselfish urging on the part of Billy, went to a
friend's camp in the Adirondacks for a week's stay. He came back with an
angry, lugubrious face--and a broken arm.
“Oh, Bertram! And your right one, too--the same one you broke before!”
mourned Billy, tearfully.
“Of course,” retorted Bertram, trying in vain to give an air of
jauntiness to his reply. “Didn't want to be too changeable, you know!”
“But how did you do it, dear?”
“Fell into a silly little hole covered with underbrush. But--oh, Billy,
what's the use? I did it, and I can't undo it--more's the pity!”
“Of course you can't, you poor boy,” sympathized Billy; “and you sha'n't
be tormented with questions. We'll just be thankful 'twas no worse. You
can't paint for a while, of course; but we won't mind that. It'll just
give Baby and me a chance to have you all to ourselves for a time, and
we'll love that!'
“Yes, of course,” sighed Bertram, so abstractedly that Billy bridled
with pretty resentment.
“Well, I like your enthusiasm, sir,” she frowned. “I'm afraid you don't
appreciate the blessings you do have, young man! Did you realize what
I said? I remarked that you could be with _Baby_ and _me_,” she
emphasized.
Bertram laughed, and gave his wife an affectionate kiss.
“Indeed I do appreciate my blessings, dear--when those blessings are
such treasures as you and Baby, but--” Only his doleful eyes fixed on
his injured arm finished his sentence.
“I know, dear, of course, and I understand,” murmured Billy, all
tenderness at once.
They were not easy for Bertram--those following days. Once again he
was obliged to accept the little intimate personal services that he
so disliked. Once again he could do nothing but read, or wander
disconsolately into his studio and gaze at his half-finished “Face of
a Girl.” Occasionally, it is true, driven nearly to desperation by the
haunting vision in his mind's eye, he picked up a brush and attempted
to make his left hand serve his will; but a bare half-dozen irritating,
ineffectual strokes were usually enough to make him throw down his
brush in disgust. He never could do anything with his left hand, he told
himself dejectedly.
Many of his hours, of course, he spent with Billy and his son, and they
were happy hours, too; but they always came to be restless ones before
the day was half over. Billy was always devotion itself to him--when she
was not attending to the baby; he had no fault to find with Billy. And
the baby was delightful--he could find no fault with the baby. But the
baby _was_ fretful--he was teething, Billy said--and he needed a great
deal of attention; so, naturally, Bertram drifted out of the nursery,
after a time, and went down into his studio, where were his dear, empty
palette, his orderly brushes, and his tantalizing “Face of a Girl.” From
the studio, generally, Bertram went out on to the street.
Sometimes he dropped into a fellow-artist's studio. Sometimes he
strolled into a club or café where he knew he would be likely to find
some friend who would help him while away a tiresome hour. Bertram's
friends quite vied with each other in rendering this sort of aid, so
much so, indeed, that--naturally, perhaps--Bertram came to call on their
services more and more frequently.
Particularly was this the case when, after the splints were removed,
Bertram found, as the days passed, that his arm was not improving as it
should improve. This not only disappointed and annoyed him, but worried
him. He remembered sundry disquieting warnings given by the physician
at the time of the former break--warnings concerning the probable
seriousness of a repetition of the injury. To Billy, of course, Bertram
said nothing of all this; but just before Christmas he went to see a
noted specialist.
An hour later, almost in front of the learned surgeon's door, Bertram
met Bob Seaver.
“Great Scott, Bertie, what's up?” ejaculated Seaver. “You look as if
you'd seen a ghost.”
“I have,” answered Bertram, with grim bitterness. “I've seen the ghost
of--of every 'Face of a Girl' I ever painted.”
“Gorry! So bad as that? No wonder you look as if you'd been disporting
in graveyards,” chuckled Seaver, laughing at his own joke “What's the
matter--arm on a rampage to day?”
He paused for reply, but as Bertram did not answer at once, he resumed,
with gay insistence: “Come on! You need cheering up. Suppose we go down
to Trentini's and see who's there.”
“All right,” agreed Bertram, dully. “Suit yourself.”
Bertram was not thinking of Seaver, Trentini's, or whom he might find
there. Bertram was thinking of certain words he had heard less than
half an hour ago. He was wondering, too, if ever again he could think of
anything but those words.
“The truth?” the great surgeon had said. “Well, the truth is--I'm sorry
to tell you the truth, Mr. Henshaw, but if you will have it--you've
painted the last picture you'll ever paint with your right hand, I fear.
It's a bad case. This break, coming as it did on top of the serious
injury of two or three years ago, was bad enough; but, to make matters
worse, the bone was imperfectly set and wrongly treated, which could not
be helped, of course, as you were miles away from skilled surgeons at
the time of the injury. We'll do the best we can, of course; but--well,
you asked for the truth, you remember; so I had to give it to you.”