Miss Billy — Married
Copyright© 2025 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 9: The Dinner Billy Tried to Get
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.
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