CHAPTER XXX. "I'VE HINDERED HIM"
Billy was shaking with anger and terror by the time she had finishedreading Kate's letter. Anger was uppermost at the moment, and with onesweeping wrench of her trembling fingers she tore the closely writtensheets straight through the middle, and flung them into the littlewicker basket by her desk. Then she went down-stairs and played hernoisiest, merriest Tarantella, and tried to see how fast she could makeher fingers fly.
But Billy could not, of course, play tarantellas all day; and even whileshe did play them she could not forget that waste-basket up-stairs, andthe horror it contained. The anger was still uppermost, but the terrorwas prodding her at every turn, and demanding to know just what it wasthat Kate had written in that letter, anyway. It is not strange then,perhaps, that before two hours passed, Billy went up-stairs, took theletter from the basket, matched together the torn half-sheets and forcedher shrinking eyes to read every word again-just to satisfy that terrorwhich would not be silenced.
At the end of the second reading, Billy reminded herself with sterncalmness that it was only Kate, after all; that nobody ought to mindwhat Kate said; that certainly _she_, Billy, ought not--after theexperience she had already had with her unpleasant interference! Katedid not know what she was talking about, anyway. This was only anothercase of her trying "to manage." She did so love to manage--everything!
At this point Billy got out her pen and paper and wrote to Kate.
It was a formal, cold little letter, not at all the sort that Billy'sfriends usually received. It thanked Kate for her advice, and forher "kind willingness" to have Billy for a sister; but it hinted thatperhaps Kate did not realize that as long as Billy was the one who wouldhave to _live_ with the chosen man, it would be pleasanter to take theone Billy loved, which happened in this case to be Bertram--not William.As for any "quarrel" being the cause of whatever fancied trouble therewas with the new picture--the letter scouted that idea in no uncertainterms. There had been no suggestion of a quarrel even once since theengagement.
Then Billy signed her name and took the letter out to post immediately.
For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into thegreen box at the corner, Billy held her head high, and told herself thatthe matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified,conclusive, effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction ofthe things she had said.
Very soon, however, she began to think--not so much of what _she_had said--but of what Kate had said. Many of Kate's sentences wereunpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out inletters of flame, and they began to burn, and burn, and burn. These weresome of them:
"William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix oversomething, and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past."
"A woman is at the bottom of it--... you are that woman."
"You can't make him happy."
"Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man."
"Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture topaint. And they never will."
"Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow,and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tiedhimself to any one girl until last fall."
"Now what has it been since?"
"He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlikehimself; and his picture has failed, dismally."
"Do you want to ruin his career?"
Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate's letter atall. The matter was not closed. Her reply had been, perhaps, courteousand dignified--but it had not been conclusive nor effectual.
Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ actedstrangely, of late. Bertram _had_ seemed troubled over something. Hispicture _had_--With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these thoughts,and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she toldherself that the matter _was_ settled. Very scornfully she declared thatit was "only Kate," after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate makeher unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current magazine and beganto read.
As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the firstarticle she opened to was headed in huge black type:
"MARRIAGE AND THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT."
With a little cry Billy flung the magazine far from her, and picked upanother. But even "The Elusiveness of Chopin," which she found here,could not keep her thoughts nor her eyes from wandering to the discardedthing in the corner, lying ignominiously face down with crumpled,out-flung leaves.
Billy knew that in the end she should go over and pick that magazineup, and read that article from beginning to end. She was not surprised,therefore, when she did it--but she was not any the happier for havingdone it.
The writer of the article did not approve of marriage and the artistictemperament. He said the artist belonged to his Art, and to posteritythrough his Art. The essay fairly bristled with many-lettered words andhigh-sounding phrases, few of which Billy really understood. She didunderstand enough, however, to feel, guiltily, when the thing wasfinished, that already she had married Bertram, and by so doing hadcommitted a Crime. She had slain Art, stifled Ambition, destroyedInspiration, and been a nuisance generally. In consequence of whichBertram would henceforth and forevermore be doomed to Littleness.
Naturally, in this state of mind, and with this vision before her, Billywas anything but her bright, easy self when she met Bertram an hour ortwo later. Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of thebugaboo his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood toplace the worst possible construction on his sweetheart's very evidentunhappiness. With sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently avertedeyes, therefore, the wretched evening passed, a pitiful misery to themboth.
During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itselfmust be in league with Kate, so often did she encounter Kate's lettermasquerading under some thin disguise. She did not stop to realize thatbecause she was so afraid she _would_ find it, she _did_ find it. Inthe books she read, in the plays she saw, in the chance words she heardspoken by friend or stranger--always there was something to feed herfears in one way or another. Even in a yellowed newspaper that hadcovered the top shelf in her closet she found one day a symposiumon whether or not an artist's wife should be an artist; and sheshuddered--but she read every opinion given.
Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended--onthe artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some foramusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the wholeit opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, uponfinishing it she almost sobbed:
"One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I wasgoing to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and nobuttons on his clothes!"
It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there shedid not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite tothe woeful whole.
Billy found Marie in tears.
"Why, Marie!" she cried in dismay.
"Sh-h!" warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door ofCyril's den.
"But, dear, what is it?" begged Billy, with no less dismay, but withgreater caution.
"Sh-h!" admonished Marie again.
On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tinyapartment. Once there; she explained in a more natural tone of voice:
"Cyril's at work on a new piece for the piano."
"Well, what if he is?" demanded Billy. "That needn't make you cry, needit?"
"Oh, no--no, indeed," demurred Marie, in a shocked voice.
"Well, then, what is it?"
Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs forsympathy, she sobbed:
"It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough forCyril."
Billy stared frankly.
"Not _good_ enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?"
"Well, not good _for_ him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots ofways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'ddarned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found todarn, and I'd been so proud and--and happy while I _was_ darning them.But--but he took 'em off right after breakfast and threw 'em in acorner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I--I needn't darn anymore; that it made--bunches. Billy, _my darns--bunches!_" Marie's faceand voice were tragic.
"Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you," comforted Billy, promptly,trying not to laugh too hard. "It wasn't _your_ darns; it was justdarns--anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah toldme so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found itout. So don't worry over that."
"Oh, but that isn't all," moaned Marie. "Listen! You know how quiet hemust have everything when he's composing--and he ought to have it, too!But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't haveany rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins inthe kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door andasked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the--the confounded dirtgo, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of thatabominable tin s-stuff," she finished in a wail of misery.
Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraisedhand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle.
"You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing," soothedBilly. "I supposed you knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and makehim his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgottenthere ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpetsweepers that clatter."
Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax.
"You don't understand," she moaned. "It's myself. I've _hindered_ him!"She brought out the word with an agony of slow horror. "And only to-dayI read-here, look!" she faltered, going to the table and picking up withshaking hands a magazine.
Billy recognized it by the cover at once--another like it had been flungnot so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised,therefore, to see very soon at the end of Marie's trembling finger:
"Marriage and the Artistic Temperament."
Billy did not give a ringing laugh this time. She gave an involuntarylittle shudder, though she tried valiantly to turn it all off with alight word of scorn, and a cheery pat on Marie's heaving shoulders. Butshe went home very soon; and it was plain to be seen that her visit toMarie had not brought her peace.
Billy knew Kate's letter, by heart, now, both in the original, and inits different versions, and she knew that, despite her struggles, shewas being forced straight toward Kate's own verdict: that she, Billy,_was_ the cause, in some way, of the deplorable change in Bertram'sappearance, manner, and work. Before she would quite surrender to thisheart-sickening belief, however, she determined to ask Bertram himself.Falteringly, but resolutely, therefore, one day, she questioned him.
"Bertram, once you hinted that the picture did not go right because youwere troubled over something; and I've been wondering--was it about--me,in any way, that you were troubled?"
Billy had her answer before the man spoke. She had it in the quickterror that sprang to his eyes, and the dull red that swept from hisneck to his forehead. His reply, so far as words went did not count, forit evaded everything and told nothing. But Billy knew without words.She knew, too, what she must do. For the time being she took Bertram'sevasive answer as he so evidently wished it to be taken; but thatevening, after he had gone, she wrote him a little note and broke theengagement. So heartbroken was she--and so fearful was she that heshould suspect this--that her note, when completed, was a cold littlething of few words, which carried no hint that its very coldness was butthe heart-break in the disguise of pride.
This was like Billy in all ways. Billy, had she lived in the days ofthe Christian martyrs, would have been the first to walk with head erectinto the Arena of Sacrifice. The arena now was just everyday living, thelions were her own devouring misery, and the cause was Bertram's bestgood.
From Bertram's own self she had it now--that she had been the cause ofhis being troubled; so she could doubt no longer. The only part that wasuncertain was the reason why he had been troubled. Whether his bond toher had become irksome because of his love for another, or because ofhis love for no girl--except to paint, Billy did not know. But that itwas irksome she did not doubt now. Besides, as if she were going to slayhis Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisancegenerally just so that _she_ might be happy! Indeed, no! Hence she brokethe engagement.
This was the letter:
"DEAR BERTRAM:--You won't make the move, so I must. I knew, from the way you spoke to-day, that it _was_ about me that you were troubled, even though you generously tried to make me think it was not. And so the picture did not go well.
"Now, dear, we have not been happy together lately. You have seen it; so have I. I fear our engagement was a mistake, so I'm going to send back your ring to-morrow, and I'm writing this letter to-night. Please don't try to see me just yet. You _know_ what I am doing is best--all round. "Always your friend, "BILLY."