Billy alternately laughed and scolded, to the unvarying good nature of her husband. As it happened, however, even this was not for long, for Billy ran across a magazine article on food adulteration; and this so filled her with terror lest, in the food served, she were killing her family by slow poison, that she forgot all about the proteins, fats, and carbohydrates. Her talk these days was of formaldehyde, benzoate of soda, and salicylic acid.
Very soon, too, Billy discovered an exclusive Back Bay school for instruction in household economics and domestic hygiene. Billy investigated it at once, and was immediately aflame with enthusiasm. She told Bertram that it taught everything, _everything_ she wanted to know; and forthwith she enrolled herself as one of its most devoted pupils, in spite of her husband's protests that she knew enough, more than enough, already.
This school attendance, to her consternation, Billy discovered took added time; but in some way she contrived to find it to take.
And so the days passed. Eliza's mother, though better, was still too ill for her daughter to leave her. Billy, as the warm weather approached, began to look pale and thin. Billy, to tell the truth, was working altogether too hard; but she would not admit it, even to herself. At first the novelty of the work, and her determination to conquer at all costs, had given a fictitious strength to her endurance. Now that the novelty had become accustomedness, and the conquering a surety, Billy discovered that she had a back that could ache, and limbs that, at times, could almost refuse to move from weariness. There was still, however, one spur that never failed to urge her to fresh endeavor, and to make her, at least temporarily, forget both ache and weariness; and that was the comforting thought that now, certainly, even Bertram himself must admit that she was tending to her home and her husband.
As to Bertram--Bertram, it is true, had at first uttered frequent and vehement protests against his wife's absorption of both mind and body in ``that plaguy housework,'' as he termed it. But as the days passed, and blessed order superseded chaos, peace followed discord, and delicious, well-served meals took the place of the horrors that had been called meals in the past, he gradually accepted the change with tranquil satisfaction, and forgot to question how it was brought about; though he did still, sometimes, rebel because Billy was always too tired, or too busy, to go out with him. Of late, however, he had not done even this so frequently, for a new ``Face of a Girl'' had possessed his soul; and all his thoughts and most of his time had gone to putting on canvas the vision of loveliness that his mind's eye saw.
By June fifteenth the picture was finished.
Bertram awoke then to his surroundings. He found summer was upon him with no plans made for its enjoyment. He found William had started West for a two weeks' business trip. But what he did not find one day--at least at first--was his wife, when he came home unexpectedly at four o'clock. And Bertram especially wanted to find his wife that day, for he had met three people whose words had disquieted him not a little.
First, Aunt Hannah. She had said:
``Bertram, where is Billy? She hasn't been out to the Annex for a week; and the last time she was there she looked sick. I was real worried about her.''
Cyril had been next.
``Where's Billy?'' he had asked abruptly.
``Marie says she hasn't seen her for two weeks.
Marie's afraid she's sick. She says Billy didn't look well a bit, when she did see her.''
Calderwell had capped the climax. He had said:
``Great Scott, Henshaw, where have you been keeping yourself? And where's your wife? Not one of us has caught more than a glimpse of her for weeks. She hasn't sung with us, nor played for us, nor let us take her anywhere for a month of Sundays. Even Miss Greggory says _she_ hasn't seen much of her, and that Billy always says she's too busy to go anywhere. But Miss Greggory says she looks pale and thin, and that _she_thinks she's worrying too much over running the house. I hope she isn't sick!''
``Why, no, Billy isn't sick. Billy's all right,''
Bertram had answered. He had spoken lightly, nonchalantly, with an elaborate air of carelessness;but after he had left Calderwell, he had turned his steps abruptly and a little hastily toward home.
And he had not found Billy--at least, not at once. He had gone first down into the kitchen and dining-room. He remembered then, uneasily, that he had always looked for Billy in the kitchen and dining-room, of late. To-day, however, she was not there.
On the kitchen table Bertram did see a book wide open, and, mechanically, he picked it up.
It was a much-thumbed cookbook, and it was open where two once-blank pages bore his wife's handwriting. On the first page, under the printed heading ``Things to Remember,'' he read these sentences:
``That rice swells till every dish in the house is full, and that spinach shrinks till you can't find it.
``That beets boil dry if you look out the window.
``That biscuits which look as if they'd been mixed up with a rusty stove poker haven't really been so, but have only got too much undissolved soda in them.''
There were other sentences, but Bertram's eyes chanced to fall on the opposite page where the ``Things to Remember'' had been changed to ``Things to Forget''; and here Billy had written just four words: ``Burns,'' ``cuts,'' and ``yesterday's failures.''
Bertram dropped the book then with a spasmodic clearing of his throat, and hurriedly resumed his search. When he did find his wife, at last, he gave a cry of dismay--she was on her own bed, huddled in a little heap, and shaking with sobs.
``Billy! Why, Billy!'' he gasped, striding to the bedside.
Billy sat up at once, and hastily wiped her eyes.
``Oh, is it you, B-Bertram? I didn't hear you come in. You--you s-said you weren't coming till six o'clock!'' she choked.
``Billy, what is the meaning of this?''
``N-nothing. I--I guess I'm just tired.''
