Miss Billie's Decision [90]
that had covered the top shelf in her closet she found one day a symposium on whether or not an artist's wife should be an artist; and she shuddered--but she read every opinion given.
Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended--on the artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some for amusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the whole it opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon finishing it she almost sobbed:
``One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I was going to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and no buttons on his clothes!''
It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there she did not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite to the woeful whole.
Billy found Marie in tears.
``Why, Marie!'' she cried in dismay.
``Sh-h!'' warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of Cyril's den.
``But, dear, what is it?'' begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with greater caution.
``Sh-h!'' admonished Marie again.
On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tiny apartment. 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, need it?''
``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 for sympathy, she sobbed:
``It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough for Cyril.''
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 of ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'd darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to darn, 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 a corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I--I needn't darn any more; that it made--bunches. Billy, _my darns--bunches!_'' Marie's face and 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 just darns--anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told me so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found it out. So don't worry over that.''
``Oh, but that isn't all,'' moaned Marie. ``Listen! You know how quiet he must 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 have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and asked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the--the confounded dirt go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that abominable tin s-stuff,'' she finished in a wail of misery.
Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle.
``You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing,'' soothed Billy. ``I supposed you knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and make him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgotten there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet sweepers 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-day I read-here, look!'' she faltered, going to the table and picking up with shaking hands a magazine.
Billy recognized it by the cover at once--another like it had been flung not so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised, therefore,
Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended--on the artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some for amusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the whole it opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon finishing it she almost sobbed:
``One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I was going to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and no buttons on his clothes!''
It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there she did not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite to the woeful whole.
Billy found Marie in tears.
``Why, Marie!'' she cried in dismay.
``Sh-h!'' warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of Cyril's den.
``But, dear, what is it?'' begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with greater caution.
``Sh-h!'' admonished Marie again.
On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tiny apartment. 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, need it?''
``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 for sympathy, she sobbed:
``It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough for Cyril.''
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 of ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'd darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to darn, 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 a corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I--I needn't darn any more; that it made--bunches. Billy, _my darns--bunches!_'' Marie's face and 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 just darns--anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told me so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found it out. So don't worry over that.''
``Oh, but that isn't all,'' moaned Marie. ``Listen! You know how quiet he must 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 have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and asked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the--the confounded dirt go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that abominable tin s-stuff,'' she finished in a wail of misery.
Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle.
``You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing,'' soothed Billy. ``I supposed you knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and make him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgotten there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet sweepers 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-day I read-here, look!'' she faltered, going to the table and picking up with shaking hands a magazine.
Billy recognized it by the cover at once--another like it had been flung not so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised, therefore,