``THE PAINTING LOOK''
It was toward the last of October that Billy began to notice her husband's growing restlessness.
Twice, when she had been playing to him, she turned to find him testing the suppleness of his injured arm. Several times, failing to receive an answer to her questions, she had looked up to discover him gazing abstractedly at nothing in particular.
They read and walked and talked together, to be sure, and Bertram's devotion to her lightest wish was beyond question; but more and more frequently these days Billy found him hovering over his sketches in his studio; and once, when he failed to respond to the dinner-bell, search revealed him buried in a profound treatise on ``The Art of Foreshortening.''
Then came the day when Billy, after an hour's vain effort to imprison within notes a tantalizing melody, captured the truant and rain down to the studio to tell Bertram of her victory.
But Bertram did not seem even to hear her.
True, he leaped to his feet and hurried to meet her, his face radiantly aglow; but she had not ceased to speak before he himself was talking.
``Billy, Billy, I've been sketching,'' he cried.
``My hand is almost steady. See, some of those lines are all right! I just picked up a crayon and--'' He stopped abruptly, his eyes on Billy's face. A vaguely troubled shadow crossed his own. ``Did--did you--were you saying anything in--in particular, when you came in?'' he stammered.
For a short half-minute Billy looked at her husband without speaking. Then, a little queerly, she laughed.
``Oh, no, nothing at all in _particular_,'' she retorted airily. The next moment, with one of her unexpected changes of manner, she darted across the room, picked up a palette, and a handful of brushes from the long box near it. Advancing toward her husband she held them out dramatically.
``And now paint, my lord, paint!'' she commanded him, with stern insistence, as she thrust them into his hands.
Bertram laughed shamefacedly.
``Oh, I say, Billy,'' he began; but Billy had gone.
Out in the hall Billy was speeding up-stairs, talking fiercely to herself.
``We'll, Billy Neilson Henshaw, it's come!
Now behave yourself. _That was the painting look!_You know what that means. Remember, he belongs to his Art before he does to you. Kate and everybody says so. And you--you expected him to tend to you and your silly little songs. Do you want to ruin his career? As if now he could spend all his time and give all his thoughts to you! But I--I just hate that Art!''
``What did you say, Billy?'' asked William, in mild surprise, coming around the turn of the balustrade in the hall above. ``Were you speaking to me, my dear?''
Billy looked up. Her face cleared suddenly, and she laughed--though a little ruefully.
``No, Uncle William, I wasn't talking to you,''
she sighed. ``I was just--just administering first aid to the injured,'' she finished, as she whisked into her own room.
``Well, well, bless the child! What can she mean by that?'' puzzled Uncle William, turning to go down the stairway.
Bertram began to paint a very little the next day. He painted still more the next, and yet more again the day following. He was like a bird let out of a cage, so joyously alive was he. The old sparkle came back to his eye, the old gay smile to his lips. Now that they had come back Billy realized what she had not been conscious of before: that for several weeks past they had not been there; and she wondered which hurt the more--that they had not been there before, or that they were there now. Then she scolded herself roundly for asking the question at all.
They were not easy--those days for Billy, though always to Bertram she managed to show a cheerfully serene face. To Uncle William, also, and to Aunt Hannah she showed a smiling countenance;and because she could not talk to anybody else of her feelings, she talked to herself.
This, however, was no new thing for Billy to do From earliest childhood she had fought things out in like manner.
``But it's so absurd of you, Billy Henshaw,''
she berated herself one day, when Bertram had become so absorbed in his work that he had forgotten to keep his appointment with her for a walk. ``Just because you have had his constant attention almost every hour since you were married is no reason why you should have it every hour now, when his arm is better! Besides, it's exactly what you said you wouldn't do--object--to his giving proper time to his work.''
``But I'm not objecting,'' stormed the other half of herself. ``I'm _telling_ him to do it. It's only that he's so--so _pleased_ to do it. He doesn't seem to mind a bit being away from me. He's actually happy!''
``Well, don't you want him to be happy in his work? Fie! For shame! A fine artist's wife you are. It seems Kate was right, then; you _are_ going to spoil his career!''
``Ho!'' quoth Billy, and tossed her head.
Forthwith she crossed the room to her piano and plumped herself down hard on to the stool. Then, from under her fingers there fell a rollicking melody that seemed to fill the room with little dancing feet. Faster and faster sped Billy's fingers;swifter and swifter twinkled the little dancing feet. Then a door was jerked open, and Bertram's voice called:
``Billy!''
The music stopped instantly. Billy sprang from her seat, her eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice. Perhaps--_perhaps_Bertram wanted her. Perhaps he was not going to paint any longer that morning, after all.
``Billy!'' called the voice again. ``Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while? I'm a brute, I know, dear, but my brush _will_ try to keep time with that crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady, anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig, jiggety, jig, jig--! _Do_ you mind,, darling, just--just sewing, or doing something still for a while?''
All the light fled from Billy's face, but her voice, when she spoke, was the quintessence of cheery indifference.
``Why, no, of course not, dear.''
