AFTER THE STORM
The young husband's apologies were profuse and abject. Bertram was heartily ashamed of himself, and was man enough to acknowledge it.
Almost on his knees he begged Billy to forgive him; and in a frenzy of self-denunciation he followed her down into the kitchen that night, piteously beseeching her to speak to him, to just _look_ at him, even, so that he might know he was not utterly despised--though he did, indeed, deserve to be more than despised, he moaned.
At first Billy did not speak, or even vouchsafe a glance in his direction. Very quietly she went about her preparations for a simple meal, paying apparently no more attention to Bertram than as if he were not there. But that her ears were only seemingly, and not really deaf, was shown very clearly a little later, when, at a particularly abject wail on the part of the babbling shadow at her heels, Billy choked into a little gasp, half laughter, half sob. It was all over then. Bertram had her in his arms in a twinkling, while to the floor clattered and rolled a knife and a half-peeled baked potato.
Naturally, after that, there could be no more dignified silences on the part of the injured wife.
There were, instead, half-smiles, tears, sobs, a tremulous telling of Pete's going and his messages, followed by a tearful listening to Bertram's story of the torture he had endured at the hands of Miss Winthrop, Bessie Bailey, and an empty, dinnerless house. And thus, in one corner of the kitchen, some time later, a hungry, desperate William found them, the half-peeled, cold baked potato still at their feet.
Torn between his craving for food and his desire not to interfere with any possible peace-making, William was obviously hesitating what to do, when Billy glanced up and saw him. She saw, too, at the same time, the empty, blazing gas-stove burner, and the pile of half-prepared potatoes, to warm which the burner had long since been lighted. With a little cry she broke away from her husband's arms.
``Mercy! and here's poor Uncle William, bless his heart, with not a thing to eat yet!''
They all got dinner then, together, with many a sigh and quick-coming tear as everywhere they met some sad reminder of the gentle old hands that would never again minister to their comfort.
It was a silent meal, and little, after all, was eaten, though brave attempts at cheerfulness and naturalness were made by all three. Bertram, especially, talked, and tried to make sure that the shadow on Billy's face was at least not the one his own conduct had brought there.
``For you do--you surely do forgive me, don't you?'' he begged, as he followed her into the kitchen after the sorry meal was over.
``Why, yes, dear, yes,'' sighed Billy, trying to smile.
``And you'll forget?''
There was no answer.
``Billy! And you'll forget?'' Bertram's voice was insistent, reproachful.
Billy changed color and bit her lip. She looked plainly distressed.
``Billy!'' cried the man, still more reproachfully.
``But, Bertram, I can't forget--quite yet,''
faltered Billy.
Bertram frowned. For a minute he looked as if he were about to take up the matter seriously and argue it with her; but the next moment he smiled and tossed his head with jaunty playfulness--Bertram, to tell the truth, had now had quite enough of what he privately termed ``scenes'' and ``heroics''; and, manlike, he was very ardently longing for the old easy-going friendliness, with all unpleasantness banished to oblivion.
``Oh, but you'll have to forget,'' he claimed, with cheery insistence, ``for you've promised to forgive me--and one can't forgive without forgetting.
So, there!'' he finished, with a smilingly determined ``now-everything-is-just-as-it-was-before'' air.
Billy made no response. She turned hurriedly and began to busy herself with the dishes at the sink. In her heart she was wondering: could she ever forget what Bertram had said? Would anything ever blot out those awful words: ``If you would tend to your husband and your home a little more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice Greggory a little less--''? It seemed now that always, for evermore, they would ring in her ears; always, for evermore, they would burn deeper and deeper into her soul. And not once, in all Bertram's apologies, had he referred to them--those words he had uttered. He had not said he did not mean them. He had not said he was sorry he spoke them. He had ignored them; and he expected that now she, too, would ignore them. As if she could!'' If you would tend to your husband and your home a little more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice Greggory a little less--'' Oh, if only she could, indeed,--forget!
When Billy went up-stairs that night she ran across her ``Talk to Young Wives'' in her desk.
With a half-stifled cry she thrust it far back out of sight.
``I hate you, I hate you--with all your old talk about `brushing up against outside interests'!''
she whispered fiercely. ``Well, I've `brushed'--and now see what I've got for it!''
Later, however, after Bertram was asleep, Billy crept out of bed and got the book. Under the carefully shaded lamp in the adjoining room she turned the pages softly till she came to the sentence:
