BY A BABY'S HAND
After all, it was the baby's hand that did it, as was proper, and perhaps to be expected; for surely, was it not Bertram, Jr.'s place to show his parents that he was, indeed, no Wedge, but a dear and precious Tie binding two loving, loyal hearts more and more closely together? It would seem, indeed, that Bertram, Jr., thought so, perhaps, and very bravely he set about it;though, to carry out his purpose, he had to turn his steps into an unfamiliar way--a way of pain, and weariness, and danger.
It was Arkwright who told Bertram that the baby was very sick, and that Billy wanted him.
Bertram went home at once to find a distracted, white-faced Billy, and a twisted, pain-racked little creature, who it was almost impossible to believe was the happy, laughing baby boy he had left that morning.
For the next two weeks nothing was thought of in the silent old Beacon Street house but the tiny little life hovering so near Death's door that twice it appeared to have slipped quite across the threshold. All through those terrible weeks it seemed as if Billy neither ate nor slept; and always at her side, comforting, cheering, and helping wherever possible was Bertram, tender, loving, and marvelously thoughtful.
Then came the turning point when the universe itself appeared to hang upon a baby's breath. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, came the fluttering back of the tiny spirit into the longing arms stretched so far, far out to meet and hold it. And the father and the mother, looking into each other's sleepless, dark-ringed eyes, knew that their son was once more theirs to love and cherish.
When two have gone together with a dear one down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and have come back, either mourning or rejoicing, they find a different world from the one they had left. Things that were great before seem small, and some things that were small seem great. At least Bertram and Billy found their world thus changed when together they came back bringing their son with them.
In the long weeks of convalescence, when the healthy rosiness stole bit by bit into the baby's waxen face, and the light of recognition and understanding crept day by day into the baby's eyes, there was many a quiet hour for heart-to-heart talks between the two who so anxiously and joyously hailed every rosy tint and fleeting sparkle. And there was so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to talk about! And always, running through everything, was that golden thread of joy, beside which all else paled--that they had Baby and each other. As if anything else mattered!
To be sure, there was Bertram's arm. Very early in their talks Billy found out about that.
But Billy, with Baby getting well, was not to be daunted, even by this.
``Nonsense, darling--not paint again, indeed! Why, Bertram, of course you will,'' she cried confidently.
``But, Billy, the doctor said,'' began Bertram;but Billy would not even listen.
``Very well, what if he did, dear?'' she interrupted. ``What if he did say you couldn't use your right arm much again?'' Billy's voice broke a little, then quickly steadied into something very much like triumph. ``You've got your left one!''
Bertram shook his head.
``I can't paint with that.''
``Yes, you can,'' insisted Billy, firmly. ``Why, Bertram, what do you suppose you were given two arms for if not to fight with both of them?
And I'm going to be ever so much prouder of what you paint now, because I'll know how splendidly you worked to do it. Besides, there's Baby.
As if you weren't ever going to paint for Baby!
Why, Bertram, I'm going to have you paint Baby, one of these days. Think how pleased he'll be to see it when he grows up! He's nicer, anyhow, than any old `Face of a Girl' you ever did.
Paint? Why, Bertram, darling, of course you're going to paint, and better than you ever did before!''
Bertram shook his head again; but this time he smiled, and patted Billy's cheek with the tip of his forefinger.
``As if I could!'' he disclaimed. But that afternoon he went into his long-deserted studio and hunted up his last unfinished picture. For some time he stood motionless before it; then, with a quick gesture of determination, he got out his palette, paints, and brushes. This time not until he had painted ten, a dozen, a score of strokes, did he drop his brush with a sigh and carefully erase the fresh paint on the canvas. The next day he worked longer, and this time he allowed a little, a very little, of what he had done to remain.
The third day Billy herself found him at his easel.
``I wonder--do you suppose I could?'' he asked fearfully.
``Why, dearest, of course you can! Haven't you noticed? Can't you see how much more you can do with your left hand now? You've _had_ to use it, you see. _I've_ seen you do a lot of things with it, lately, that you never used to do at all.
And, of course, the more you do with it, the more you can!''
``I know; but that doesn't mean that I can paint with it,'' sighed Bertram, ruefully eyeing the tiny bit of fresh color his canvas showed for his long afternoon's work.
``You wait and see,'' nodded Billy, with so overwhelming a cheery confidence that Bertram, looking into her glowing face, was conscious of a curious throb of exultation, almost as if already the victory were his.
But it was not always of Bertram's broken arm, nor even of his work that they talked. Bertram, hanging over the baby's crib to assure himself that the rosiness and the sparkle were really growing more apparent every day, used to wonder sometimes how ever in the world he could have been jealous of his son. He said as much one day to Billy.
To Billy it was a most astounding idea.
``You mean you were actually jealous of your own baby?'' she gasped. ``Why, Bertram, how could-- And was that why you--you sought distraction and-- Oh, but, Bertram, that was all my f-fault,'' she quavered remorsefully. ``Iwouldn't play, nor sing, nor go to walk, nor anything; and I wore horrid frowzy wrappers all the time, and--''
