And as Arkwright, too, very much disapproved of the church-wedding idea, the two were married in the Annex living-room at noon on the fifteenth as originally planned, in spite of Mrs. Kate Hartwell's letter.
It was soon after the wedding that Bertram told Billy he wished she would sit for him with Bertram, Jr.
``I want to try my hand at you both together,''
he coaxed.
``Why, of course, if you like, dear,'' agreed Billy, promptly, ``though I think Baby is just as nice, and even nicer, alone.''
Once again all over Bertram's studio began to appear sketches of Billy, this time a glorified, tender Billy, with the wonderful mother-love in her eyes. Then, after several sketches of trial poses, Bertram began his picture of Billy and the baby together.
Even now Bertram was not sure of his work.
He knew that he could not yet paint with his old freedom and ease; he knew that his stroke was not so sure, so untrammeled. But he knew, too, that he had gained wonderfully, during the summer, and that he was gaining now, every day.
To Billy he said nothing of all this. Even to himself he scarcely put his hope into words; but in his heart he knew that what he was really painting his ``Mother and Child'' picture for was the Bohemian Ten Club Exhibition in March--if he could but put upon canvas the vision that was spurring him on.
And so Bertram worked all through those short winter days, not always upon the one picture, of course, but upon some picture or sketch that would help to give his still uncertain left hand the skill that had belonged to its mate.
And always, cheering, encouraging, insisting on victory, was Billy, so that even had Bertram been tempted, sometimes, to give up, he could not have done so--and faced Billy's grieved, disappointed eyes. And when at last his work was completed, and the pictured mother and child in all their marvelous life and beauty seemed ready to step from the canvas, Billy drew a long ecstatic breath.
``Oh, Bertram, it _is_, it is the best work you have ever done.'' Billy was looking at the baby.
Always she had ignored herself as part of the picture. ``And won't it be fine for the Exhibition!''
Bertram's hand tightened on the chair-back in front of him. For a moment he could not speak. Then, a bit huskily, he asked:
``Would you dare--risk it?''
``Risk it! Why, Bertram Henshaw, I've meant that picture for the Exhibition from the very first--only I never dreamed you could get it so perfectly lovely. _Now_ what do you say about Baby being nicer than any old `Face of a Girl' that you ever did?'' she triumphed.
And Bertram, who, even to himself, had not dared whisper the word exhibition, gave a tremulous laugh that was almost a sob, so overwhelming was his sudden realization of what faith and confidence had meant to Billy, his wife.
