Miss Billy - Eleanor Hodgman Porter (read dune .txt) š
- Author: Eleanor Hodgman Porter
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It was Mrs. Hartwellās turn to sigh.
āBut, Billy,ā she contested, wearily, ācanāt you understand that it wasnāt YOUR place to interfereāyou, a young girl?ā
āIām sure I donāt see what difference that makes. I was the only one that could do it! Besides, afterward, I did try to get some one else, Uncle William and Mr. Cyril. But when I found I couldnāt get them, I just had to do it aloneāthat is, with Pete.ā
āPete!ā scoffed Mrs. Hartwell. āPete, indeed!ā
Billyās head came up with a jerk. Billy was very angry now.
āAunt Kate, it seems Iāve done a very terrible thing, but Iām sure I donāt see it that way. I wasnāt afraid, and I wasnāt in the least bit of danger anywhere. I knew my way perfectly, and I did NOT make any āsceneā in that restaurant. I just asked Mr. Bertram to come home with me. One would think you WANTED Mr. Bertram to go off with that man andāand drink too much. But Uncle William hasnāt liked him before, not one bit! Iāve heard him talk about himāthat Mr. Seaver.ā
Mrs. Hartwell raised both her hands, palms outward.
āBilly, it is useless to talk with you. You are quite impossible. It is even worse than I expected!ā she cried, with wrathful impatience.
āWorse than youāexpected? What do you mean, please?ā
āWorse than I thought it would beābefore you came. The idea of those five men taking a girl to bring up!ā
Billy sat very still. She was even holding her breath, though Mrs. Hartwell did not know that.
āYou meanāthat they did notāwant me?ā she asked quietly, so quietly that Mrs. Hartwell did not realize the sudden tension behind the words. For that matter, Mrs. Hartwell was too angry now to realize anything outside of herself.
āWant you! Billy, it is high time that you understand just how things are, and have been, at the house; then perhaps you will conduct yourself with an eye a little more to other peopleās comfort. Can you imagine three young men like my brothers WANTING to take a strange young woman into their home to upset everything?ā
āToāupsetāeverything!ā echoed Billy, faintly. āAnd have I doneā that?ā
āOf course you have! How could you help it? To begin with, they thought you were a boy, and that was bad enough; but William was so anxious to do right by his dead friend that he insisted upon taking you, much against the will of all the rest of us. Oh, I know this isnāt pleasant for you to hear,ā admitted Mrs. Hartwell, in response to the dismayed expression in Billyās eyes; ābut I think itās high time you realize something of what those men have sacrificed for you. Now, to resume. When they found you were a girl, what did they do? Did they turn you over to some school or such place, as they should have done? Certainly not! William would not hear of it. He turned Bertram out of his rooms, put you into them, and established Aunt Hannah as chaperon and me as substitute until she arrived. But because, through it all, he smiled blandly, you have been blind to the whole thing.
āAnd what is the result? His entire household routine is shattered to atoms. You have accepted the whole house as if it were your own. You take Cyrilās time to teach you music, and Bertramās to teach you painting, without a thought of what it means to them. There! I suppose I ought not to have said all this, but I couldnāt help it, Billy. And surely now, NOW you appreciate a little more what your coming to this house has meant, and what my brothers have done for you.ā
āI do, certainly,ā said Billy, still in that voice that was so oddly smooth and emotionless.
āAnd youāll try to be more tractable, less headstrong, less assertive of your presence?ā
The girl sprang to her feet now.
āMore tractable! Less assertive of my presence!ā she cried. āMrs. Hartwell, do you mean to say you think Iād STAY after what youāve told me?ā
āStay? Why, of course youāll stay! Donāt be silly, child. I didnāt tell you this to make you go. I only wanted you to understand how things wereāand are.ā
āAnd I do understandāand Iām going.ā
Mrs. Hartwell frowned. Her face changed color.
āCome, come, Billy, this is nonsense. William wants you here. He would never forgive me if anything I said should send you away. You must not be angry with, him.ā
Billy turned now like an enraged little tigress.
āAngry with him! Why, I love himāI love them all! They are the dearest men ever, and theyāve been so good to me!ā The girlās voice broke a little, then went on with a more determined ring. āDo you think Iād have them know why Iām going?āthat Iād hurt them like that? Never!ā
āBut, Billy, what are you going to do?ā
āI donāt know. Iāve got to plan it out. I only know now that Iām going, sure!ā And with a choking little cry Billy ran from the room.
In her own chamber a minute later the tears fell unrestrained.
āItās homeāall the home there isāanywhere!ā she sobbed. āBut itās got to goāitās got to go!ā
Mrs. Stetson wore an air of unmistakable relief as she stepped into Williamās sitting-room. Even her knock at the half-open door had sounded almost triumphant.
āWilliam, it does seem as if Fate itself had intervened to help us out,ā she began delightedly. āBilly, of her own accord, came to me this morning, and said that she wanted to go away with me for a little trip. So you see that will make it easier for us.ā
āGood! That is fortunate, indeed,ā cried William; but his voice did not carry quite the joy that his words expressed. āI have been disturbed ever since your remarks the other day,ā he continued wearily; āand of course her extraordinary escapade the next evening did not help matters any. It is better, I know, that she shouldnāt be hereāfor a time. Though I shall miss her terribly. But, tell me, what is itāwhat does she want to do?ā
āShe says she guesses she is homesick for Hampden Falls; that sheād like to go back there for a few weeks this summer if Iāll go with her. Theāthe dear child seems suddenly to have taken a great fancy to me,ā explained Aunt Hannah, unsteadily. āI never saw her so affectionate.ā
āShe is a dear girlāa very dear girl; and she has a warm heart.ā William cleared his throat sonorously, but even that did not clear his voice. āIt was her heart that led her wrong the other night,ā he declared. āHers was a brave and fearless actābut a very unwise one. Much as I deplore Bertramās intimacy with Seaver, I should hesitate to take the course marked out by Billy. Bertram is not a child. But tell me more of this trip of yours. How did Billy happen to suggest it?ā
āI donāt know. I noticed yesterday that she seemed strangely silentāunhappy, in fact. She sat alone in her room the greater part of the day, and I could not get her out of it. But this morning she came to my door as bright as the sun itself and made me the proposition I told you of. She says her auntās house is closed, awaiting its sale; but that she would like to open it for awhile this summer, if Iād like to go. Naturally, you can understand that Iād very quickly fall in with a plan like thatā one which promised so easily to settle our difficulties.ā
āYes, of course, of course,ā muttered William. āIt is very fine, very fine indeed,ā he concluded. And again his voice failed quite to match his words in enthusiasm.
āThen Iāll go and begin to see to my things,ā murmured Mrs. Stetson, rising to her feet. āBilly seems anxious to get away.ā
Billy did, indeed, seem anxious to get away. She announced her intended departure at once to the family. She called it a visit to her old home, and she seemed very glad in her preparations. If there was anything forced in this gayety, no one noticed it, or at least, no one spoke of it. The family saw very little of Billy, indeed, these days. She said that she was busy; that she had packing to do. She stopped taking lessons of Cyril, and visited Bertramās studio only once during the whole three days before she went away, and then merely to get some things that belonged to her. On the fourth day, almost before the family realized what was happening, she was gone; and with her had gone Mrs. Stetson and Spunk.
The family said they liked itāthe quiet, the freedom. They said they liked to be aloneāall but William. He said nothing.
And yetā
When Bertram went to his studio that morning he did not pick up his brushes until he had sat for long minutes before the sketch of a red-cheeked, curly-headed young girl whose eyes held a peculiarly wistful appeal; and Cyril, at his piano upstairs, sat with idle fingers until they finally drifted into a simple little melodyāthe last thing Billy had been learning.
It was Pete who brought in the kitten; and Billy had been gone a whole week then.
āThe poor little beast was cryinā at the alleyway door, sir,ā he explained. āIāI made so bold as to bring him in.ā
āOf course,ā said William. āDid you feed it?ā
āYes, sir; Ling did.ā
There was a pause, then Pete spoke, diffidently.
āI thought, sir, if ye didnāt mind, Iād keep it. Iāll try to see that it stays downstairs, sir, out of yer way.ā
āThatās all right, Pete; keep it, by all means, by all means,ā approved William.
āThank ye, sir. Ye see, itās a stray. It hasnāt got any home. And, did ye notice, sir? it looks like Spunk.ā
āYes, I noticed,ā said William, stirring with sudden restlessness. āI noticed.ā
āYes, sir,ā said Pete. And he turned and carried the small gray cat away.
The new kitten did not stay downstairs. Pete tried, it is true, to keep his promise to watch it; but after he had seen the little animal carried surreptitiously upstairs in Mr. Williamās arms, he relaxed his vigilance. Some days later the kitten appeared with a huge pink bow behind its ears, somewhat awkwardly tied, if it must be confessed. Where it came from, or who put it there was not knownāuntil one day the kitten was found in the hall delightedly chewing at the end of what had been a roll of pink ribbon. Up the stairs led a trail of pink ribbon and curling white paperāand the end of the trail was in Williamās room.
By the middle of June only William and the gray kitten were left with Pete and Dong Ling in the Beacon Street house. Cyril had sailed for England, and Bertram had gone on a sketching trip with a friend.
To William the house this summer was unusually lonely; indeed, he found the silent, deserted rooms almost unbearable. Even the presence of the little gray cat served only to accentuate the lonelinessāit reminded him of Billy.
William missed Billy. He owned that now even to Pete. He said that he would be glad when she came back. To himself he said that he wished he had not fallen in quite so readily with Aunt Hannahās notion of getting the child away. It was all nonsense, he declared. All she needed was a little curbing and directing, both of which could just as well have been done there at home. But she had gone, and it could not be helped now. The
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