Miss Billy - Eleanor Hodgman Porter (read dune .txt) đ
- Author: Eleanor Hodgman Porter
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And âThe Strataâ it was to all the Henshawsâ friends, and even to William and Cyril themselves, in spite of their objection to the term.
From babyhood the Henshaw boys had lived in the handsome, roomy house, facing the Public Garden. It had been their fatherâs boyhood home, as well, and he and his wife had died there, soon after Kate, the only daughter, had married. At the age of twenty-two, William Henshaw, the eldest son, had brought his bride to the house, and together they had striven to make a home for the two younger orphan boys, Cyril, twelve, and Bertram, six. But Mrs. William, after a short five years of married life, had died; and since then, the house had known almost nothing of a womanâs touch or care.
Little by little as the years passed, the house and its inmates had fallen into what had given Bertram his excuse for the name. Cyril, thirty years old now, dignified, reserved, averse to cats, dogs, women, and confusion, had early taken himself and his music to the peace and exclusiveness of the fourth floor. Below him, William had long discouraged any meddling with his precious chaos of possessions, and had finally come to spend nearly all his spare time among them. This left Bertram to undisputed ownership of the second floor, and right royally did he hold sway there with his paints and brushes and easels, his old armor, rich hangings, rugs, and cushions, and everywhere his specialtyâhis âFace of a Girl.â From canvas, plaque, and panel they looked outâthose girlish faces: winsome, wilful, pert, demure, merry, sad, beautiful, even almost uglyâthey were all there; and they were growing famous, too. The world of art was beginning to take notice, and to adjust its spectacles for a more critical glance. This âFace of a Girlâ by Henshaw bade fair to be worth while.
Below Bertramâs cheery second floor were the dim old library and drawing-rooms, silent, stately, and almost never used; and below them were the dining-room and the kitchen. Here ruled Dong Ling, the Chinese cook, and Pete.
Pete wasâindeed, it is hard telling what Pete was. He said he was the butler; and he looked the part when he answered the bell at the great front door. But at other times, when he swept a room, or dusted Master Williamâs curios, he lookedâlike nothing so much as what he was: a fussy, faithful old man, who expected to die in the service he had entered fifty years before as a lad.
Thus in all the Beacon Street house, there had not for years been the touch of a womanâs hand. Even Kate, the married sister, had long since given up trying to instruct Dong Ling or to chide Pete, though she still walked across the Garden from her Commonwealth Avenue home and tripped up the stairs to call in turn upon her brothers, Bertram, William, and Cyril.
It was on the six oâclock delivery that William Henshaw received the letter from his namesake, Billy. To say the least, the letter was a great shock to him. He had not quite forgotten Billyâs father, who had died so long ago, it is true, but he had forgotten Billy, entirely. Even as he looked at the disconcerting epistle with its round, neatly formed letters, he had great difficulty in ferreting out the particular niche in his memory which contained the fact that Walter Neilson had had a child, and had named it for him.
And this child, this âBilly,â this unknown progeny of an all but forgotten boyhood friend, was asking a home, and with him! Impossible! And William Henshaw peered at the letter as if, at this second reading, its message could not be so monstrous.
âWell, old man, whatâs up?â It was Bertramâs amazed voice from the hall doorway; and indeed, William Henshaw, red-faced and plainly trembling, seated on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing, wild-eyed, at the letter in his hand, was somewhat of an amazing sight. âWhat IS up?â
âWhatâs up!â groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the letter frantically in the air. âWhatâs up! Young man, do you want us to take in a child to board?âa CHILD?â he repeated in slow horror.
âWell, hardly,â laughed the other. âEr, perhaps Cyril might like it, though; eh?â
âCome, come, Bertram, be sensible for once,â pleaded his brother, nervously. âThis is serious, really serious, I tell you!â
âWhat is serious?â demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway. âCanât it wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for dinner.â
William made a despairing gesture.
âWell, come,â he groaned. âIâll tell you at the table⊠. It seems Iâve got a namesake,â he resumed in a shaking voice, a few moments later; âWalter Neilsonâs child.â
âAnd whoâs Walter Neilson?â asked Bertram.
âA boyhood friend. You wouldnât remember him. This letter is from his child.â
âWell, letâs hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand theâLETTER; eh, Cyril?â
Cyril frowned. Cyril did not know, perhaps, how often he frowned at Bertram.
The eldest brother wet his lips. His hand shook as he picked up the letter.
âItâitâs so absurd,â he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and read the letter aloud.
âDEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind my calling you that? You see I want SOME one, and there isnât any one now. You are the nearest Iâve got. Maybe youâve forgotten, but Iâm named for you. Walter Neilson was my father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died.
âWould you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is, between timesâIâm going to college, of course, and after that Iâm going to beâwell, I havenât decided that part yet. I think Iâll consult you. You may have some preference, you know. You can be thinking it up until I come.
âThere! Maybe I ought not to have said that, for perhaps you wonât want me to come. I AM noisy, Iâll own, but not so I think youâll mind it much unless some of you have ânervesâ or a âheart.â You see, Miss Letty and Miss Annâtheyâre Mr. Hardingâs sisters, and Mr. Harding is our lawyer, and he will write to you. Well, where was I? Oh, I knowâon Miss Lettyâs nerves. And, say, do you know, that is where I do getâon Miss Lettyâs nerves. I do, truly. You see, Mr. Harding very kindly suggested that I live with them, but, mercy! Miss Lettyâs nerves wonât let you walk except on tiptoe, and Miss Annâs heart wonât let you speak except in whispers. All the chairs and tables have worn little sockets in the carpets, and itâs a crime to move them. There isnât a window-shade in the house that isnât pulled down EXACTLY to the middle sash, except where the sun shines, and those are pulled way down. Imagine me and Spunk living there! Oh, by the way, you donât mind my bringing Spunk, do you? I hope you donât, for I couldnât live without Spunk, and he couldnât live with out me.
âPlease let me hear from you very soon. I donât mind if you telegraph; and just âcomeâ would be all youâd have to say. Then Iâd get ready right away and let you know what train to meet me on. And, oh, sayâif youâll wear a pink in your buttonhole I will, too. Then weâll know each other. My address is just âHampden Falls.â
âYour awfully homesick namesake,
âBILLY HENSHAW NEILSONâ
For one long minute there was a blank silence about the Henshaw dinner-table; then the eldest brother, looking anxiously from one man to the other, stammered:
âW-well?â
âGreat Scott!â breathed Bertram.
Cyril said nothing, but his lips were white with their tense pressure against each other.
There was another pause, and again William broke it anxiously.
âBoys, this isnât helping me out any! Whatâs to be done?â
ââDoneâ!â flamed Cyril. âSurely, you arenât thinking for a moment of LETTING that child come here, William!â
Bertram chuckled.
âHe WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldnât he? Such nice smooth floors youâve got upstairs to trundle little tin carts across!â
âTin nonsense!â retorted Cyril. âDonât be silly, Bertram. That letter wasnât written by a baby. Heâd be much more likely to make himself at home with your paint box, or with some of Williamâs junk.â
âOh, I say,â expostulated William, âweâll HAVE to keep him out of those things, you know.â
Cyril pushed back his chair from the table.
ââWeâll have to keep him outâ! William, you canât be in earnest! You arenât going to let that boy come here,â he cried.
âBut what can I do?â faltered the man.
âDo? Say âno,â of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!â
âBut I must do something. IâIâm all heâs got. He says so.â
âGood heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the penitentiary; anywhere but here!â
âShucks! Let the kid come,â laughed Bertram. âPoor little homesick devil! Whatâs the use? Iâll take him in. How old is he, anyhow?â
William frowned, and mused aloud slowly.
âWhy, I donât know. He must beâerâwhy, boys, heâs no child,â broke off the man suddenly. âWalter himself died seventeen or eighteen years ago, not more than a year or two after he was married. That child must be somewhere around eighteen years old!â
âAnd only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,â laughed Bertram. âNever mindâeight or eighteenâlet him come. If heâs that age, he wonât bother much.â
âAnd thisâerââSpunkâ; do you take him, too? But probably he doesnât bother, either,â murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm.
âGorry! I forgot Spunk,â acknowledged Bertram. âSay, what in time is Spunk, do you suppose?â
âDog, maybe,â suggested William.
âWell, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk downstairs,â said Cyril with decision. âThe boy, I suppose I shall have to endure; but the dogâ!â
âHm-m; well, judging by his name,â murmured Bertram, apologetically, âit may be just possible that Spunk wonât be easily controlled. But maybe he isnât a dog, anyhow. Heâerâsounds something like a parrot to me.â
Cyril rose to his feet abruptly. He had eaten almost no dinner.
âVery well,â he said coldly. âBut please remember that I hold you responsible, Bertram. Whether itâs a dog, or a parrot, orâor a monkey, I shall expect you to keep Spunk downstairs. This adopting into the family an unknown boy seems to me very absurd from beginning to end. But if you and William will have it so, of course Iâve nothing to say. Fortunately my rooms are at the TOP of the house,â he finished, as he turned and left the dining-room.
For a moment there was silence. The brows of the younger man were uplifted quizzically.
âIâm afraid Cyril is bothered,â murmured William then, in a troubled voice.
Bertramâs face changed. Stern lines came to his boyish mouth.
âHe is always botheredâwith anything, lately.â
The elder man sighed.
âI know, but with his talentââ
ââTalentâ! Great Scott!â cut in Bertram. âHalf the world has talent of one sort or another; but that doesnât necessarily make them unable to live with any one else! Really, Will, itâs becoming seriousâabout Cyril. Heâs getting to be, for all the world, like those finicky old maids that that young namesake of yours wrote about. Heâll make us whisper and walk on tiptoe yet!â
The other smiled.
âDonât you worry. You arenât in any danger of being kept too quiet, young man.â
âNo thanks to Cyril, then,â retorted Bertram. âAnyhow, thatâs one reason why I was for taking the kidâto mellow up Cyril. He needs it all right.â
âBut I had to take him, Bert,â argued the elder brother, his face growing anxious again. âBut Heaven only knows what Iâm going to do with him when I get him. What shall
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