Miss Billy

E >> Eleanor H. Porter >> Miss Billy

MISS BILLY


by Eleanor H. Porter




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I. BILLY WRITES A LETTER

II. "THE STRATA"

III. THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES

IV. BILLY SENDS A TELEGRAM

V. GETTING READY FOR BILLY

VI. THE COMING OF BILLY

VII. INTRODUCING SPUNK

VIII. THE ROOM--AND BILLY

IX. A FAMILY CONCLAVE

X. AUNT HANNAH

XI. BERTRAM HAS VISITORS

XII. CYRIL TAKES HIS TURN

XIII. A SURPRISE ALL AROUND

XIV. AUNT HANNAH SPEAKS HER MIND

XV. WHAT BERTRAM CALLS "THE LIMIT"

XVI. KATE TAKES A HAND

XVII. A PINK-RIBBON TRAIL

XVIII. BILLY WRITES ANOTHER LETTER

XIX. SEEING BILLY OFF

XX. BILLY, THE MYTH

XXI. BILLY, THE REALITY

XXII. HUGH CALDERWELL

XXIII. BERTRAM DOES SOME QUESTIONING

XXIV. CYRIL, THE ENIGMA

XXV. THE OLD ROOM--AND BILLY

XXVI. "MUSIC HATH CHARMS"

XXVII. MARIE, WHO LONGS TO MAKE PUDDINGS

XXVIII. "I'M GOING TO WIN"

XXIX. "I'M NOT GOING TO MARRY"

XXX. MARIE FINDS A FRIEND

XXXI. THE ENGAGEMENT OF ONE

XXXII. CYRIL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY

XXXIII. WILLIAM IS WORRIED

XXXIV. CLASS DAY

XXXV. SISTER KATE AGAIN

XXXVI. WILLIAM MEETS WITH A SURPRISE

XXXVII. "WILLIAM'S BROTHER"

XXXVIII. THE ENGAGEMENT OF TWO

XXXIX. A LITTLE PIECE OF PAPER

XL. WILLIAM PAYS A VISIT

XLI. THE CROOKED MADE STRAIGHT

XLII. THE "END OF THE STORY"




MISS BILLY



CHAPTER I

BILLY WRITES A LETTER



Billy Neilson was eighteen years old when the aunt, who had brought her
up from babyhood, died. Miss Benton's death left Billy quite alone
in the world--alone, and peculiarly forlorn. To Mr. James Harding,
of Harding & Harding, who had charge of Billy's not inconsiderable
property, the girl poured out her heart in all its loneliness two days
after the funeral.

"You see, Mr. Harding, there isn't any one--not any one who--cares," she
choked.

"Tut, tut, my child, it's not so bad as that, surely," remonstrated the
old man, gently. "Why, I--I care."

Billy smiled through tear-wet eyes.

"But I can't LIVE with you," she said.

"I'm not so sure of that, either," retorted the man. "I'm thinking that
Letty and Ann would LIKE to have you with us."

The girl laughed now outright. She was thinking of Miss Letty, who had
"nerves," and of Miss Ann, who had a "heart"; and she pictured her own
young, breezy, healthy self attempting to conform to the hushed and
shaded thing that life was, within Lawyer Harding's home.

"Thank you, but I'm sure they wouldn't," she objected. "You don't know
how noisy I am."

The lawyer stirred restlessly and pondered.

"But, surely, my dear, isn't there some relative, somewhere?" he
demanded. "How about your mother's people?"

Billy shook her head. Her eyes filled again with tears.

"There was only Aunt Ella, ever, that I knew anything about. She and
mother were the only children there were, and mother died when I was a
year old, you know."

"But your father's people?"

"It's even worse there. He was an only child and an orphan when mother
married him. He died when I was but six months old. After that there was
only mother and Aunt Ella, then Aunt Ella alone; and now--no one."

"And you know nothing of your father's people?"

"Nothing; that is--almost nothing."

"Then there is some one?"

Billy smiled. A deeper pink showed in her cheeks.

"Why, there's one--a man but he isn't really father's people, anyway.
But I--I have been tempted to write to him."

"Who is he?"

"The one I'm named for. He was father's boyhood chum. You see that's why
I'm 'Billy' instead of being a proper 'Susie,' or 'Bessie,' or 'Sally
Jane.' Father had made up his mind to name his baby 'William' after his
chum, and when I came, Aunt Ella said, he was quite broken-hearted until
somebody hit upon the idea of naming me Billy.' Then he was content, for
it seems that he always called his chum 'Billy' anyhow. And so--'Billy'
I am to-day."

"Do you know this man?"

"No. You see father died, and mother and Aunt Ella knew him only very
slightly. Mother knew his wife, though, Aunt Ella said, and SHE was
lovely."

"Hm--; well, we might look them up, perhaps. You know his address?"

"Oh, yes unless he's moved. We've always kept that. Aunt Ella used to
say sometimes that she was going to write to him some day about me, you
know."

"What's his name?"

"William Henshaw. He lives in Boston."

Lawyer Harding snatched off his glasses, and leaned forward in his
chair.

"William Henshaw! Not the Beacon Street Henshaws!" he cried.

It was Billy's turn to be excited. She, too, leaned forward eagerly.

"Oh, do you know him? That's lovely! And his address IS Beacon Street! I
know because I saw it only to-day. You see, I HAVE been tempted to write
him."

"Write him? Of course you'll write him," cried the lawyer. "And we don't
need to do much 'looking up' there, child. I've known the family for
years, and this William was a college mate of my boy's. Nice fellow,
too. I've heard Ned speak of him. There were three sons, William, and
two others much younger than he. I've forgotten their names."

"Then you do know him! I'm so glad," exclaimed Billy. "You see, he never
seemed to me quite real."

"I know about him," corrected the lawyer, smilingly, "though I'll
confess I've rather lost track of him lately. Ned will know. I'll ask
Ned. Now go home, my dear, and dry those pretty eyes of yours. Or,
better still, come home with me to tea. I--I'll telephone up to the
house." And he rose stiffly and went into the inner office.

Some minutes passed before he came back, red of face, and plainly
distressed.

"My dear child, I--I'm sorry, but--but I'll have to take back that
invitation," he blurted out miserably. "My sisters are--are not well
this afternoon. Ann has been having a turn with her heart--you know
Ann's heart is--is bad; and Letty--Letty is always nervous at such
times--very nervous. Er--I'm so sorry! But you'll--excuse it?"

"Indeed I will," smiled Billy, "and thank you just the same; only"--her
eyes twinkled mischievously--"you don't mind if I do say that it IS
lucky that we hadn't gone on planning to have me live with them, Mr.
Harding!"

"Eh? Well--er, I think your plan about the Henshaws is very good,"
he interposed hurriedly. "I'll speak to Ned--I'll speak to Ned," he
finished, as he ceremoniously bowed the girl from the office.

James Harding kept his word, and spoke to his son that night; but there
was little, after all, that Ned could tell him. Yes, he remembered Billy
Henshaw well, but he had not heard of him for years, since Henshaw's
marriage, in fact. He must be forty years old, Ned said; but he was a
fine fellow, an exceptionally fine fellow, and would be sure to deal
kindly and wisely by his little orphan namesake; of that Ned was very
sure.

"That's good. I'll write him," declared Mr. James Harding. "I'll write
him tomorrow."

He did write--but not so soon as Billy wrote; for even as he spoke,
Billy, in her lonely little room at the other end of the town, was
laying bare all her homesickness in four long pages to "Dear Uncle
William."



CHAPTER II

"THE STRATA"


Bertram Henshaw called the Beacon Street home "The Strata." This annoyed
Cyril, and even William, not a little; though they reflected that, after
all, it was "only Bertram." For the whole of Bertram's twenty-four years
of life it had been like this--"It's only Bertram," had been at once the
curse and the salvation of his existence.

In this particular case, however, Bertram's vagary of fancy had some
excuse. The Beacon Street house, the home of the three brothers, was a
"Strata."

"You see, it's like this," Bertram would explain airily to some new
acquaintance who expressed surprise at the name; "if I could slice off
the front of the house like a loaf of cake, you'd understand it better.
But just suppose that old Bunker Hill should suddenly spout fire and
brimstone and bury us under tons of ashes--only fancy the condition of
mind of those future archaeologists when they struck our house after
their months of digging!

"What would they find? Listen. First: stratum number one, the top floor;
that's Cyril's, you know. They'd note the bare floors, the sparse but
heavy furniture, the piano, the violin, the flute, the book-lined walls,
and the absence of every sort of curtain, cushion, or knickknack. 'Here
lived a plain man,' they'd say; 'a scholar, a musician, stern, unloved
and unloving; a monk.'

"And what next? They'd strike William's stratum next, the third floor.
Imagine it! You know William as a State Street broker, well-off,
a widower, tall, angular, slow of speech, a little bald, very much
nearsighted, and the owner of the kindest heart in the world. But really
to know William, you must know his rooms. William collects things. He
has always collected things--and he's saved every one of them. There's a
tradition that at the age of one year he crept into the house with four
small round white stones. Anyhow, if he did, he's got them now. Rest
assured of that--and he's forty this year. Miniatures, carved ivories,
bugs, moths, porcelains, jades, stamps, postcards, spoons, baggage tags,
theatre programs, playing-cards--there isn't anything that he doesn't
collect. He's on teapots, now. Imagine it--William and teapots! And
they're all there in his rooms--one glorious mass of confusion. Just
fancy those archaeologists trying to make their 'monk' live there!

"But when they reach me, my stratum, they'll have a worse time yet. You
see, _I_ like cushions and comfort, and I have them everywhere. And I
like--well, I like lots of things. My rooms don't belong to that monk,
not a little bit. And so you see," Bertram would finish merrily, "that's
why I call it all 'The Strata.'"

And "The Strata" it was to all the Henshaws' 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 father's 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
woman's 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
specialty--his "Face of a Girl." From canvas, plaque, and panel they
looked out--those girlish faces: winsome, wilful, pert, demure, merry,
sad, beautiful, even almost ugly--they 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 "Face of a
Girl" by Henshaw bade fair to be worth while.

Below Bertram's 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 was--indeed, 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
William's curios, he looked--like 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 woman's 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.



CHAPTER III

THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES


It was on the six o'clock 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 Billy's 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 "Billy," 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.

"Well, old man, what's up?" It was Bertram's 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. "What IS up?"

"What's up!" groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the
letter frantically in the air. "What's up! Young man, do you want us to
take in a child to board?--a CHILD?" he repeated in slow horror.

"Well, hardly," laughed the other. "Er, perhaps Cyril might like it,
though; eh?"

"Come, come, Bertram, be sensible for once," pleaded his brother,
nervously. "This is serious, really serious, I tell you!"

"What is serious?" demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway. "Can't it
wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for dinner."

William made a despairing gesture.

"Well, come," he groaned. "I'll tell you at the table.... It seems I've
got a namesake," he resumed in a shaking voice, a few moments later;
"Walter Neilson's child."

"And who's Walter Neilson?" asked Bertram.

"A boyhood friend. You wouldn't remember him. This letter is from his
child."

"Well, let's hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand the--LETTER; eh,
Cyril?"

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.

"It--it's so absurd," he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and read
the letter aloud.


"DEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind my calling you that? You see I want
SOME one, and there isn't any one now. You are the nearest I've got.
Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm named for you. Walter Neilson was my
father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died.

"Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is, between
times--I'm going to college, of course, and after that I'm going to
be--well, I haven't decided that part yet. I think I'll consult you. You
may have some preference, you know. You can be thinking it up until I
come.

"There! Maybe I ought not to have said that, for perhaps you won't want
me to come. I AM noisy, I'll own, but not so I think you'll mind it much
unless some of you have 'nerves' or a 'heart.' You see, Miss Letty and
Miss Ann--they're Mr. Harding's sisters, and Mr. Harding is our lawyer,
and he will write to you. Well, where was I? Oh, I know--on Miss Letty's
nerves. And, say, do you know, that is where I do get--on Miss Letty's
nerves. I do, truly. You see, Mr. Harding very kindly suggested that
I live with them, but, mercy! Miss Letty's nerves won't let you walk
except on tiptoe, and Miss Ann's heart won't let you speak except in
whispers. All the chairs and tables have worn little sockets in the
carpets, and it's a crime to move them. There isn't a window-shade in
the house that isn't 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 don't mind my bringing Spunk,
do you? I hope you don't, for I couldn't live without Spunk, and he
couldn't live with out me.

"Please let me hear from you very soon. I don't mind if you telegraph;
and just 'come' would be all you'd have to say. Then I'd get ready right
away and let you know what train to meet me on. And, oh, say--if you'll
wear a pink in your buttonhole I will, too. Then we'll know each other.
My address is just 'Hampden Falls.'

"Your awfully homesick namesake,

"BILLY HENSHAW NEILSON"


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:

"W-well?"

"Great Scott!" 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.

"Boys, this isn't helping me out any! What's to be done?"

"'Done'!" flamed Cyril. "Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment of
LETTING that child come here, William!"

Bertram chuckled.

"He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth floors
you've got up-stairs to trundle little tin carts across!"

"Tin nonsense!" retorted Cyril. "Don't be silly, Bertram. That letter
wasn't written by a baby. He'd be much more likely to make himself at
home with your paint box, or with some of William's junk."

"Oh, I say," expostulated William, "we'll HAVE to keep him out of those
things, you know."

Cyril pushed back his chair from the table.

"'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest! You
aren't going to let that boy come here," he cried.

"But what can I do?" faltered the man.

"Do? Say 'no,' of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!"

"But I must do something. I--I'm all he's got. He says so."

"Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the
penitentiary; anywhere but here!"

"Shucks! Let the kid come," laughed Bertram. "Poor little homesick
devil! What's the use? I'll take him in. How old is he, anyhow?"

William frowned, and mused aloud slowly.

"Why, I don't know. He must be--er--why, boys, he's no child," broke off
the man suddenly. "Walter 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!"

"And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts," laughed
Bertram. "Never mind--eight or eighteen--let him come. If he's that age,
he won't bother much."

"And this--er--'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he doesn't
bother, either," murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm.

"Gorry! I forgot Spunk," acknowledged Bertram. "Say, what in time is
Spunk, do you suppose?"

"Dog, maybe," suggested William.

"Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs," said
Cyril with decision. "The boy, I suppose I shall have to endure; but the
dog--!"

"Hm-m; well, judging by his name," murmured Bertram, apologetically, "it
may be just possible that Spunk won't be easily controlled. But maybe he
isn't a dog, anyhow. He--er--sounds something like a parrot to me."

Cyril rose to his feet abruptly. He had eaten almost no dinner.

"Very well," he said coldly. "But please remember that I hold you
responsible, Bertram. Whether it's a dog, or a parrot, or--or a monkey,
I shall expect you to keep Spunk down-stairs. 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 I've nothing to say.
Fortunately my rooms are at the TOP of the house," 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.

"I'm afraid Cyril is bothered," murmured William then, in a troubled
voice.

Bertram's face changed. Stern lines came to his boyish mouth.

"He is always bothered--with anything, lately."

The elder man sighed.

"I know, but with his talent--"

"'Talent'! Great Scott!" cut in Bertram. "Half the world has talent of
one sort or another; but that doesn't necessarily make them unable
to live with any one else! Really, Will, it's becoming serious--about
Cyril. He's getting to be, for all the world, like those finicky old
maids that that young namesake of yours wrote about. He'll make us
whisper and walk on tiptoe yet!"

The other smiled.

"Don't you worry. You aren't in any danger of being kept too quiet,
young man."

"No thanks to Cyril, then," retorted Bertram. "Anyhow, that's one
reason why I was for taking the kid--to mellow up Cyril. He needs it all
right."

"But I had to take him, Bert," argued the elder brother, his face
growing anxious again. "But Heaven only knows what I'm going to do with
him when I get him. What shall I say to him, anyway? How shall I write?
I don't know how to get up a letter of that sort!"

"Why not take him at his word and telegraph? I fancy you won't have to
say 'come' but once before you see him. He doesn't seem to be a bashful
youth."

"Hm-m; I might do that," acquiesced William, slowly. "But wasn't there
somebody--a lawyer--going to write to me?" he finished, consulting the
letter by his plate. "Yes," he added, after a moment, "a Mr. Harding.
Wonder if he's any relation to Ned Harding. I used to know Ned at
Harvard, and seems as if he came from Hampden Falls. We'll soon see, at
all events. Maybe I'll hear to-morrow."

"I shouldn't wonder," nodded Bertram, as he rose from the table.
"Anyhow, I wouldn't do anything till I did hear."



CHAPTER IV

BILLY SENDS A TELEGRAM


James Harding's letter very promptly followed Billy's, though it was
not like Billy's at all. It told something of Billy's property, and
mentioned that, according to Mrs. Neilson's will, Billy would not
come into control of her fortune until the age of twenty-one years was
reached. It dwelt at some length upon the fact of Billy's loneliness in
the world, and expressed the hope that her father's friend could find it
in his heart to welcome the orphan into his home. It mentioned Ned, and
the old college friendship, and it closed by saying that the writer,
James Harding, was glad to renew his acquaintance with the good old
Henshaw family that he had known long years ago; and that he hoped soon
to hear from William Henshaw himself.

It was a good letter--but it was not well written. James Harding's
handwriting was not distinguished for its legibility, and his
correspondents rejoiced that the most of his letters were dictated to
his stenographer. In this case, however, he had elected to use the more
personal pen; and it was because of this that William Henshaw, even
after reading the letter, was still unaware of his mistake in supposing
his namesake, Billy, to be a boy.

In the main the lawyer had referred to Billy by name, or as "the
orphan," or as that "poor, lonely child." And whenever the more
distinctive feminine "her" or "herself" had occurred, the carelessly
formed letters had made them so much like "his" and "himself" that they
carried no hint of the truth to a man who had not the slightest reason
for thinking himself in the wrong. It was therefore still for the "boy,"
Billy, that William Henshaw at once set about making a place in the
home.

First he telegraphed the single word "Come" to Billy.

"I'll set the poor lad's heart at rest," he said to Bertram. "I shall
answer Harding's letter more at length, of course. Naturally he wants to
know something about me now before he sends Billy along; but there is no
need for the boy to wait before he knows that I'll take him. Of course
he won't come yet, till Harding hears from me."

It was just here, however, that William Henshaw met with a surprise, for
within twenty-four hours came Billy's answer, and by telegraph.


"I'm coming to-morrow. Train due at five P. M.

"BILLY."


William Henshaw did not know that in Hampden Falls Billy's trunk had
been packed for days. Billy was desperate. The house, even with the
maid, and with the obliging neighbor and his wife who stayed there
nights, was to Billy nothing but a dismal tomb. Lawyer Harding had
fallen suddenly ill; she could not even tell him that the blessed
telegram "Come" had arrived. Hence Billy, lonely, impulsive, and always
used to pleasing herself, had taken matters in hand with a confident
grasp, and had determined to wait no longer.

That it was a fearsomely unknown future to which she was so jauntily
pledging herself did not trouble the girl in the least. Billy was
romantic. To sally gaily forth with a pink in the buttonhole of her
coat to find her father's friend who was a "Billy" too, seemed to Billy
Neilson not only delightful, but eminently sensible, and an excellent
way out of her present homesick loneliness. So she bought the pink and
her ticket, and impatiently awaited the time to start.