MISS BILLY
"A girl who has so many wilful ways
She would have caused Job's patience to forsake him,
Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,
A little better she would surely make him."
MISS Billy was an early riser. She opened her eyes to the sunshine
and pure morning air as naturally as a flower. So it came about
that at six o'clock of a May morning she was skipping downstairs
before any other member of the family had stirred, with a quick
springing step that was peculiarly her own. Miss Billy's sprightly
locomotion was a constant source of amusement to her family, and
of mortification to Miss Billy herself. "It is my misfortune, not
my fault," she was wont to say when her brother Theodore described
her gait as "galumphing," and her sister Beatrice pleaded with
her to study physical culture; "and it's like struggling against
Fate to attempt to walk with discretion. I suppose it is merely an
'evening-up' of things, and that Providence gave it to me to offset
my lovely disposition."
But upon this Spring morning Miss Billy's unfortunate step did
not seem to be weighing upon her mind. The glow and thrill of the
golden day opening before her sent the warm blood coursing quickly
through her veins, and the world seemed made for youth and beauty and
happiness. Miss Billy sang softly to herself as she opened the side
door and stepped out into the garden.
"The garden" was a small shady spot on the north side of the tall
city house. It was not a promising place for flowers, but Miss
Billy's love for growing things was great, and by dint of much
urging and encouragement on her part, a few spring flowers eked out
a precarious existence in the barren soil. Above the flower plot was
an open bedroom window. Miss Billy's eyes twinkled wickedly, and her
soft song changed into the whistled notes of a schoolboy's call.
There was a sound as of two bare feet coming down with a thud in the
room above her, and in a moment a tall form in gay scarlet pajamas,
with a towsled head atop, appeared at the window.
"That you, Tom?" whispered a sleepy voice.
Miss Billy looked up from the flowers. The violets themselves were
not more demure than her own face.
"Oh, hello, Ted!" she said; "Tom's not here."
"Well, who is?"
"No one but me."
"But I heard some one whistle."
"That was me too," said Miss Billy frankly and ungrammatically.
"Well, I must say that your joke--I suppose you intended it for a
joke--is extremely crude," replied her brother crossly.
"You said last night that I couldn't get you out of bed," jeered Miss
Billy. "Beside, I wanted you to see the sun rise. I have seen two
myself, this morning."
"Well you may now have the pleasure of seeing one go back to bed,"
said Theodore. He left the window abruptly, and Miss Billy heard him
thump his pillow impatiently as she turned again to the garden.
"Ted never has much sense of humour at six o'clock in the morning,"
she said, passing her loving hands under the tender green leaves.
"Six blossoms! These are the most modest violets I ever saw in my
life. They're afraid to show their heads above the ground. At this
rate it won't take me long to prepare my floral creation for the
breakfast table."
There was still no sign of life about the house when she came back
with the flowers, and Miss Billy wondered, as she put the purple
blossoms in a clear green glass bowl, what she should do next.
"I might practise half an hour," she said to herself, looking in at
the piano as she stood in the hall door,--
"'Practicing's good for a good little girl,
It makes her nose straight and it makes her hair curl,'
"--but my hair is too curly now, and if my nose was straight, people
would expect more of me. Beside, I hate to waste this lovely morning
on scaly exercises. I believe I'll write a letter to Margaret. I feel
in the right mood to talk to her."
The same peculiar quick-step carried Miss Billy to her desk, where,
dipping a battered-looking pen into the ink, she began:--
"1902 ASHURST PLACE.
"_Dearly Beloved_:
"I suppose you're just going to bed over in Cologne,
with your hair done up in those funny little curl papers
of yours. Or don't they wear curl papers in 'furrin'
countries? What kind of a place is Cologne, anyway? Do
they make Lundborg's Extract there, and _are_ the exports
'grain, grapes and beet sugar,' as the geography used to
say?
"Over here in America I am waiting for Maggie to arise
and prepare our frugal repast, which, from sundry soaked
articles I saw last night, I suspect will mainly consist
of fish-balls. Maggie feels that she has not lived in
vain when she succeeds in getting Theodore to refuse
codfish-balls. It is the only article of food that he does
not fall upon with fork and glee.
"Speaking of balls, I went to one last night, only to look
on, however. Beatrice's dancing class gave one of their
monthly parties, and I was one of the smaller fry (notice
the connection between fry and codfish-balls) whom they
deigned to invite. Those pale-drab Blanchard girls were
conducting the services--(it's well that father doesn't
inspect my correspondence)--so it's a wonder that I 'got
in' at all, for they detest me. I might add that the tender
sentiment is entirely reciprocated on my part! I wore my
old grey crêpe, and looked superbly magnificent, as of
course you know, Peggy dear. Tom Furnis, who was there,
also occupying a modest and retiring seat in the rear,
mentioned to me during the evening that as soon as you came
home we would have a dancing class of our own. So you see
how everything hangs on your return.
"Nothing has happened at 'Miss Peabody's Select School for
Young Ladies' since you left except that I have received
numerous invitations to select little functions in the
office, and a choice assortment of demerit marks, and
carried home the following report last month:
'Miss Lee's immediate improvement in deportment is
earnestly desired by
'Her instructor and sincere friend,
'Loutilda Amesbury Peabody.'
"I did rather dread to take it home, for my report
last month was not exactly suggestive of propriety and
discretion, and I hate to have my people disappointed
in me. But when I showed it to father he said, 'Some
improvement this month, I see, little daughter.' Wasn't
that just like him?
"Myrtle Blanchard has organised a new school club. It
is composed of the Select Six, who devote themselves to
French conversation and marshmallows once a week, and call
themselves the Salon. Not to be outdone, Madge Freer and
I have started a rival organisation for ping-pong and
fun. We call ourselves the Saloon. We'll have to change
the name, though, as soon as Miss Loutilda discovers its
existence. Can't you imagine her horror!
"Your description of your Paris gowns did not make me at
all envious, my dear. For Miss Edwards has been making me
three new dresses and revising several old editions. I
have a new brown suit, a scarlet foulard, and a fearful
and wonderful creation of purple lawn embroidered with
pale yellow celery leaves, which I shall wear to every
church supper this year. And I shall come to the station
to meet you next September arrayed like Solomon in all his
glory, in all three of the gowns, in order that you may be
properly impressed, and not outshine me in splendour.
"I am afraid you won't find, in this frivolous and dressy
letter, the things you most want to know. As usual, my pen
has run to nonsense. But if you were looking for food for
reflection and nourishment of the soul, you would have come
to father for it, instead of me. Sometimes, Peggy dear, I
am ashamed of my aimless, careless existence of eating,
sleeping and skylarking, as Theodore would say. There are
moments of temporary aberration in my life when I wish I
could help some one else. If I were like you, now, who
carry sweetness and serenity with you, I wouldn't mourn,
but alas, I am only
"Your unregenerate but loyal friend,
"MISS BILLY.
"P.S.
"My suspicions about the codfish were well founded. A
strong and influential odour of breakfast has pushed the
door open for me, and I know it is time for me to descend
into the lower regions. Good-by, dear."
Miss Billy laid down her pen with a sigh of relief, and wiped her
ink-stained fingers. She had just lighted her little candle and
produced a stick of wax to seal the letter, when a deafening noise
filled the hall below. At the foot of the stairs stood her brother
Theodore, armed with a Chinese gong, upon which he was performing
with great vigour. His boyish tenor rang out clearly:
"Arise, arise, ye maiden fair,
Golden eyes and azure hair,
Hear your loved one's plaintive calls,
Come to me and codfish-balls.
"Breakfast waits, Miss Billy. Did you go back to bed again?"
The family had assembled at breakfast when the younger daughter
entered the dining room, smiling over Theodore's improvised poetry.
"Mother looks more sober than usual," she thought, as she drew the
sweet face to her own.
"Morning, motherie."
"Good-morning, little daughter. You left your footprints behind you.
The violets are lovely."
There was an unsealed letter at Miss Billy's plate, and similar
envelopes for Beatrice and Theodore. Miss Billy opened hers first. It
ran:
"You are requested to be present at a family meeting to be
held in the study this morning at eight o'clock. Important
matters to be discussed. By order of
"FATHER."
The letters excited no comment. They were an every-day occurrence
in the Lee family. If Theodore's unruly tongue caused mischief, or
his love of a joke was carried too far, a delicate reminder at his
plate was sure to call attention to the fact. If Beatrice stopped
for a moment to exchange compliments with her old enemy, Personal
Vanity, or did she pursue an uneven tenor of fault-finding for a
time, a letter was the means of bringing her to order. But upon
Miss Billy,--energetic, wideawake Miss Billy,--who was always doing
things, and doing them hard, the missives descended like flocks of
white doves. These letters did not all contain censure. Some of
them were so full of praise as to make their owner blush with an
embarrassment of happiness, but one could never be sure beforehand of
the contents.
Theodore was already in the study when Miss Billy entered. He was
stretched out on the floor with two sofa pillows under his head and
four under his feet.
"Something's up," he remarked sagely.
"Yes," assented Miss Billy, "and that something had better come
down. Take the pillows from under your feet, Ted."
"Well, I hope the bank hasn't gone busted, or father's colt been
killed, or anything happened to our government bonds, or Maggie given
warning, or Beatrice plighted her troth to a peanut man. Billy, what
a savage you are! What are pillows for, I'd like to know. I should
think you'd be afraid to treat me as you do. Some day the worm will
turn, and when a belted earl comes to seek your hand I'll expose your
tyranny."
"Theodore," said Miss Billy, standing very tall and straight, and
with a serious expression on her usually merry face,--"stop joking
and listen. Something _is_ up, really. I've been waiting for it to
come out for a month. Of course I don't know exactly what it is, but
I have my suspicions, and every time I have looked at mother's sober
face I have felt guilty to be happy. Now Ted, if what I think turns
out to be true, I have some plans to propose, and you must stand by
me in them."
"What do you mean?" asked Theodore, with a boy's disgust for mystery.
"You're talking in parables, Miss Billy."
"I mean that I'm sure father's lost some money," answered his sister
hurriedly. "I haven't time to explain now; the whole family will
be here in a minute. But when the rest come in, I want you to say
exactly what I say, and uphold me in every way."
"Well, I like that," gasped Theodore, raising himself on one elbow.
"Say exactly what you say! What do you intend to say, and why should
I play follow-my-leader? No ma'am, I sign no paper before reading it."
"But you must," insisted Miss Billy hurriedly. "You'll understand
why later. You've got to pull with me. I know how Beatrice will act,
and I'll need an ally the minute her tears begin to flow. I depend
upon you to stand by me, as you always do. Come Ted, promise. Quick,
they're coming."
"Your blandishments have the usual telling effect," groaned Theodore.
"I promise,--I suppose I've got to. But you're responsible for all
the evil that may come from my yielding to temptation." He collapsed
among the pillows, and had just succeeded in covering his tall form
with a slumber robe when the rest of the family entered.