TRIALS
"Oh, how full of briars is this working day world."
MISS BILLY had broken her shoe-string. There was not another in the
house and the clock pointed half past eight of a school morning.
"If you're ready," said Theodore, putting his head in the door, "I'll
walk to school with you. I have something to tell you."
"I'm not ready, and don't expect to be," said Miss Billy crossly,
giving the lace a pull and breaking it again. "There now, it can
never be tied. I shan't go to school at all this morning, so there!"
Beatrice was shaking the pillows at the open window. "Why Wilhelmina
Lee!" she exclaimed,--"what a temper! How do you ever expect to get
through the world if the breaking of a shoe-string upsets you?"
"Oh, it's all very well for you to moralise," retorted Miss Billy,
trying to repair the offending lacing, "you who have nothing to do
but stay at home and play lady, or do a little dusting. Look at
me,--going to school every day, taking two music lessons a week, 'way
back in my Latin, and those geraniums are not set out yet and it's
going to rain this morning. It's enough to make any one wish to die."
"We've no time for a funeral this morning," said Mrs. Lee, bustling
cheerily into the room. "Beatrice, I shall have to ask you to wash
the breakfast dishes. Maggie's toothache is worse, and she is getting
ready to go to the dentist. I promised her that I would make the
pudding and put the bread into the pans."
"Dear me," scolded Beatrice; "I was just going to sweep my room.
I can't put it off. Maggie has toothache rather too frequently, I
think, and dishwater just ruins my hands!"
"Well, of all the howling dervishes this morning!" said Theodore in
the hall. "Miss Billy, come along if you're ready, and there'll be
one less."
The minister stood in the doorway. He held Miss Billy long enough to
rub a finger gently over the pucker between her eyes.
"It's a brand new day, daughter," he said lovingly. "It's not fair to
handicap it at the start with a frown."
"I have troubles of my own," said Theodore gloomily, as they jogged
off to school together. "I've worked three Saturdays at Brown's,
beside Decoration day, and though I haven't drawn a cent of the
money, there is only forty cents coming to me."
Miss Billy stopped short, and her books fell to the ground.
"I'd like to know what kind of arithmetic you call that!" she said,
staring.
"It's an example in profit and loss, and mainly loss," said Theodore
grimly. "Don't breathe it, Sis,--but treats have done it."
"Treats!" echoed Miss Billy. "You don't mean to say you have spent
three dollars and sixty cents in treats, in that length of time!"
"It's awful when you come to look it squarely in the face,"
acknowledged Theodore. "But the girls come in,--and they expect
it,--and what is a fellow to do?"
"It's horrid of them, anyhow! And I'll cut their acquaintance,--every
one of them,--when I find out who they are!"
"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Theodore haughtily. "I'll fight
my own battles, if you please."
"Three dollars and sixty cents! If I had it in plants!" upbraided
Miss Billy.
"Three dollars and sixty cents! If I had it in shoes!" mourned
Theodore.
The wrinkles disappeared from between Miss Billy's eyes and she
laughed outright. "It's funny, anyhow," she declared. "And you're in
an awful position. I don't see how you are going to wriggle out of
it now. The girls have such confidence in you by this time,--and
Brown's sodas are the best in town, if they do come high."
Theodore whistled through his closed teeth. "Laugh away, Miss Billy.
Add every grain of discomfort you can. But I'll wriggle out of it
sooner than you think. The one thing that worries me is the fear
that I'll have to put my hand down into father's pocket for my new
shoes--for that's what it amounts to. Of course I can pay him back in
a few weeks, but I hate to ask him for it just now."
"I'll lend you my Christmas gold piece,--I'd love to, Ted."
"Well, I should say not. I haven't come to the place yet where I
borrow from girls. And these shoes will be sandals before I borrow
from father, either. But you're a good fellow, Miss Billy."
Miss Billy's face beamed, and she gave her brother's arm an
affectionate squeeze as they parted at the school door. "Every dark
cloud has a silver lining," she whispered comfortingly.
"I wish my pocket had," responded Theodore gloomily. "Good-bye. Look
out you don't flunk in your Latin to-day."
* * * * *
The rain that had threatened all day held off, and Miss Billy hurried
home at four o'clock to plant her geraniums. Beatrice, looking very
cool and pretty in a blue dimity gown, stopped her in the hall and
drew her into the dining room.
"I'm glad you've come," she whispered. "The Blanchard girls are in
the parlour making a farewell call before leaving for Europe. I want
you to go in and entertain them while I get the Apollinaris water
out of the refrigerator for a pine-apple frappé. Be nice and polite,
dear, and shake hands with them. And do be careful what you say.
Don't tell them how many rooms there are in the house, or how much
rent we pay, or hint at economy in any way. Run along now,--there's a
good sister."
"I can't," objected Miss Billy. "I don't like those Blanchard girls,
and I have to set my plants out."
"Oh, please," begged Beatrice. "You must. They'll see everything
if they are left so long alone. Tuck your hair-pins in and hurry
along,--there's a dear."
Very reluctantly Miss Billy made her way to the parlour. There was a
rustle of silk skirts as the Blanchard girls rose to greet her. "How
do you do?" said Miss Billy, in her best manner, making her voice and
outstretched hand as cordial as possible.
"So glad to find you in," drawled Miss Maude, with a shade of
condescension in her manner. "We rode miles trying to find the
place,--we had forgotten your address, you know,--and when
we did find it,--what do you suppose?--it is the strangest
coincidence,--why, Casey, our coachman, don't you know, moved out of
this very house in April."
"Well now, maybe that wasn't malice," thought Miss Billy hotly. "But
I promised Beatrice, so I'll go right on making myself amiable."
"Yes?" she said aloud coolly. "Mrs. Canary has told me a great deal
about the Caseys, but of course I never thought of connecting them
with your John Casey. Indeed we've been so busy getting settled--that
sounds like coffee grounds, doesn't it?--and we've had so many of our
friends dropping in on us daily, that we haven't had time to think at
all."
"Have you heard," lisped Miss Blanche, "that the Van Courtlands are
intending to join their daughter in Cologne, next month? We did so
wish we might sail with them, but Mr. Van Courtland thought we had
better not defer our plans, as his time was so uncertain. Have they
called lately?"
"Well, I can't truthfully say they called, for Mrs. Van Courtland
brought a gingham apron with her when she came and helped mother
arrange the silver and china, and Mr. Van Courtland spaded half my
flower-beds for me. He used to be a farmer, you know, before he was a
banker."
The young ladies of fashion exchanged glances of surprise. When Miss
Maude spoke again there was trace of warmth in her manner.
"You are quite cosily situated here; are you at all lonesome for the
old home in Ashurst Place?"
"Well," said Miss Billy frankly, "I miss the bath-tub most awfully,"
and the next moment could have bitten out her tongue. "That's the
first glaring indiscretion," she thought despairingly, "and there'll
be more if Beatrice doesn't hurry with that frappé."
Miss Blanche smiled encouragingly. "Do you know," she confided,
"father thinks it was a great mistake, your moving here. He says he
thinks your father's position as rector of St. John's demanded an
entirely different course. Father says there are at least a dozen men
in the church that would have tided your affairs over. But ministers
are seldom good business men, and I suppose your father is no
exception to the rule. How does your dear mother bear up under it?"
"Under what?" asked Miss Billy. "You mean moving to Cherry Street?
Oh, mother is brave. She's like the young lady of Norway:
"Who casually sat in a doorway:
When the door squeezed her flat
She exclaimed 'What of that?'
This courageous young lady of Norway.
"Beside, Miss Blanche, you are labouring under a delusion. I assure
you we enjoy our new home in Cherry Street."
"Oh, it's very pleasant," conceded Miss Blanche hastily. "By the way,
what has become of that lovely little _étagère_ of yours? I missed it
the moment I stepped into the room."
Miss Billy threw patience and prudence to the winds. "It's stored in
a storing-room," she declared. "The last time I saw it, there was a
bird-cage and a foot-stool on top of it. We had to pack a good deal
of our furniture. We haven't fourteen rooms now, you understand."
"Good-afternoon, ladies," said a voice in the doorway. It was
Theodore, looking very mischievous. "I'm sorry I can't shake hands
with you,--but I've been giving a hand in the erection of the
conservatory on the south side--a fad of Miss Billy's."
Miss Billy gasped. A conservatory! He must mean the glass sash he had
been fitting over the pansy bed!
"We've been at no end of trouble and expense since we moved here,"
went on Theodore. "You see it is the first 'place' we have really
had. There's one hundred and fifty feet of ground here. Beatrice
has planned for a sort of Southern California verandah from which
she can serve afternoon teas, and mother wants the lawn wired with
electricity for social purposes."
"How delightful," murmured the guests, looking a bit uncertain, while
Miss Billy sat rigidly upright, trying in vain to catch Theodore's
eye. Certainly, her mother had said that at the breakfast table, but
it had been a joke, nothing more.
"I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and riding ponies,
myself," went on Theodore airily, and looking at Miss Billy now as
if to say: "No word of untruth in that!" "Still, there's the college
grind to consider,--I shall be qualified next year, you know,--and a
fellow gets precious little time for recreation."
"Are you--ah--still at Brown's drug store?" interpolated Miss Maude,
looking mystified. "Sister Myrtle has spoken of seeing you there. The
child thinks so much of you."
"And of ice-cream sodas," thought Theodore grimly. "Yes," he said
aloud, "Mr. Brown wanted me to help him out on Saturdays for a little
while. He's in the church, you know. But I shall give it up when
vacation comes."
Beatrice was entering with a dainty tray. "You'll pardon the delay,
won't you?" she said sweetly, as she offered the sparkling glasses.
"You'll have some, Miss Billy?"
"No, I thank you," said Miss Billy, with heightened colour and a
hasty manner. "If you will excuse me I'll see to my geraniums.
Good-afternoon."
"And I," said Theodore, "shall betake myself to the bathroom to
remove the unseemly signs of toil. I'll take my frappé with me,
Bea,--may I? Good-bye, girls. Write me from gay Paree when you reach
there," and Theodore followed Miss Billy into the dining room.
"Well?" he asked interrogatively, as he seated himself on a corner of
the table to sip his frappé.
"It's far from well, Theodore Lee," snapped Miss Billy reproachfully,
undecided as to whether to laugh or cry. "You told awful, unmitigated
falsehoods! You know you did!"
[Illustration: "I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and
riding ponies, myself."]
"My dear sister, I only enlarged upon truthful topics in a brilliant
and society-like way. Beside, I had to hand them back the small
change. I never in my life heard such stilted, patronising talk as
they were giving you. And when they jumped on father,--well, that
decided it. Good land, Sis,--what's the matter with this frappé!"
"Don't drink it if you don't like it," said Miss Billy, refusing to
be friendly.
"Like it! Why it's awful! It tastes like spruce gum and carbolic acid
and chloroform all mixed up. Smell it, Miss Billy."
"When you were little, mother used to wash your mouth with soap when
you told falsehoods. It is probably some hazy recollection of that
which is perverting your taste."
Theodore was taking another cautious sip. "It's a little like
sauerkraut, but it has the effervescence of soda water. It's the most
curious stuff I ever tasted."
Miss Billy unbent sufficiently to put her nose to the glass.
"Why, it smells like yeast," she said wonderingly.
"_That's_ what it is," said Theodore, snapping his fingers
triumphantly. "I knew it wasn't chloroform or carbolic, but I
couldn't just name it. It's yeast!"
"But what can yeast be doing in the frappé?" questioned Miss Billy
unbelievingly. Then as a sudden light broke upon her, she exclaimed,
"Oh, Ted,--Beatrice must have gotten the yeast bottle instead of the
Apollinaris water!--and for the Blanchard girls of all others! They
are in there trying to drink it now. What shall we do?"
"Nothing," said Theodore decidedly,--"they've drank it by this
time. You watch how they will 'rise' to go. 'Sweets to the
sweet,'--likewise yeast to the yeasty. Dear girls,--how airily their
feet will spurn the pave. And it will do Miss Blanche good! She's as
flat as an oatmeal cracker."
"Theodore, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Miss Billy was
almost crying now. "Think of father when he hears all this,--and
Beatrice's feelings,--and the awful remarks they will make about
us----"
"If you are looking for your handkerchief, you're sitting on it,"
said Theodore soberly. "Don't cry, Billy. I am going to father now
and make a clean breast of the whole affair. There's no use staying
to console Beatrice about the yeast. She'll have fifty sporadic
spasms!"--and he strode from the room.
"Oh, dear,--this has been a day of nothing but troubles," sighed Miss
Billy, wiping her eyes,--"and I lost my temper the very first thing
over a shoe-lace, and everything has gone crooked ever since. Poor
Beatrice,--she tries to be so nice and ladylike,--and I know she will
never get over this,--_never_!"