A FAILING OUT.
Several days went swiftly by and still Billie had not delivered the
warning to her beloved Nancy.
After all, was it really necessary to warn Nancy not to talk too much and
tell all she knew? That was a man's idea of a girl's conversation: to
tell all she knew. How absurd! Besides, Nancy was not much of a
conversationalist and it's only people who talk all the time who tell
secrets. After they exhaust every other subject, they begin to draw on
their confidential stock.
The more Billie turned the question over in her mind, the more
far-fetched it seemed, and at last she determined not to mention it at
all.
"Who am I to be scolding anybody?" she said to herself. "I am sure I am
far from perfect and it would look rather presumptuous to criticize
Nancy who hasn't done anything to be criticized for."
But these noble and modest sentiments were not destined to remain
unchanged in Billie's mind. By a curious chain of circumstances, the very
thing she had concluded to avoid was brought about.
The circumstances began in the morning before breakfast and led up, one
after another, to the first real quarrel the two friends had ever had
since their friendship began.
It had been raining all night, a hot sticky downpour, and nobody in the
house had slept well. The atmosphere was oppressive, and breathing became
a conscious effort; so that the American members of the household were
fretful and out of humor after a disagreeable and restless night. Even
the most even-tempered and well-balanced natures are upset by a steaming,
humid temperature which seems to creep into the soul and enshroud the
brighter self with mist.
Billie felt the general depression and after breakfast she followed her
friends in a disconsolate procession to the library.
"There are as many different kinds of rain as there are people," she
observed. "The rain in Scotland was like a brisk scolding person. At
least there was nothing monotonous and tiring about it. It had plenty of
vigor and energy. But this Japanese summer rain is like a great, fat,
stupid, lazy creature who never lifts a little finger to do anything but
just rain and rain and turn into misty steam!"
"One hasn't even the energy to read a book," sighed Mary.
"As Reggie Carlton says, 'it's so infernally damp,'" put in Elinor, and
the others smiled languidly. Elinor was indeed feeling the humidity to
quote a semi-profane expression.
Nancy was really the most cheerful member of the party. She had an air of
expecting something which appeared to give her a reason for existing.
After the outbursts of her three friends, there was a long and heavy
silence broken only by the steady patter of the rain on the roof.
At last Nancy rose and smiling mysteriously, said:
"Excuse me, ladies. While your company is highly exciting, I must leave
you to write letters."
"I can't imagine to whom," exclaimed Billie.
"I mailed four for you yesterday to your mother and father and 'Merry'
and Percy St. Clair."
Billie knew Nancy's affairs quite as well as she knew her own; two
sisters could hardly have been more intimately associated.
"Guess again, Miss Inquisitive," said Nancy. "And guess fifty times more
if you like. You'll never guess the right person and I shan't tell you
for punishment. So there!"
For some reason--of course it was the weather--Billie felt teased and
hurt. Not for anything would she have kept Nancy in ignorance of any of
her correspondence.
"I didn't mean to be inquisitive." she called, half apologetically. "I
was merely surprised at your being so mysterious."
"When you get to be as old as I am," said Nancy in a lofty tone, "you'll
know better than to tell all you know."
"I'll never get to be as old as you are, Miss Nancy-Bell," retorted
Billie. "It's a physical impossibility, since you are two months older
than I am."
Nancy departed from the room, calling out laughingly:
"Smarty! Smarty!"
Billie kicked off her slipper after her, and so the quarrel started with
good natured raillery. But the memory of the letter lingered in Billie's
mind all the morning, although why it should have connected itself with
Onoye, who, an hour later, stepped out into the garden on high wooden
clogs with an oiled paper umbrella, she could not say. Standing idly by
the window, Billie watched the little figure disappear down the path.
"I suppose she's going to visit the Compassionate God again," Billie
thought to herself absently. "I hope he'll be compassionate enough to
clear the weather by to-morrow."
The next link in the chain of circumstances was forged when Onoye
returned from her pilgrimage. Billie, who had drawn a stool to the window
and was sitting with her face pressed against the glass, saw her walking
slowly along the dripping path to the house. The Japanese girl was
looking at something she held in her free hand, an envelope undoubtedly.
Just as she reached the piazza, Onoye slipped the letter into the folds
of her sash and hurried in.
Billie's mind gave a sudden leap of conjecture but she continued to sit
quietly, her face against the window, peering into the mist-hung garden.
"Funny," she said to herself. "It couldn't have been a Japanese letter
because those are rolled up on little sticks."
Not long afterwards, she encountered Onoye in the passage. The Japanese
girl smiled lovingly into her face. Little by little her feeling for
Billie was growing and expanding into a real devotion,
"And I'm sure I don't know why she should caress the hand that smote
her," Billie had thought. "She's a dear, faithful little soul."
"Are you quite well again, Onoye?" she asked, pausing and slipping her
arm around the Japanese girl's shoulders.
"Yes, honorable lady. Not any sickly arm no more."
"And have you been writing a letter to thank the Compassionate God Jizu
for your recovery?" went on Billie.
A frightened look came into Onoye's eyes. The English had been too much
for her comprehension, but the word "letter" she had understood
perfectly.
"No understand," she said, bowing ceremoniously. And she hastened away,
leaving Billie much puzzled and rather curious, too.
The day dragged slowly on, and still the rain poured and the mist steamed
and there was no relief from the circumstances of the weather. Miss
Campbell had been feeling rheumatic twinges in her "old joints," as she
called them, and remained in bed reading an agreeable novel. Once more
the four friends retired to the library where Mary read aloud and the
others engaged in various characteristic pursuits. Elinor was
embroidering a royal coat-of-arms in colored silks on a cushion cover;
Nancy was darning a rent in a lace flounce and Billie was darning her
father's socks. This task she undertook each week with extraordinary
cheerfulness, although Onoye had offered to do it for her, and O'Haru had
almost taken the darning needle and egg from her by force.
As the hands of the clock neared four, Nancy rose.
"Go on with your reading, Mary," she said. "I need some more thread and I
shall have to look for it. So don't wait."
"What number do you want?" asked Elinor.
Nancy looked annoyed.
"Oh, something quite fine. I know you haven't it, Elinor."
"Will a hundred do?" asked Elinor, extracting the spool from her neat
sewing bag.
"That's too fine."
"I have all sizes here."
"Never mind," exclaimed Nancy impatiently, and hastened from the room,
taking her lace-flounced skirt with her.
"Stubborn person," observed Elinor and once more plunged into her
aristocratic labors.
Billie grew more and more restless. The book Mary was reading aloud was a
detective story, lately arrived from America. It had reached a thrilling
point, but Billie could not fasten her attention.
"I think I'll just be obliged to get out and walk," she burst out
unexpectedly. "I can't stand this life of inaction a minute longer. Don't
stop reading on my account, Mary, dear. I don't suppose I could tempt
either of you two hot-house plants to come with me, could I?"
"Since it's just as hot outside as inside, I don't think you could,"
answered Elinor.
"Perhaps Nancy will go," thought Billie, hastening down the long hall to
their joint apartment.
But Nancy was not in the room. Her lace petticoat had been thrown hastily
on the bed with her sewing box. Billie searched over the entire house for
her friend without success.
"Funny," she thought, slipping on her over-shoes and raincoat and seizing
an umbrella from the stand in the passage.
Presently she found herself in the mist-hung garden, and instinctively
her steps turned toward the little bridge and the shrine to the
Compassionate God. All the way, she kept thinking:
"What is Nancy-Bell up to? Not that,--surely. Why should she write
letters that way? Nobody would object to their coming by mail. It's just
her romantic notions," her thoughts continued as she reached the bridge.
Taking the curved path to the foot of the small embankment, the next
moment Billie came full upon Nancy and Yoritomo Ito talking earnestly
together. There was something rather amusing in their appearance, because
down the ribs of their two umbrellas rivulets of water dripped and
poured in streams about them.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," exclaimed Billie, the prey to varying emotions:
embarrassment, hurt feelings, surprise and, it must be confessed, a dash
of anger.
"Oh, Billie," said Nancy, starting violently, "how you frightened me."
"How do you do, Mr. Ito," said Billie stiffly.
"How do you do, Miss Campbell. We seem to be having several unexpected
encounters this afternoon. Here was Miss Brown out for a wet stroll on a
day when ladies usually remain indoors, and now you come, too. American
young ladies are very athletic."
"It isn't a case of exercise with me, Mr. Ito. I came out really to find
Nancy," said Billie coldly.
"I shall bid you good afternoon," answered Yoritomo in his most formal
manner. "I was just taking a short cut. Pardon my trespassing on your
grounds."
Billie detested untruths and she knew quite well that Yoritomo was not
speaking the real truth. She looked at Nancy reproachfully.
"Good-bye," she said and turned her back.
Yoritomo made an elaborate bow and departed and Nancy followed Billie
slowly up the dripping path. Half way back, Billie stopped short and
wheeled around.
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, Nancy Brown," she
exclaimed.
Nancy had never seen Billie really angry before and she was frightened at
the new hard look that had come into the frank gray eyes. But Nancy was
in no mood to be scolded. The truth is, she had reached a difficult age
and it was not going to be easy to manage her by lecturing and argument.
She had an enormous appetite for flattery and the power of her prettiness
had intoxicated her.
"Oh, I don't suppose you would understand, Billie, even if I tried to
explain," she answered hotly. "I haven't done anything to be ashamed of."
"Meeting people in the garden secretly isn't anything to be proud of,"
pursued Billie. "And exchanging letters by a servant," she burst out
suddenly recalling Onoye's unaccountable trip that morning an the rain.
"I have been told to warn you not to talk too much to Mr. Ito. He's not
to be trusted, and I think this a very good time to do it."
Nancy flushed. She was angrier than Billie now. The two girls had turned
and were facing each other furiously. Billie felt the pulse leap in her
temples and something gripped her throat. The sensation was so new to her
that she scarcely knew how to handle it. It was like trying to rein in a
runaway horse.
"He's just as nice as Nicholas Grimm," cried Nancy. "I should think you'd
be ashamed to spy on anyone. I never thought it of you."
This statement was so unjust that Billie's rage leaped out of all bounds
and got beyond her control entirely.
"That is untrue. I did not spy on you. I merely put two and two together
and guessed the rest. Can you deny it? And do you call it lady-like and
honorable? I don't. I call it common and horrid."
Billie's voice in her extreme anger was very stern. She carefully avoided
calling Nancy by name. She felt if she spoke the name of her friend, she
must cry and not for anything did she want to humble herself just then.
"I tell you I won't explain," ejaculated Nancy. "I've done nothing wrong
and I think you are very hard and unjust. It's because you are still a
child about some things, Billie. When you are older and have had more
experience, you will learn not to be a prig."
Older and more experienced! Now all the saints defend us! Billie laughed
bitterly. Both girls were on the point of weeping and perhaps, if their
anger had changed to tears at that moment, much bitterness might have
been saved them. But they were interrupted by Mr. Campbell, who now
appeared, walking at a leisurely gait up the path.
"Well, well, children! Here is devotion indeed," he exclaimed when he
espied his daughter and her friend standing stock still in the pouring
rain. "So intimate and absorbed in each other's society that you are
oblivious to the weather! That's the right kind of friendship. I would
not have it any other way. How are you, little daughter?" he asked,
kissing Billie and shaking hands with Nancy at the same time. "And how's
little daughter's friend?"
Not for worlds would they have disclosed the real truth to Mr. Campbell.
Billie drew her arm through her father's and Nancy followed them to the
house.
"Do you think the rain will ever let up, Papa?" asked Billie, resting her
cheek against her father's shoulder.
Nancy felt suddenly frightfully homesick for her own bluff good-natured
parent.
"Well, it once rained forty days and forty nights, you know," said Mr.
Campbell. "And what's happened before may happen again."
Habitual wranglers regard quarrels as mere ripples on the surface and
soon forget about them, but the two girls were unaccustomed to such
scenes and their feelings were deeply lacerated.
"Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," Billie thought, as she lay
beside Nancy that night, but she remembered that Nancy had called her
a spy and her soul was filled with bitterness.