CHAPTER XIII.
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.