Miss Billy
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 40: William Pays a Visit
Before September passed all Billy’s friends said that her summer’s self-appointed task had been too hard for her. In no other way could they account for the sad change that had come to her.
Undeniably Billy looked really ill. Always slender, she was shadow-like now. Her eyes had found again the wistful appeal of her girlhood, only now they carried something that was almost fear, as well. The rose-flush had gone from her cheeks, and pathetic little hollows had appeared, making the round young chin below look almost pointed. Certainly Billy did seem to be ill.
Late in September William went West on business. Incidentally he called to see his sister, Kate.
“Well, and how is everybody?” asked Kate, cheerily, after the greetings were over.
William sighed.
“Well, ‘everybody,’ to me, Kate, is pretty badly off. We’re worried about Billy.”
“Billy! You don’t mean she’s sick? Why, she’s always been the picture of health!”
“I know she has; but she isn’t now.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“That’s what we don’t know.”
“You’ve had the doctor?”
“Of course; two or three of them—though much against Billy’s will. But—they didn’t help us.”
“What did they say?”
“They could find nothing except perhaps a little temporary stomach trouble, or something of that kind, which they all agreed was no just cause for her present condition.”
“But what did they say it was?”
“Why, they said it seemed like nervousness, or as if something was troubling her. They asked if she weren’t under some sort of strain.”
“Well, is she? Does anything trouble her?”
“Not that I know of. Anyhow, if there is anything, none of us can find out what it is.”
Kate frowned. She threw a quick look into her brother’s face.
“William,” she began hesitatingly, “forgive me, but—Billy is quite happy in—her engagement, I suppose.”
The man flushed painfully, and sighed.
“I’ve thought of that, of course. In fact, it was the first thing I did think of. I even began to watch her rather closely, and once I—questioned her a little.”
“What did she say?”
“She seemed so frightened and distressed that I didn’t say much myself. I couldn’t. I had but just begun when her eyes filled with tears, and she asked me in a frightened little voice if she had done anything to displease me, anything to make me unhappy; and she seemed so anxious and grieved and dismayed that I should even question her, that I had to stop.”
“What has she done this summer? Where has she been?”
“She hasn’t been anywhere. Didn’t I write you? She’s kept open house for a lot of her less fortunate friends—a sort of vacation home, you know; and—and I must say she’s given them a world of happiness, too.”
“But wasn’t that hard for her?”
“It didn’t seem to be. She appeared to enjoy it immensely, particularly at first. Of course she had plenty of help, and that wonderful little Miss Hawthorn has been a host in herself. They’re all gone now, anyway, except Miss Hawthorn.”
“But Billy must have had the care and the excitement.”
“Perhaps—to a certain extent. Though not much, after all. You see Bertram, too, has given up his summer to them, and has been playing the devoted escort to the whole bunch. Indeed, for the last few weeks of it, since Billy began to seem so ill, he and Miss Hawthorn have schemed to take all the care from Billy, and they have done the whole thing together.”
“But what HAS Billy done to make her like this?”
“I don’t know. She’s done lots for me, in all sorts of ways—cataloguing my curios, you know, and going with me to hunt up things. In fact, she seems the happiest when she IS doing something for me. It’s come to be a sort of mania with her, I’m afraid—to do something for me. Kate, I’m really worried. What do you suppose is the matter?”
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