Читать книгу Billy To-morrow - Sarah Pratt Carr - Страница 3

Table of Contents

AS Billy Bennett wheeled around the corner he saw his mother in the doorway. Also he saw Jean Hammond across the street speaking with Bess Carter,—the Queen of Sheba, the children called her, she was so large and dark and handsome, and had such a royal way, like a sure ’nough queen, one said. Though why children who had never been out of Vine County should know so much about queens no one thought to ask.

Billy suspected his mother was waiting for him; he must hurry, he thought. Yet he couldn’t resist showing off a bit. He bent over his wheel, went by the girls with a rush and a “Hello!” made a neat turn, wheeled a figure “8” around a team or two, shouted, “Don’t frame up anything there!” as he passed a second time, and whizzed through the arch in his own high hedge with one wheel in the air.

He swung his book-strap in greeting to his mother while rolling more slowly up the rose-bordered path to the veranda. He thought his mother’s face looked tired; but the smile there welcomed him warmly, and he forgot the tired look with her first words.

“I’m sorry to make you late with your mowing, Billy, but I must have you go out to Mrs. Prettyman’s for some cream she promised me.”

“Do you need it right away?” Billy stood his wheel against the steps and flung his books on the porch table.

“Not till evening; but there’s the lawn.”

“I’ll mow in the morning. Let me stay and visit Pretty—Harold, I mean—till sundown; can’t I, mamma?” He patted her cheek with a vigor that made her wink. “You know you can’t refuse your darling boy,” he wheedled.

In spite of her smile there was a tinge of gravity in her silent moment of consideration. “Very well, Billy. You know how short Saturday is, and that to-morrow you’ll wish you’d cut the grass to-day. Yet I leave it to you; do as you like.”

The boy gave her a squeeze that made her last words come in jerks. “That’s a mean trick to play on a fellow,—chuck such a responsibility on a twelve-year-old. Say I must or I mustn’t, mamma.” He caught her hand and gently tweaked her fingers.

“You are not a baby, my son; you’ll soon be a man, and it’s time you did your own thinking. Don’t be late for dinner.”

Billy took the can she held toward him, and made a face that was half fun, half discontent, yet not unloving. As his mother turned indoors he noticed again that she was pale, and that her shoulders drooped; and a sudden heat rose in his heart against the widowhood and poverty that made it necessary for her to work so hard. When he grew to be a man, he told himself, he would buy her a diamond ring and a silk dress; and she should sit all day in the big rocking chair and work no more.

To-day his mother’s words had left a pang. He would soon be a man and have to “think for himself.” Yes, and work, too. “Gee whiz! It’ll be tough not to play any more,” he exclaimed under his breath as he bowled along the tree-lined road that led to the Prettyman farm.

In the hours of joy that followed, joy known only to boys and farms in conjunction, Billy,—and it was unusual for him,—more than once recalled his mother’s words; heeded them to the extent of bidding Harold a reluctant good-bye when the sun was still blazing high above the horizon. But when, on his way home, he came to the branching of the road his good resolution weakened. He looked back. The sun was surely more than an hour high. He would have time to go up the hill road to the “Ha’nt.” And, beside that, he wished to look at the river where its divided flow encircled a tiny, shrub-grown island.

A certain wide lawn, starred with white clover and daisies came unwelcome to his mind. He ought that moment to be chopping off clover tops.

“Jiminy! I’ll have time in the morning,” he said aloud, and hurried on, not slackening his speed till he came to a sharp turn that took the road against the face of a rugged mountain. He hid his wheel and can in a tangle of rose vine and snowdrop, and stood out on the edge of the steep bluff that overhung the rushing river. There bloomed the island. Near the centre a rocky point was aflame with gorgeous poppies; and Billy could smell the fragrance of the snowy wild heliotrope,—pop-corn the children called it.

The water would soon be low enough, he decided, though the end of the suspension foot-bridge hung very near surface. The rains had come in a sudden flood that year, delaying sport he had planned, in which the island was to play an important part.

He went on, a little cautiously now, and shortly came in view of the “Ha’nt,” a sinister though imposing house, built of cut stone, close against the face of the most picturesque mountain of the range, bounding Vina Valley. The windows were curtained with cobwebs and dust. For years the wide front door had been nailed up with the same sun-bleached boards; and “Keep out!” spoke from every gray splinter.

Billy knew by sight the two Italians who lived there, brothers yet enemies. Each dwelt by himself in a corner of the great building. Each cultivated alone his share of the straggling vineyard on the heights above, too steep and rocky for a plough; though the lush acres on the river bottom went fallow. If either overstepped his bounds they fought. Billy had seen one of these encounters; and the fierce fire in their dark faces, the passion in the foreign words they spoke,—oaths the boy felt they must be,—sent him flying home, tinged his dreams for many a night.

He was not more inquisitive than other boys, yet the mystery, the many uncanny tales told of the old house, fired him with a desire to know its secrets. Long before he was born a murder had left its stain there. The owners, suspected but unconvicted, moved away; and for years the house stared vacantly at passers. The coming of the Italians had only increased its bad name. Late travellers on the lonely road declared that shadowy forms and flickering lights passed the lower windows and down into the cavernous basement; yet no sounds ever came from behind the barred doors.

Rational people laughed at these stories, declared them the fancies of brains fuddled by too long a stay at the saloons in town. But Billy was not so easily satisfied. He wished to see for himself those shadowy forms; to prove to the small, scared children that, contrary to general belief, the brothers sometimes had guests. And he had a queer feeling that some way the house would have a place in his life. He admired its gloomy grandeur; planned the additions he would make if it were his own, and the gardens, the hedges of roses, and banks of fragrant smilax, that should grow there.

Now he crept through the brush by the roadside till he came close under the west wall. The setting sun blazed red fire at him from the windows, reminding him sharply of the hour.

“Golly! Wish’t I had time to stay an’ watch. But I won’t, Betsey; I’ll go right now.”

Billy at work or at play was so absorbed that it was hard for him to measure time; and he had a queer notion that it was some other intelligence beside his own will that reminded him, often too late, of duties waiting. This he named Betsey; and among the children Betsey came to stand for Billy’s conscience.

Up on the hillside one of the brothers still plied the hoe; and now the other came from the back door and walked down the road with his milk can in his hand. Billy had “the creeps” for a minute, and cowered closer; but no one saw him. Now was the time! He would never have such a chance again.

“You keep still, Betsey! I’m going to watch!” he exclaimed, as if some one had spoken.

Cautiously he crept nearer the door, stopping at each step to listen, to look again at the worker above. He was at the very corner of the house when voices sounded from within. He started, his breath coming quicker. He caught no words, but knew by the “ginger” in the tones that the speakers were angry. Shuffling steps came up the stairway and turned toward the rear.

The boy scudded lightly across the narrow open space to the shelter of a manzanita tree, and looked back again; but no one appeared. Did he still hear the softly quarrelling voices? He fancied so. The sudden dip of the sun behind a hill darkened the scene threateningly, and brought a return of “the creeps.”

It was not the hour for ghosts, they must be real people. Billy encouraged himself with that thought and wished he could wait for further disclosures. Did the sun ever before go down so fast? He hastened to find his wheel and can, and set out at his best pace.

As he came into the main road a rosy, wholesome looking girl was flying by. “Hello, Jean!” he called after her; “that’s going some—for a girl.”

She turned back and rode up by his side. “Why shouldn’t a girl ride as fast as a boy?” She had a bright, frank face, and her brown eyes were as honest as they were beautiful.

“Oh, I s’pose she can, only a fellow doesn’t expect it of her. How came you out here? I thought you’d be watching for refugees.”

“That’s what I’m hurrying for. Mamma sent me on an errand to Mrs. Black’s and I want to be back at the station in time to see the train come in. I wish we were going to have a refugee. Wasn’t the earthquake awful?”

“Yes. And the fire worse. Why can’t you have a refugee?”

“Our house isn’t big enough.”

“I guess ours’ll be a grown-up chap; but I wish he’d be a boy my size. How do you guess poor old San Francisco looks to-day?”

“Oh, Billy, don’t ask me. I can’t bear to think of it. But I almost forgot,—your mother said if I saw you to tell you to go by the store and get a loaf of bread. There’s the train!”

The whistle shrilled up the narrow valley, echoing back and forth from the steep green hills that bounded it.

“She’s at Vine Hill—miles away; we’ll beat her if we hurry.” His words were a bit breathless.

Off they bounded, side by side, through the fragrant spring evening. The red of the western sky touched to brighter rosiness their glowing cheeks, tinted Jean’s wind-blown hair with gold. As they neared the town she shot ahead in a last ambitious spurt, wheeled and faced him as he came up.

“Anything else you can do better than a girl?” she jeered, good-naturedly.

“Try a mile with this can and see where you come out in the race.”

“Why have you been away out in the country for milk?”

“This milk happens to be cream. I’ve been wondering what kind of a dessert will take all this.”

Jean hid a queer little smile that she could not repress.

“I’ll wrestle with you first chance,” he challenged; “but you wouldn’t have any show, your dress is so long. Why do you have ’em so?”

Jean’s face fell, and she didn’t look at Billy when she spoke. “My mother says I mustn’t wrestle any more.”

“Why, I wonder? She used to watch us at it and laugh.”

“Yes; but—oh, Billy, it’s awful to have to grow up and be proper. I begged mamma not to put my dresses down, but I’m past thirteen, and big as she is. And—”

“That’s no giant. She isn’t bigger’n a kid. Will she let you come to play? The Gang’s coming to-morrow.”

“Yes, I can come. Shall I bring Clarence, too?”

“Sure. All the kids. But Clarence especially,—he’s my son, you know.” Billy grinned.

“And just worships you. Is your lawn mowed?”

“No; I’ll do it first thing to-morrow.” He tried vainly to change the subject. “I—”

“Oh, Billy To-morrow! You won’t have half time enough to play. You’re a regular Mexican,—always mañana!”

When the train snorted into the station the two were there, Billy with his loaf under his arm, his can dangling. Most of the arrivals were townsfolk home from visits to the stricken city; but a few, evidently strangers, descended and stood by themselves.

“That bunch with the tickets, them’s the refugees,” Billy whispered to Jean. “See? Mr. Patton’s talking to them. Mr. Brown’s going to take ’em to their places in his hack. I wonder which is ours. Jiminy! See how hard that poor little kid’s trying to bluff her tears!”

He indicated a fair-haired child, a baby in size, though her face gave hint of more years than her slender body. She wore woman’s shoes, and one was torn; a draggled skirt pinned up in front and trailing behind; and a folded sheet drawn around her shoulders. Yet no incongruity of dress could disguise the refined beauty of her face, or of her uncovered hair.

A kindly man held her by the hand, yet he was evidently a stranger to her.

“Billy, ask Mr. Patton to let her come to your house! There aren’t any boys.” Jean’s voice trembled with eagerness.

“Sure! Take care of the truck, will you?” He dropped his burdens to Jean’s willing hands, and darted forward.

Mr. Patton, who “placed” the refugees, was glad of Billy’s request, for the child’s struggle for self-control had touched him; and he knew no one would be a kinder mother to her than Mrs. Bennett.

Billy hurried away, and arrived at his home before the hack, bread and cream safe in spite of threatened dangers.

“Ma! Mamma Bennett,” he burst out as he banged open the door; “she’s coming,—our little earthquake girl! The cutest kid,—not so big as the twins, but stylisher in the face.”

Mrs. Bennett was setting the table. She put down a pile of plates, and a new anxiety came into her careworn face. “A child? I told Mr. Patton I couldn’t take one.”

“But I asked for her, mamma.” Billy’s voice lost its exuberance. His mother never had looked so tired, he thought for the second time that day.

“Oh, Billy, how could you, when mother has so much to do?” It was his sister, Edith, who spoke, her sweet face clouded with rare disapproval. Yet she went on with the music lesson she was giving.

“I’ll help a lot. You shan’t have a bit more trouble, sister; nor mamma, either.” He began to distribute the plates with noisy clatter.

“She’ll be afraid to sleep in the downstairs bedroom,” Mrs. Bennett reflected, planning rapidly for the unexpected child whom she still had no thought of turning from her door.

“Put her in my room and give me the Fo’castle; I’ve always wanted to bunk there.”

“She may come with me, mother,” Edith said, pausing in the lesson with finger uplifted on the beat; “Billy mustn’t go into that bleak tank house.”

Mrs. Bennett crossed the room and laid a tender hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You’re not strong and need perfect rest. Besides, you spoil the boy. It won’t hurt him to sleep there, and he must take the consequences of his own act.”

“Yet let him sleep downstairs,” Edith persisted.

“No, no, the Fo’castle! I—Here they come!” Billy set down some cups with dangerous haste and ran out.

The little earthquake girl

In spite of noise and heedlessness there was something fine and true about Billy; something that made old Bouncer whine when left behind; something that called the kittens to rub against his legs; that made the little children at school adore him, and men and women smile heartily when they greeted him. It was this mysterious something that brought a wan smile to the small tired face and tired eyes that looked confidingly into his blue ones. He lifted her carefully down from the carriage, and led her up the walk to where his mother and sister came to meet them.

“Your nose is out of joint, Edith! I’ve got a new sister.” But his eyes belied his blunt words.

“Yes, you shall be our dear little girl.” Mrs. Bennett took the forlorn child in her motherly arms and kissed her. “You’re tired and hungry, too, aren’t you?”

“Yes, thank you. But most my heart is hungry. Will you help me to find my mama?”

The quaint words seemed incongruous for so small a child, as did her self-control; and the accent on the last syllable of “mama” made her seem almost foreign to Billy. Yet he admired her anew as she tried to hold still her trembling lips, to restrain her tears; as she threw up her head, winked hard, and felt vainly for a handkerchief.

“Here, you poor darling, take mine! And don’t be afraid—you’ll find your mother before long.” Edith’s words were brave, but her own eyes were moist.

“First you must eat, and rest, so that you can tell us about your mother; then we’ll see what can be done.” Mrs. Bennett took the child into the pleasant living-room where Billy had put a fourth place at the table next his own.

“Say, little kid, what’s your name?” he asked, merrily, as he routed a great white cat from his own chair and placed it before the fire for the child.

“Mary Ellen Smith; but my mama calls me May Nell; and she says—she says ‘kid’ is vulgar.” The last words were very shy.

“The child may eclipse you in refining Billy’s language,” Mrs. Bennett said, with a smile, aside to Edith; and went into the kitchen to “dish up” the dinner.

Edith finished her music lesson, dismissed her pupil, and made the little girl tidy if comical, in one of her own frocks. And when the four sat to eat, Billy’s voice rang above the rest in the little song they sang in lieu of grace.