SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3384, 22 January 1919, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

(All Rights Reserved.)

BILLY.

By J. J. Bell.

Miss Midgley received her nephew with • a sour look. " Late as usual, William," she remarked, "and I perceive you have, as usual, taken particular care to walk in the muddiest parts''of the. road." " I was kept, in, Aunt Ann, and I came through the fields," the boy returned, . neither apologetically nor resentfully. " Kept in ! Why were you kept in? I'm sure you spend plenty of time over your home lessons. When I was at school •" , "Mr Mason kept me in instead of giving me the strap," said William, whom .everybody save his aunt called Billy. He laid his, "books on a table in the corner of the parlour and took his accustomed place at the table. " i—i», ve a good mind to give you no tea," said Miss Midgley. "What were you punished for?" •. "I told Harry Nevison the answer\to a sum," he returned, his blue eyes meeting p her bluish ones. " Again!" she exclaimed. " Boy, where did you get that dishonourable streak in your character?" '.'.•' Billv winced; his face reddened; his eyes hlled. But he set his teeth. In his young soul he knew that his aunt would never understand. • " I've a good mind to ask your uncle to punish you severely," she said. "I will do so when he returns from business to-night." v Billy could have smiled then, but it would have meant his crying also, and he regarded himself as too big for that sort of thing. " I warn you," continued Miss Midgley, lifting the cosy from the teapot, "I warn , you that if this occurs again you shall get no tea. And in the meantime " " I don't think I want any. tea, thank you." Billy rose, and, ignoring his aunt's command to sit down, walked, not without some dignity, to the door. He opened it, passed out, and closed it quietly. But in the hall that which had sustained him so far failed utterly, and with a sob he ran upstairs to his room. ~/ He was not such a very big boy after all- • Two hours later his uncle came to him. " Your aunt is greatly upset by your conduct, Billy." , "I'm sorry, Uncle Henry." The boy's eyes were ■dry enough now, and his'manner and speech singularly composed, for in the privacy of his own room he 'had •found the unfailing, comfort. . ," Will you . tell her "you are sorry?" • Mr Midgley, inquired, tumbling in- the tail of his coat. ~.\ "Yes, Uncle Henry." ./"Good lad! She'll expect you downstairs in five minutes. Meantime, you had better have these." He laid a couple of apples, which he had stolen from the pantry, on the bed, and took his departure. Five minutes later Billy entered the drawing room. His aunt did not look up from the church journal she was holding. He advanced to within a yard of her chair. " I'm sorry, Aunt Ann," he said softly, respectfully, also sadly, for he knew it was all of no use. ; " Sorry for what?" came the unexpected answer. " For annoying you, Aunt Ann.". ." That is ail very well; but are you not sorry for your misdeed in school today? . s . Answer me, Williano. Yes' or 'No'?"- • " No," he whispered. ':] She waved him from her. " I—l can't be sorry, Aunt Ann." "Go 1" she cried. "Go ! I do not know what is to be done w ; ith'you. You are without shame or conscience !" Billy's mouth opened, only to close again. It was no use saying anything, no use explaining. She would never understand. .11." " Harry Nevison 1" Mr Mason turned from the blackboard whereon he had been chalking sundry figures. The boy who answered to the name was lean and lanky, and all his sinews seemed to have been turned into nerves. His loose, sensitive mouth quivered slightly, and his eyes—the eyes of a poet-to-be—-.were awake with apprehension. " Now, Nevison," eaid the mathematical master firmly, but not harshly, "let us see if you can solve this simple problem. What is the first step we take?" Nevison, his fingers making cruel play, stammered a few words. "Yes," said the master. "Well, Avhat Is- the next step?" To the amazement of everyone, includ- • ing Mr Mason, the boy replied correctly. "Bight, Nevison!" The master took up a fresh stick of chalk. "Go on!" " There was a long wait, and then, once more, the boy was successful. The class became interested. Nevison went on, the figures comingvery slowly but surely from his lips. There was no irony in the master's voice when he said, during a pause, "Don't hurry, Nevison," and none of the boys smiled. But Novisoh was done. Brain or nerve "r-it matters not which—failed him, and fee broke down when the master Avas teady with the chalk to record the final Answer. \ " Come. Nevison," said Mr Mason, en- ! oouragingly, " the thing is as plain as a 1 pikestaff. It's staring you in the face. At vjiow many miles an hour "did the expresses .'•Joss Caoh other?" v ; Nevison wetted his lips—and that was Kill. s'' Now, Nevison, I give you thirty • ICCSI&S."

Mr Mason took out his watch. The' silence was now intense. "Fifteen seconds. Don't be stupid, Nevison. Look at the blackboard." Another silence. But through it leapt a little ans Aver. " Ninety-seA"en." " Ninety-seven," said Nevison in a choking, expiring voice. Mr Mason, his face Avhite with Avrath, flung pointer and chalk on the floor. " Carnachan, come here!" he shouted, and the class shivered. Billy, his face paling, his blue eyes tearful—for he loved punishment no more than the- ordinary boy —came forth from his place. " Silly fool!" said the majority of the class to itself, but Avithout contempt. ! NeA r ison wept helplessly. He loved Billy. "Silence!" roared the master. "Nevison, leaA r e the -room." Presently he lifted the lid of his desk, and took out the 6trap, Avhich, though not equal in pain-producing power to the head master's cane, was yet an instrument of dread to the boys. He.turned to Billy. His face shoAved unutterable contempt, and the boy's eyes, full of appeal, fell before it. " I have warned and punished you, Carnachan, till I'm sick-tired. What do you mean by this repetition of your misconduct. Are you trying to be impertinent?" Billy held his peace. Mr Mason would not understand. "Hold out your hand—higher." The man swung the strap over his shoulder. Billy closed his eyes. " No!" cried the master suddenly; '.'it's useless." \He tossed the strap on his desk. "Carnachan ; get out of my class, and don't enter it again!" $ The boy's eyes opened, staring. A horror greAV in them. "Do you hear, Carnachan? I order you out of my_ class." " Oh," whispered Billy—"oh, punish me!" Probably the master did not hear. He caught the boy by the shoulder and pushed him half-Avay to the door. "Get out of my sight, you little cad!" he said. Billy Avent blindly from the classroom, from the school. 111. An hour later Mr Mason Avas sitting in Dr Silvertre's garden. Miss Silvertre, to whom he was engaged, Avas giving him tea. "AH the same," she A\-as saying, "it is one of father's concoctions, not mine, you ought to be drinking just now, Richard." .Mason lifted his hea\ T y head ; from his hand, and smiled—rather feebly. " If the doctor can give a man something to keep him from losing his temper, I'll drink a gallon of it, Amy. I made a prodigious fool of myself this afternoon." "You must have been tired,' she said sympathetically. " Did. you make a mistake before the class?" He shook his head. " You would have hated me had you seen me, Amy," he said with a sigh. "I feel iioav that I have no business to be teaching boys. A schoolmaster should, first of all, be master of himself." ■ After a brief silence, " Won't you tell me about it?" she said. "If you promise me your candid judgment Avhen I have finished. I'm still angry with the boy, and yet I'm altogether dissatisfied with myself." "I'll tell you. exactly Avhat I think," she said. "Very well." In a fe\v Avords lie recounted the episode of Nevison and the simple problem. " Noav, Avait a minute," Amy, he Avent on, em she could speak. "I have a confession to make. I called up the unfortunate Nevison, not to teach him signs and numbers—Avhicli no man living Avill ever do, and which no really humane person would attempt,—but Avith the idea of entrapping the boy Carnachan. I think the devil must have been in me at the beginning of the hour; he certainly Avas before the end of it. . , . Now, have you anything to say to me?" Miss Silvertre looked distressed. " It must have been horrible for you " "I'm thinking of the boy—Carnachan, I mean. You know his aunt and uncle, the Mjidgleys?" "Yes; and I know the boy, too. I have always thought him a nice boy." " I've no doubt he is—out of my classroom. Yet, Avhen I saw him moving to the door Avith his head doAvn and his hands clenched / I —why, Amy, I av&s never so miserable in all my life. \ You see, I had not meant to storm at him if I caught his telling Nevison. But his queer, innocent look—l can't explain it, for ne looked guilty enough and frightened enough also—fairly maddened me. What T had meant to do Avas to punish him in the ordinary Avay and ask him quietly not to enter my room again. That,' of course, Avould have meant my reporting everything to. Baldwin -" "Doesn't it mean that still?" "I suppose it does," Mason admitted Avearily. " Carnachan is quite incorrigible. He seems to have a craze for prompting other boys. He has lost his chance of the first prize—or, rather, he has deliberately thrown away the certainty. I can't make him out." "Yet you hesitate to report him to Dr Baldwin?" " 1 don't know what I Avant to do, Amy." "I do. You want to give the boy another chance." "Do you think there's any good In that?" Miss Silvertre reflected ere she replied: " Suppose you Ayero to have a talk Avith him —out of school j I mean, —and show him the error of his ways; then get his promise not to offend again." " I've thought more tnan once of talking quietly to his aunt or uncle " No, no, Richard. They are not understanding people. They might make the boy suffer a great deal Avithout-doing any good." Mason lay back in his chair. " Then

I don't see that I can do anything," he said drearily. "It would look too like apologising if I went to the boy himself, wouldn't it? After all, I haven't said a word more than he deserved. He had gone to the very limit, Amy. There must be a quirk in his nature—confound his clever little head 'and his innocent blue eyes !" " Richard, will you go and see the boy before you report him to headquarters, before his relatives begin to fuss? You know, he never knew his mother, and his father died suddenly only six months ago. You must have read about his father in the papers. Ha was an extraordinary man. Made a hfige fortune and then gave it all away, working among the poor Father says he was mad, but—well, I don't know." "That's where the quirk comes from, no doubt," said Mason. Amy's look of reproach became one of solicitude. "I know your head is aching dreadfully. You don't feel equal to anything this afternoon. Would you go home and rest, and let me go and see the boy?" "Would you, Amy?" he asked eagerly. Then, dully, " But why should you?" " Because you are worrying about him. So am I. And I wonder how he is feeling, poor little chap. Don't you remember, Richard, how miserable you felt when, as a small boy, you had done wrong ?" " Oh, I never did wrong," he said savagely, and got up. "Yes, my dear, please go and see Carnachan. And- if you can understand him, he won't bless you more than I shall." IV. The Midgleys' house was situated on the outskirts of the little country town, and Miss Silvertre reached it about halfpast five o'clock. She had been wondering how she could secure a meeting with the boy without the company of his aunt and uncle,' but no definite plan had come to her when the maid opeiied the door. Any plan, however, would have been rendered void by the maid's reply to her inquiry. Master William had not come home, and Miss Midgley was very angry. Would Miss Silvertre step in and see Miss Midgley? Miss Silvertre declined, but mentioned that she might call again later. What was to be done now? In one way she was glad the boy had not reached home: his disgrace was still safe from his guardians. But i where was she to seek him? She could, hardly hang about the public road until he did return. At the same time she was prepared to wait for hours. Across the road was a plantation of pines. A seldom-used path ran through, it. Why not 'take a stroll amongst the trees in the meantime? / She had no sooner acted on this idea than another occurred to her. Was there not a little likelihood —a small chance, at least—that the boy might be hidden among the trees? Not so. very lons' ago she herself had. once taken a childish, but none the less serious, trouble into a wood | near her' father's house. ... A single, definite memory of one's own childhood is often a better possession than a headful of philosophy. Miss Silvertre smiled as she stepped from the road, but her fine dark eyes were a trifle misty. . And she found Billy in the heart of the plantation. The trees grew less thickly there. Two had fallen during recent years, and a slanting shaft of the midsummer sunlight fell on the needle-strewn ground near to where the boy sat. He was in the shade, but his gaze was fixed on the bright patch. In his hand was a letter. " Good afternoon," she said, while yet a little way off. Billy started. His hand shot the letter into his breast pocket, and for an instant he scowled. Only for an instant. At the sight of her his countenance cleared, though it remained grave, and he made to raise his cap, forgetting he had left it in the school. "You remember me, don't you?" she said, ignoring his confusion. "We've had tea together at your aunt's." " Oh, yes." He was about to rise when she said: " May I not sit with you for a little while? You see, I've been looking for you " "Oh!" "On my own account, Billy. Do you mind my calling you Billy, or do you prefer Master William?" She smiled and seated herself. * Billy smiled also, though faintly. * " I called at the house, but found you were out. So I took a walk, and by good luck I found yon almost immediately. I didn't see your aunt." She smiled again. "Your aunt and I don't get on. very well together. Your uncle is much easier to get on with, don't you think?" Billy nodded. " I'm glad I wasn't in when you called, Miss Silvertre," he said at last. " for I don't suppose Aunt Ann would have let me see you." "Then you aren't sorry to see me now?" ■; "Of course not." Then he blushed. " But why ?" " I should like to have yon for a friend, Billy," she said quickly. " I liked you when I met you at your aunt's. I've never had a brother, and my father—you know him, Dr Silvertre—is tremendously fond of boys. And I was reminded today that the holidays would soon be here, and I wondered what you might be going to do wtih your holidays. Are you going awav for long?" Billy shook his head. "I'm not going aAvav at all." Mips Silvertre clapped her hands. "How lovely—for me!" she cried. "That is, if you agree to my plan. Do vou think you would care to spend the holidays—or, at least, a part of them—at our house? You would see as much of your boy friends as you liked, and my father would take you in his car on some of his country visits: and if you don't mind going fishing with a girl—well, Billy, will you think over It?"

"You don't mean it!" he exploded. "Of course, I mean it. And don't you worry about your aunt, because my father can manage her. He's the only person she's afraid of. Now, what do you say?" He seized her hand. "Oh, you brick!" he cried. His blue eyes were upon her, and now the sunlight struck his face, and she perceived that he had been crying, though not just recently. " But why are you doing it? You don't know me. You "Perhaps I know you better than you imagine, Billy." He looked down. There was a pause. "Did —did you know my father?" he asked in a low voice. " No; but I admired him and his noble work." The boy's face worked a little ere he could command himself. She kept his" hand in hers. How old are you, Billy?" she asked gently. " Nearly twelve. . , . Are you sure you admired "my father, Miss Silvertre?" " Indeed, yes. Why, only to-day I said so to a friend." "Did you? . . . Everyone doesn't, you know." " Everyone doesn't understand—l'd rather you called me Amy, if you don't mind. As I was saying, everyone doesn't. understand." l We've got to- suffer that, Billy." /,.'... "Aunt and uncle don't understand," he said sadly. Then he dashed his free hand across his eyes. " You are the first person here that understands. Oh, you are good!" "If you have patience, I think you will find others —many others." The chime of a distant church clock reached them. "I suppose that's six o'clock. Aunt Ann will be angrier than ever." He sighed. " But I can't help it, Miss Amy." " Just Amy." "I can't help it, Amy. . . *. You see, when I came to them at first, I tried to help them. I tried in all sorts of ways. But they didn't seem to want me to try to suppose they didn't want me at all. Aunt said I got in her way, and uncle laughed at me and told me to go and play. You see, I had always been used to helping father, and I had—l had to go on trying to help people, especially as father said I "was to. It wasn't silly of me, was it?" "Silly! No, indeed, dear." " Well, when I couldn't do anything for aunt and uncle, I had to try helping other people. Father said it didn't matter what you suffered in helping people : you must keep on trying as long as you were alive; and you must specially help people who weren't so happy or well off or clever as yourself; people—well, I expect you know what I mean, for it's just what you do yourself. But lately I've been getting into fearful rows at school." He paused abruptly. "Have you, Billy?" Her voice was rather faint. . "It was the only way I could find to- " Again he paused. "In some of the classes it was all right, but in the—oh, perhaps, you'll think m© a rotter, after all, if " " Don't tell me, if you'd rather not, Billy." "Oh, I've got to tell you. I couldn't come to your house without telling you first. But I—l think you'll understand." Suddenly his face lightened. "Amy," he whispered, "I will let you read father's letter, and then you'll understand sure! I'' always read it when I'm not quite certain. . , . Here it is. I usually keep it in a pocket-book he once gave me, but 1 happened to be looking at it when you came along. Father wrote it the night he—oh!—it was the only night I remember him being away from me—so it is the only letter I have. He went away to see -a iriend who was ill, and he —he just died. His heart, you know. And the letter was in his pocket, ready for the post. No one has ever seen it but me. Read it, Amy." He laid it on her lap. "If you don't mind, I'll walk around for a'bit."

"Oh,", said Amy to herself, "how can I. take all.his confidence like this?" But after some hesitation she took up the letter—frail with unfolding and refolding and handling, and read: " Grand Hotel, Manchester, Tuesday Night.

" My dear Son, —This is my first letter to you since the days before you could read, when I sometimes wrote you letters in pictures. I feel quite strange writing it, and would much rather be speaking to you. Well, you will be glad to know that my friend Benson is going to get better. It was worry as much as anything that was killing the poor fellow, and I was lucky in being able to kill the worry for him. It is always worth while helping people, Billy. Often it doesn't seem so at the time. Frequently it doesn't seem so ever. Yet it is worth while. I wasn't glad to leave you this morning. To tell you the truth, I nearly lost the train intentionally. And I'm not glad yet, for to-morrow night seems far away. But I should have felt a cad if I hadn't come here to see Benson. So, old chap, my, first letter to you is to bid you never lose a chance of helping your fellows. You'll suffer one way or another; you'll be laughed at, you'll be punished; perhaps you'll be put in gaol! But never mind 1 You'll be on the right side, and the right side wins at last. When you are a little older you will hear a great deal about honest and legitimate competition—winch begins at school and ends—ah, well, I don't know exactly where it ends. But wherever you can give an advantage instead of taking it, do so. I shall not 'feel crood,' as the children used to say, until 1 2et rid of my money, and even then I may feel that I might have spent it better However, I shall know before long how I shall feel. And when you grow up, the fortune I have set aside for you will be ready for your spending, and you shall spend it all on helping people, avoiding the mistakes your father made. But that is looking forwards a long war. Now is the time to begin trying to help

your fellows. And you don't need money to do it. You know how to do it, ing practised for some years on me t Well, Billy, my boy, I have to see Benson again in the morning, so I may not be homo until late. But you are permitted to wait up for me, and we shall sup gladly together. Good-night, and God bless you.—• Your Father." « Billy knelt down by the side of Miss Silvertre. She was lying on the _ carpet of pine-needles, her face buried_ in her arms, her slim body shaken with sobbing. "Oh, I say, don't cry!" he whispered; "don't cry.* I didn't mean to hurt you like that. I only wanted you to read it because you were so kind—because you could understand." He patted her shoulder diffidently. " Please, Miss Amy—Amy, please don't cry any more—oh, I wish I could help you." With an effort she controlled herself and sat up, wiping her eyes. She gave him back his letter, and at the touch of it tho boy broke down. "Oh, Billy," she cried; "dear, dear Billy I" And took him to her breast. So they comforted each other, and ■ at .last. Miss Silvertre took courage and said: "1 think I know another person who would understand and be' very glad of your help. Now, don't be alarmed, Billy. It is your master, Mr Mason-——" " Billy started violently. " I'm not alarmed," he said. " But he would never understand." "I think he would, if you would only give him a chance. He and I are very good friends. In fact"—Miss Silvertre blushed —" we are going to be married some day." Billy's arm slipped from her neck. " I don't think he would mind even that," she said, laughing gently. " Yes, I'm quite sure he would understand. And you must remember, Billy, „that perhaps you don't understand him. Wouldn't you care to help Mr Mason? You could help him far more than ever you've helped his boys—though I am sure that you've helped them an awful lot." . • - Billy shook his head. Miss Silvertre piit her hand under his chin and turned his face to hers. "Come with me now, and- help Mr ' Mason," she said with sweet firmness. "I couldn't!" "Billy!" She forced the young blue eyes t 6 look into hers. "Help Mr Mason and me. You must help me, you know.". He wavered. Very solemnly she put forward her pretty mouth and touched his lips. . _ "Billy, dear, it's your duty," she'whispered. There was a short silence. Then ' "All right!" he said huskily, and threw' his arms round her neck'. T