The Motor Maids in Fair Japan Part 29

However, this was not necessary. There was Nancy waiting for them on the piazza. Her headache had gone, she said, and she looked quite well and much more cheerful than usual. She did not notice the faintest tinge of coldness in their greetings. Even Mr. Campbell was not so cordial as usual.

"You must have been caught in the worst of the rain," she said, looking at Billie's dripping clothes.

"We were," put in Mary quickly, trying to cover the silence of the others.

Somehow Billie felt just a bit savage at the moment.

"I've brought you some sacred water from Fujiyama, Nancy," she said presently, in order to hide her hurt feelings.

"Oh, thanks. What am I to do with it? Drink it down?"

"Oh, no. Anoint yourself with it. Sprinkle it over the top of your head for luck."

"Better put on your mackintosh first, Nancy," broke in Elinor coldly.

"You'll be wetter than Billie if you don't."

Nancy's face flushed scarlet and she turned and walked into the house without a word.

"Oh, Elinor, I wish you hadn't said that," said Billie. "See how you hurt her."

"She needed to be hurt," replied Elinor. "She needs to be brought to her senses."

All the world was topsy turvy. The Motor Maids were quarreling among themselves and there was mystery in the air. Their happy little kingdom was being destroyed by internecine wars, and for what reason, Billie could not understand. It was inevitable that Mary and Elinor would come over to her side, now, that is, if Nancy persisted in this strange behavior.

That night, lying beside Nancy in the dark, Billie's hand crept out to meet her unhappy friend's. But Nancy's hands were clasped in front of her and she lay quite still, staring at the wall, the most miserable young person in all the universe.

CHAPTER XIX.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

The first thing Billie saw next morning when she opened her eyes on a beautiful but heated world, was Nancy seated by the window reading a book, and at a second glance, she recognized it as her own prayer book.

If it had been Mary or Elinor who had risen at dawn to read the prayer book, Billie would not have been in the least surprised, for one was deeply religious, and the other also, though she never talked much about it.

Nancy, however, little frivolous b.u.t.terfly, was not given to reading her testament or prayer book either, except at very infrequent intervals, certainly never early in the morning when other people were asleep.

Billie wondered and wondered what more could have happened to turn Nancy's thought into this unusual channel.

"She must be unhappy," she decided, "or she never would have got up at this time of day," and there was a kind of sad humor in the thought which Billie did not appreciate at the moment.

When Nancy heard Billie stir, she closed the book hastily and crept back to bed and Billie pretended not to be awake. She was sure Nancy would rather not have been caught at this act of unusual devotion, and she disliked the idea of being an eavesdropper, as it were, to Nancy's innermost thoughts. Nevertheless, when some time later, Nancy had dressed and gone out of the room, Billie could not resist the temptation to open the prayer book at the purple ribbon; it had been placed at "Prayers for Fair Weather," which begins:

"Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech thee of thy great goodness to restrain those immoderate rains wherewith for our sins thou hast afflicted us."

Billie could scarcely keep from smiling when she followed Nancy into the dining-room.

"It's about the queerest state of affairs that ever existed," she thought, casting a covert glance at her unhappy friend who was munching dry toast.

Mr. Campbell came in late. He looked fl.u.s.tered and disturbed about something.

"What is the matter with this household?" Billie's thoughts continued.

"One would think an earthquake had shaken us out of our senses. Even Papa is out of sorts. I don't think I ever saw him quite this way before. As for me, I can't seem to pull out of the general depression. It's just closing in on us and drawing us down. Papa," she exclaimed out loud, "I believe we need a trip. When are you going to take us to the mountains?

Nancy is terribly run down, and Cousin Helen is feeling the heat, and Elinor and Mary and I are going to be run down, too, if you don't hustle us off somewhere."

"Very soon now, daughter. Just one more piece of business to transact and--er--a question to settle, and I'll pack you all off to a cool, dry place."

"It will be the very opposite to this one, then," announced Billie. "Hot and damp are the words to use about Tokyo, and they do say the long rains are coming on--" she stopped short and looked at Nancy.

Everybody was looking at Nancy, in fact.

Mary and Elinor were wondering why Nancy looked so conscious. Miss Campbell was thinking how pale the girl looked, and Mr. Campbell was thinking of something quite different, but very important, concerning Nancy Brown.

Billie tried to cover the uncomfortable silence by adding with a forced cordiality:

"Nancy-Bell needs the change more than any of us."

"Very well, if agreeable to your Royal Highness, I will let you know tonight when we shall break up camp and march for the hills."

"Good," cried Billie. "The Court is prepared to move on a moment's notice."

Mr. Campbell beckoned to his daughter to follow him to his library after breakfast. Billie had already had a foreboding that something was the matter, and she was sure of it as soon as she had entered the room and closed the door.

Her father was standing at his desk frowning as he looked thoughtfully into s.p.a.ce, and Mr. Campbell never frowned unless he had something to frown about.

"What's the matter, Papa?"

"Where are the others?"

"Gone to their rooms, I suppose, or in the garden. I didn't notice."

He drew an easy chair up by the open window and Billie took her seat on the arm and rested her cheek against his.

"Papa, is there any trouble brewing in this house?" she asked presently.

Mr. Campbell blew out a long column of smoke from his morning cigar.

"What makes you think so, sweetheart?" he asked.

"I can feel it. It's in the air--it's all about us. It's like a sort of plague. Nancy's got it, and now you are getting it, and I have a feeling I shall catch it, too."

"Has Nancy got it?"

"She got it first and she's giving it to all the rest of us. Oh, Papa, it's the very first time anything like this has ever happened on any of our trips. It's making me quite wretched."

"But what is it, little girl?"

"I don't know, at least, not exactly."