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Updated: November 29, 2024
Onoye's head drooped more and more. "Poor little thing. Poor child," exclaimed Billie, consumed with pity and remorse, since it had been her own carelessness that had caused the poor small accident. Onoye had doubtless put out the lights and when she, Billie, had crept into the room like a thief, the Japanese girl was frightened and hid herself behind a chair.
"I think I know what's the matter," put in Mary. "Onoye is ill. I am sure it must be that." "Is there anything the matter with Onoye?" asked Miss Campbell, but apparently O'Haru's English did not extend so far. "Much sickness?" asked Billie. O'Haru's head sank lower and lower. "Poor thing," exclaimed Mary. "Onoye is ill, Miss Campbell, and O'Haru is afraid to say so."
She carried a little electric dark lantern. Onoye was too frightened to make her presence known, and had crept along the edge of the room hoping to reach the door. Then Billie had come in and somehow they had all drifted together in the dark and the pistol had gone off. The bullet must have pierced Mme. Fontaine's arm and lodged in Onoye's wrist.
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.
"I should think you would learn something, some trade, I mean, Onoye. You are much too clever to be a housemaid. But I suppose you will marry. I hear there are no old maids in Japan." Onoye shook her head and smiled sadly. Perhaps she did not understand Billie's remark because she did not reply. "Old maid, Onoye, is one who never marries," explained Nancy at the dressing table arranging her hair.
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.
It was Onoye, as they had suspected, and Mary recalled that it was the second time she had seen the Japanese girl crying miserably when she thought she was alone. Onoye tried to smile when she saw the three young ladies of the house looking at her with great concern. She ran to Billie and fell on her knees.
"Of course it was she who was in here the night of your birthday party. Papa," said Billie. "I must have shot two people instead of one." This was actually the case, as Onoye explained to her later. Onoye had hidden herself behind the curtain that night to watch the couples strolling about in the moonlight. Mme. Fontaine came very swiftly into the room and blew out the lights.
"I'll only tell Papa. I am so sorry I shot you. It must have hurt terribly." Onoye tried to smile. "Forgiveness grant," she murmured again. "I think I'd better say 'forgiveness grant," said Billie. "But I must be going now." She patted Onoye on the cheek and then tiptoed out of the room. "It is a relief," she thought, turning her footsteps toward the garage.
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.
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