Chapter XXX: An Original

“He seeth only what is fair,
He sippeth only what is sweet;
He will laugh at fate and care,
Leave the chaff and take the wheat.”—_Emerson._

And Rosalie passed into a large, square, well-ordered kitchen, over which presided another Billy—Mrs. Attridge’s ex-servant, and now Rosalie’s maid-of-all-work. And the short history of the transfer of his services was this: Mr. and Mrs. Attridge, having no family, grew lonely, and tired of housekeeping in the country. So they broke up, sold their furniture, rented out their place, and came to Shelton, and took rooms at Garner’s Hotel.

So Billy was out of a place. A great many housekeepers would have been glad to hire him. But Billy, like all invaluable geniuses, had a great many eccentricities and difficulties to be got over. He wouldn’t live in a row of houses, or in any sort of a house that wasn’t a handsome house, in a large space, with trees round it. He wouldn’t live in a family that had babies, or _hadn’t_ cows and a garden. Poultry was also indispensable, and pigs totally inadmissible. And lastly, he wouldn’t live—no, not in town or country, neither for love nor money, with anybody who was not good-looking. There—to use Billy’s own words—he set his foot down, and no one could move him from that position. And so it fell out that Billy would accept no place in Shelton, but continued hanging on to the skirts of his old master and mistress, at Garner’s Hotel.

But one day, it happened that Rosalie, after she had dismissed her afternoon school, stood at her nice white kitchen table kneading bread for supper, when a shadow darkened the door, and the sound of something dumped suddenly down upon the floor, caused her to turn round. There stood Billy, in his pale blue cotton jacket and trousers, and clean linen apron and straw hat, with a great bundle at his back, and a heavy trunk at his feet. Down he dropped the bundle upon the trunk, and heaving a deep sigh of relief, said—

“I’m been looking for you to send arter me to come and live ’long o’ you. Why ain’t you sent afore this? Don’t like to be a-losing so much time.”

“Why, Billy, I had no idea you wished to come and live with us,” returned Rose, in surprise.

“Well, you might a-known it, then! You always knowed I liked you and him.”

“I thought you refused to go out to service?”

“I ’fused all _them there_” said Billy, chucking his thumb contemptuously over his shoulder, pointing in the direction of the village—“think I’m agoin’ to live in a bake-oven, like them there red brick houses?”

“But you might have gone to the country.”

“Yes, but you know most all on ’em were so ill-looking—I mean the people, and for that matter the houses too—and then they kept pigs, as made an onpleasant fragrance, and childun, as made werry onpleasant noises. And some places, the missus was either ugly in her temper, or her face, or in both, which is dreadful. And in other places the master was always a-interfering with the dinner or the dishcloths, in a very misbecoming manner. Some on ’em were not nice in their ways; and what ’couragement would it be to me to put on a clean apron every day, with a nice stiff crease ironed down in the middle of it, to sarve people as wa’n’t clean themselves? So the long and the short of it is, ma’am, that I’m come to live ’long o’ you.”

Now, Rosalie was so gentle-hearted that she did not speak her thought, and say—“But we did not send for you, Billy.” Yet, nevertheless, Billy guessed it, for he answered as if she had spoken—

“Well, what o’ that? Here I _am_. And here’s my trunk and bundle. I paid a man twenty-five cents to help me to bring them over. I reckon I can stay, if I ’gree to stay on your own terms,” said Billy, betraying piteous anxiety nevertheless.

Gentle and truthful Rosalie hastened to set his fears at rest. “Indeed, Billy, we shall be delighted to have you. You will be an invaluable acquisition to us. I am only very much surprised that you should have given us the preference.”

A bright, glad smile broke over honest Billy’s face. “Why, you see, ma’am, I don’t care how much work I have to do—I does it cheerful. I don’t care how little wages I gets—I takes it—contented. But I ain’t got but one life to live on this yeth, and while I do live, I _must_ live in a pretty place, long o’ pretty people. Anything else smothers of me—it stifles of me—it gives me the—I mean it makes my wittles disagree with me.” And, so saying, Billy shouldered his bundle and trunk, and took them up into the loft over the kitchen, as if he had slept there all his life, and knew the way. And then he came down, and took two big buckets to go to the well. And so, without more ado, Billy was inaugurated in his new place and duties. And a most “invaluable acquisition” he really proved. Billy had now been living several months with the Sutherlands.

To return: Rosalie went into the kitchen, to give directions to Billy about the supper. She found him sitting down, stirring the batter for the pancakes. She told him she expected a stranger to tea, and that he must make coffee also, and dress two prairie fowls, and broil some ham. And next she went into her dining-room and set her table, adorning it with her finest damask table-cloth, and best china, and placing upon it her nicest cakes and preserves. She was so engaged when Mr. Sutherland returned, bringing in Uncle Billy.

I cannot do anything like justice to the vociferous joy with which Mr. Bolling rushed upon his dear niece, as he called Rosalie. She received him with an affectionate welcome.

“I am come to stay with you as long as I possibly can, my dear. Although a man like me has a great many conflicting claims upon his time and presence, of course, nevertheless I intend to stay with you as long as possible.”

Rosalie assured him that the longer he stayed the better she should be pleased. And then, as Billy had put supper on the table, she invited him in to that meal. And Mr. Bolling sat down and enjoyed it with as much gusto as if he had not partaken of a heavy luncheon at Garner’s. When supper was over, and Mr. Bolling had been invited by Mark to take a stroll around the premises, Billy entered, to clear off the table, and, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, he asked—

“Who _is_ yon fat, puffed-up fellow in the rosy face and white jacket and trousers?”

“He is my husband’s uncle, and you must speak of him more respectfully.”

“That’s ’cordin’ as it may be,” said Billy, as he moved off under the weight of the laden tea-tray.

Rosalie’s benevolent heart was so gratified at having some one else to be good to, and Mark was so pleased to see her satisfaction, that he became quite reconciled to the intruder.

But Billy was not to be mollified. When Mr. Bolling had been domesticated a week in the house, one morning Billy bounced suddenly in upon Rosalie, as she stood arranging the breakfast table, and asked—

“How long is your uncle-in-law going to stay here?”

“I do not know, Billy; probably all his life.”

“Oh! he is! Well, I tell you, one of us two’s got to leave!”

“Just as you please, Billy. You know, of course, we can’t turn out a guest to gratify you.”

“Well, I give you warning—that’s all!” and Billy bounced out in high dudgeon. But presently he came back again.

“Look here, ma’am; I don’t want to be onreasonable, but just consider what a difference it makes in my washing and ironing. Look here! every day your uncle-in-law puts on a spic span clean suit, all out! every day, clean jacket, clean trousers, clean shirt, clean what-you-call-’ems, and clean cravat, and pocket-handkerchiefs, and clean socks. Now count. There’s seven pieces every day, and seven days in the week; now, how much is seven sevens? You’re a schollard.”

“Forty-nine!”

“Well, there’s forty-nine pieces of clothing, to say nothing of four sheets and two bolster slips, and two pillow slips, and fourteen towels, and table napkins, I have extra washing and ironing for him every week. Now I’m going to count, and see how much it all ’mounts to—ninety-two pieces! Ninety-two pieces extra washing and ironing I have to do, all along of your pet uncle-in-law! Now, you know I can’t stand that! No reasonable ’oman would want me to stand it!” said Billy, appealingly.

“No, of course not,” said Rose, thoughtfully.

“So onreasonable in any uncle-in-law to act so.”

“You must excuse our visitor, Billy. He has been used to the convenience of a large plantation laundry.”

“Well, I think he ought to staid there.”

“We will put out Mr. Bolling’s washing.”

“And put yourself to an extra ’spense, and not have clothes half done? No, I can’t ’pose on you that way, neither. Well, I’ll not give warning yet awhile! I’ll see how long I can stand it!” And Billy left the room, and took more pains to please his gentle mistress that day than he ever did before.

There was no love lost on Mr. Bolling’s side either, and—“Insolent fellow!” and “Is he an idiot?” and “You all spoil that fellow of yours, Mark!” fell often from his lips, and sometimes in honest Billy’s hearing. And one day, while the family were all gathered round the dinner-table, Mr. Bolling said to his niece and nephew—“My dear children, I must request you to drop the name of Uncle Billy, and substitute Uncle William, when you address me. There are two of that name in this house, and if you call me Uncle Billy, strangers might confound me in some way with Billy Bumpkin in the kitchen there, which would not be complimentary.”

Rosalie afterwards thought that her factotum must have heard these offensive remarks; for the next evening, as she entered the kitchen, to order supper, he approached her respectfully, and said—

“Mrs. Sutherland, ma’am, if you please, ma’am, I would be thankful if you’d be so good as to call me William, which is the name given me by my sponsors in baptism, and not ‘Billy,’ for fear people might get me jumbled up in their minds along o’ that fat, lazy man, in white teeth and linen, which would lose me my good character, and be very onpleasant to my friends.”