Missy: A Novel
by Miriam Coles Harris · English · Gutenberg #40129 · 652,277 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Missy: A Novel
Author: Miriam Coles Harris
Release date: July 3, 2012 [eBook #40129]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISSY: A NOVEL ***
MISSY
_A Novel_
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE"
"THE SUTHERLANDS," "LOUIE'S LAST TERM AT ST. MARY'S," "FRANK
WARRINGTON," "RICHARD VANDERMARCK," "ST. PHILIP'S,"
"A PERFECT ADONIS," ETC., ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
Copyright, 1880,
BY G. W. CARLETON & CO.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Yellowcoats 9
II. St. John 26
III. The First Sermon 45
IV. The People next Door 49
V. Gabby and Jay 66
VI. A Passing Soul 74
VII. Misrule 94
VIII. A Tea-Table Truce 109
IX. The Sweets of Victory 118
X. Per Aspera ad Astra 156
XI. My Duty to my Neighbor 175
XII. Fire and Sword 190
XIII. Mine Host 211
XIV. Yellowcoats Calls to Inquire 227
XV. A Misogynist 240
XVI. Alphonsine 262
XVII. Enter Miss Varian 293
XVIII. At the Beach Gate 301
XIX. Five Candles 305
XX. The Honeyed Cousins 320
XXI. Mrs. Hazard Smatter 332
XXII. A Garden Party 344
XXIII. P. P. C. 351
XXIV. Shut and Barred 363
XXV. Amice, ascende superius 366
XXVI. The Brook in the Way 379
XXVII. Sanctuary 383
XXVIII. Vespers 387
XXIX. Surrender 397
MISSY.
CHAPTER I.
YELLOWCOATS.
"I felt sure the train would be late," said Missy, sitting down on the
ottoman beside the fire. "It is so disagreeable to have to wait for what
you dread."
"But I think you have begun to be impatient too soon," said her mother,
glancing up. "That clock is several minutes fast, and Peters always
drives slower after dusk. Besides, you know he has the heavy carriage. I
think it would be foolish to begin to look for them for twenty minutes
yet."
"I believe you are right," said the daughter, with a sigh. "I wish it
were over."
"That is natural, but we can't hurry it. We shall have twenty minutes of
quiet. Come and sit down, I have hardly seen you to-day."
For the truth was, Missy had been very busy all day, getting ready for a
most unwelcome guest. The pale invalid mother, to whom the guest was as
unwelcome, had been obliged to lie on her sofa, without the solace of
occupation.
"I hope she will like it," said Missy, irrelevantly, getting up and
pushing her ottoman over to her mother's sofa, then, before sitting
down, going to the table and putting a leaf of geranium in a different
attitude, then stepping back and looking at it. An India bowl was filled
with scarlet geranium, and the light of a low lamp fell upon it and made
a beautiful patch of color.
"I might as well light the candles," she said, "and then I will sit down
quietly and wait." She took a lighter, and stooping to the fire, set it
ablaze, and went to some candles on the low book shelves and lighted
them. "I begrudge my pretty candles," she said, turning her head to look
at the effect.
"Why do you light them then?" said her mother, with a faint sigh. "Come
and sit down."
"In a moment," answered Missy. "I wonder if the hall is light enough."
She had looked at the hall lamps half a dozen times, but in fact she was
too restless to sit down. She pulled the bell impatiently, and a tidy
maid in spotless cap and apron came. She had perceived an imperfection
in the adjustment of a rug, and like a wise housekeeper, she did not
readjust it herself. Then she scanned the maid's costume, all with the
eyes of the unwelcome guest.
"I thought that you understood me that I did not want those aprons worn
again. Put on one of the new set that I gave you."
Mrs. Varian sighed; she could never at any period of life have dared to
do the like, but Missy was a little dragon, and kept the servants in
good order, aprons and all. The servant retired to correct her costume,
and Missy began to look about for something else to correct. But the
room was all in perfect order, glowing with warmth and color, delicious
with the scent of flowers, there was nothing for her to do. She walked
up and down before the fire, with the air of a person who objects to
sitting down and having a quiet talk, at least so her mother thought.
Missy was small; her figure was perfect in its proportions; her hands
and feet quite worth noticing for their beauty. She was not plump,
rather slight than plump, and yet well rounded. Her head was well set on
her shoulders, and she moved it deliberately, not rapidly, and while all
her movements showed energy, she was not bustling. She was so _petite_
she was not severe: that was all that saved her. Her face was not
pretty, her complexion was colorless, her eyes very light, her nose
_retroussé_. Her hair was soft and fine and waving, and of a pretty
color, though not light enough to be flaxen, and not bright enough to be
golden. It had the fortunate attribute of looking picturesque and
pleasant, whether arranged or disarranged. Missy had her own way of
dressing herself, of course. Such an energetic young woman could not be
indifferent to a subject of such moment. She dressed in the best and
latest fashion, with her own modification as to color and style. Her
dresses were almost always gray, or white, or black, and as little
trimmed as possible, and she never wore ornaments. Whether this were
matter of principle or taste, she had not yet announced. Certainly if
the former, virtue was its own reward; for no ornaments could have
brought color to her face, or added any grace to its irregular outline,
and her arms and hands would have been spoiled by rings and bracelets:
every link would have hid a beauty. To-night she wore a soft gray silk,
with crêpe lisse ruffles at the throat and elbows, and grey silk
stockings and pretty low shoes with high heels. Putting one hand on the
mantel above her, she stretched out her foot to the blaze, and resting
her toe on the andiron, looked down at it attentively, though probably
absently.
"I hope she will like it," she repeated.
"What, your gray stocking or your new shoe? They are both lovely," said
Mrs. Varian, trying to be gay.
"No," said Missy, indignantly, withdrawing the pretty foot. "No--but
it--all--the house--the place. Oh, mamma," and she went across to the
sofa and threw herself in a low chair by it, "it _is_ a trial, isn't
it?"
"Yes, my child," said Mrs. Varian, with a gentle caress of the hand put
out to her. "But if you do not want to alienate your brother, do not let
him guess it." Missy gave an impatient movement.
"Must I try to enter into his fool's paradise? I can't be sympathetic,
I'm afraid, even to retain my present modest place in his affections."
"But be reasonable, Missy. You knew he would sometime marry."
"Sometime, yes, mamma. But I cannot think of such a boy as going to be
married. It really is not decorous."
"O my dear Missy. Think again. St. John is nearly twenty. It only seems
absurd to us my dear, because--because--"
"Because we are so old, mamma. I know it. Yes; don't mind speaking of
it. I know it very well. I am--twenty-seven." And Missy looked into the
fire with a sort of dreamy wonder; but her voice showed the fact had no
sting for her. Her life had been such that she did not mind it that she
was no longer young. She had never been like other girls, nor had their
ambitions. She had known she was not pretty; she had not expected to
marry. Her life had been very full of occupation and of duty, and of
things that gave her pleasure. She also had had an important position,
owing to her mother's invalid condition. She was lady of the house, she
was an important person; a good deal of money passed through her hands,
a good many persons looked up to her. As for her heart, it was not
hungry. She had a passionate love for her mother, who, since the death
of her stepfather, had depended much upon her; and towards her young
stepbrother, now on this October night, bringing home an unwelcome
fiancée, she had felt a sort of tigerish mother love. There were seven
years between them. She had always felt she owned him--and though
bitterly jealous of the fond and blind devotion of her mother to him (as
she saw it), she felt as if her life were inseparable from his. How
_could_ he live and love and have an existence in what she had no part?
But it was even so. The boy had outgrown her, and had no longer any need
of her. She had, indeed, need of all her strength and courage to-night,
and the mother saw it, putting aside her own needs, which were not
likely to be less. For this boy, St. John, and this daughter were all
she had left her of a past not always very bright, even to remember. But
with patient sweetness she sought to comfort Missy, smarting with the
first knowledge that she was not necessary to some one whom she loved.
"You know we should have been prepared for it," she said. "It really is
not strange--twenty is not young."
"I suppose not. But that is the very least of it. Mamma, you know this is
throwing himself away. You know this is a bitter disappointment to you.
You know she is the last person you would have chosen for him. You know
you feel as I do, now confess it." Missy had a way of speaking
vehemently, and her words tripped over each other in this speech.
"Well," said Mrs. Varian, with calm motherly justice, upholding the
cause of the absent offender, while she soothed the wrath of the present
offended, "I will confess, I am sorry. I am even disappointed in St.
John--but that may be my fault, and not his failure. Perhaps I was
unreasonable to expect more of him than of others."
"More of him? Why pray, do theological students, as a rule, engage
themselves to actresses before they are half through their studies?"
"My dear Missy, I must beg of you--this is unwarrantable. You have no
right to call her an actress. Not the smallest right."
"Excuse me, mamma, I think I have a right. A person who gives readings,
a person whose one ambition is to be before the public, who is only
detained from the stage by want of ability to be successful on it, who
is an adventuress, neither more nor less, who has neither social
position nor private principle, who has beauty and who means to use
it--may be called an actress, without any injustice to herself, but
only to the class to which she does no credit."
The words tripped over each other vehemently now.
"You are very wrong, very unwise to speak and feel so, Missy. I must beg
you to control yourself, even in speaking to me. It simply is not
right."
"You do not like the truth, mamma, you do not like the English language.
I have spoken the truth, I have used plain language. What have I said
wrong? I cannot make things according to your wishes by being silent. I
can only keep them out of your sight. Is it not true that she has given
readings? Not in absolute public, but as near it as she could get. Do we
not know that she has made more than one effort to get on the stage? Are
not she and her mother poor, and living on their wits? Is she not
beautiful, and is not that all we know to her advantage? I think I have
spoken the truth after all, if you will please review it."
"Very bitter truth, and not much mixture of love in it. And I think,
considering that we have not seen her yet, we might suspend judgment a
little, and hope the best of her."
"Perhaps share in St. John's infatuation. Oh!" and Missy laughed
scornfully, while her mother's face quivered with pain as she turned it
away.
"I do not think there is much danger of your seeing her with St. John's
eyes, but I do think there is danger of you driving him from you, and
losing all influence over him."
"I do not want any influence over him," said Missy hotly. "I never will
stand between him and her. I have given him up to her; he has made his
choice. Mamma, mamma, why did we get talking this way? And they may be
here any minute. I made up my mind not to speak another word to you
about it, and here I have got myself worked up, and my cheeks burn so."
She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, and getting up
walked two or three times across the room.
"You will be worn out before they come," she said with late compunction,
noticing the tremor of her mother's hand, "and all the excitement after,
and what a dreadful night you'll have. I suppose you will not sleep at
all. Dear, dear, I am so sorry. And here comes Aunt Harriet. I had
forgotten she asked me to call her when you were ready to come down. I
suppose she will scold, and make everything wretched," and Missy moved
across to open the parlor door, as if she thought life a very trying
complication of worries and worse. To her relief, however, Miss Varian's
rather shrill voice had more question than reproach in it as she entered
the room, led by a servant.
"Do tell me if it is not time for the train?" she said. "I have been
listening for the whistle for the last ten minutes. Goneril has let my
clock run down, and as it is the only one in the house that can be
depended on, we are in a bad way."
"That is a favorite fiction of yours, I know," said Missy, arranging a
seat for her, into which Goneril backed her. "But as my watch has only
varied two minutes since last July, I feel you may be reassured about
the time. I can't pretend to hear a whistle four miles off, but I do
think I can be trusted to tell what o'clock it is--within two minutes."
"My footstool, Goneril," said Miss Varian sharply, "and you've dropped
my handkerchief."
Goneril, a good-looking woman of about forty, a superior American
servant who resented her position always, and went as far as she dared
to go in endangering it, stooped and picked up the handkerchief and
shook it out with suppressed vehemence, and thrust it into her mistress'
hand. "Is that all?" she asked, with a sort of sniff, going towards the
door.
"Yes, _all_," said Miss Varian, in a tone that spoke volumes. Goneril
indulged in another sniff, and went.
"That insufferable woman," muttered her employer, below her breath.
Missy smiled calmly, but said nothing. It always calmed her to see her
step-aunt in a temper with Goneril: it gave her a feeling of
superiority. She never would have endured the woman for a day, but she
was quite willing her elder should, if she chose. The poor lady's
blindness would have given every one a feeling of tenderness, if she had
not been too sharp and petulant to permit any one to feel tender long.
The position of her attendant was not one to be envied. Goneril was an
American farmer's daughter, who had made a bad marriage (and the man who
married her had not made altogether a good one). She had had high
ambitions, as became an American farmer's daughter, and she had come
down to living out at service, and what more cruel statement could be
made? No worse fate could have overtaken her she was sure, and she made
no secret of her estimate of domestic service for American farmer's
daughters. She quarrelled incessantly with the servants of humbler
nationality in the house, who did not mind it much, and who laughed a
little at her proud parentage. They did not see the difference
themselves. She was industrious, and capable, and vigorous, and was
indispensable to Miss Varian, out of whom she wrung ever-increasing
wages. Her father, the American farmer, had done handsomely by her in
the matter of a name; he had called her Regan Goneril. She had grown up
in the sanctity of home as Regan, but now that she was cast out into the
battle of life, she preferred to be called Goneril. She also hoped to be
shielded by this thin disguise from the pursuit of the discarded
husband. The belief in the Varian kitchen was, that there was no danger
of any such pursuit: in fact, that the husband would go very fast in the
opposite direction. But she liked to talk about it, and about her
goodness in putting up with Miss Varian's temper; she placed her service
rather in the light of missionary work. If she did not feel it to be her
duty to stay with the poor blind woman, she said, no money would induce
her to remain. (It took more and more money every year, however, to
stiffen and hold up her sense of duty.)
Missy took the brawls between Miss Varian and her maid, very calmly. "It
gives an interest to her life," she said from a height. On this evening,
occupied as she was by her own matters, she heard the story of her
aunt's wrongs more indifferently than ever. And even Miss Varian soon
forgot that there was anything more absorbing than the waited-for
arrival.
"It may be nine o'clock before they get here," she said; "that shows the
impropriety of letting a girl go off on journeys with a lover. Such
things weren't done in my time. I shouldn't have thought of doing such
a thing."
"You don't know; you might have thought of it, if you had ever been
engaged," said Missy, with malice.
"Well, my dear, we have neither of us been tempted," retorted her aunt,
urbanely. "Let us be charitable. I have no doubt we should, both of us,
have been able to take care of ourselves; but it may be different with
your sister elect. These very handsome women, you know, are not always
wise."
"That is true," said Missy, tapping her foot impatiently as she stood
before the fire. "Mamma, you don't think you'd like a cup of tea? You
may have to wait a good while."
"No, thank you," said Mrs. Varian meekly.
She always wore a pained expression when her sister-in-law was present;
but as the sister-in-law could not see it, it did no harm. She always
dreaded the next word. They had always been uncongenial; but it is one
thing to have an uncongenial sister-in-law that you can get away from,
or go to see only when you are braced up to the business, and another to
have her under your own roof, a prisoner, by reason of her misfortune
and your sense of duty--able to prey upon you whether you are well or
ill; as familiar and everyday as your dressing-gown and slippers; having
no respect for your engagements or your indigestions. When this
blindness threw Harriet Varian upon her hands, she felt as if her home
were invaded, desecrated, spoiled, but she had not a moment's hesitation
as to her duty. A frivolous youth and a worldly, pleasure-seeking
maturity, had ill prepared the poor woman for her dreary doom. She had
fitted herself to it with a bitter philosophy; for do we not all fit
ourselves to our lot, in one way or another. "_L'homme est en délire
s'il ose murmurer_," but it is to be hoped Heaven is not always critical
in the matter of resignation. Harriet Varian had submitted, but she was
in the primer of Christian principle, as it were; attaining with
difficulty in middle age the lesson that would have been easy to her, if
she had begun in childhood. When you have spent thirty-four years in
having your own way, and consulting your own pleasure quite exclusively,
it comes a trifle hard to do exactly as you do not wish to do, and to
find that pleasure is a term unknown in your vocabulary: when you are
old that another should gird you and lead you whither you would not.
But the healthy and Christian surroundings of the home to which she came
were not without their influence. Mrs. Varian's sweet endurance of her
life-long suffering, St. John's healthy goodness, and Missy's vigorous
duty-doing, helped her, against her will. St. John was her great object
of interest in life. All her money was to go to him, and she actually
felt compensated for her dull and restricted existence, sometimes, when
she reflected that it swelled, by so many thousand a year, the fortune
that would be his. She had not lost her interest in the world, since she
had him to connect her with it, and to give her an excuse for the
indulgence of ambition. Of course she had been bitterly set against all
the system upon which he had been educated, and would have thwarted it
if she had had the power. His entering the church had been a great trial
to her, but she openly said it was his mother's plan, and no wish of
his, and before he was ordained he would be old enough to see the folly
of it, and to get clear of it. Then came his engagement, and at this she
was wroth indeed, but as it furnished her with liberal weapons against
his disappointed mother, she found her own comfort in it. Now she hoped
Dorla would see the folly of her course; now she could understand what
other people had known all along: simply that she was keeping him in a
false and unhealthy state of religious feeling, that she had forced upon
him duties and aspirations all her own and none of his; that there had
come a reaction, that there was a flat failure when he came to see even
a corner of the world from which she had debarred him. Here he was,
carried away by his infatuation for a woman whom he would have been too
wise to choose if his mother had not tried to make a monk of him, and to
keep him as guileless and ignorant as a girl. Here he was bound to a
woman who would ruin his career, spoil his life for him, spend his
money, disgrace his name; and it was "all the work of his mother." These
were some of the amenities of the family life at Yellowcoats. These were
the certain truths that were spoken of and to Mrs. Varian by her candid
and unprejudiced sister-in-law.
And there was too much fact in them to be borne as Harriet's criticisms
were generally borne by Mrs. Varian. Perhaps it was all true, she said
to herself in the morning watches, as the stars grew pale; but of all
the failures of her life this was the bitterest. How many hopes, and how
high, were centered in her boy! She had dreamed for him, she had schemed
for him, she had seen her life retrieved in him. A career, in which
earthly ambition had no part, she had planned for him, and into its
beginning she had led him. He had been so easily guided, he was so good,
he loved her so; had it all been a mistake? could it be all delusion? If
he had been headstrong, a willful, rebellious boy, it never could have
been. But to have bound him with his own lovingness, to have slain him
with his own sweetness, this was a cruel thought. Why had no voice
called to her from heaven to warn her of it; why was she left to think
she was doing the very best for him, when she was truly acting as the
enemy who sought his life? She had led him up such a steep and giddy
path, that the first glance downward of his young, untutored eyes, sent
him reeling to the bottom. Why had God suffered this? God, who loved him
and her. She had thought that she had, long ago, accepted God's will in
all and for all, and owned it sweetest and best. But this opened her
eyes sadly to her self-deception. She could not abandon herself to a
will that seemed to have put a sword into her hand, by which she had
wounded her child unwittingly, thinking that she did God service. She
could have borne mistake and misconception for herself, but that her boy
should bear the penalty seemed, even to her humbled will, a bitter
punishment. The future was all too plain, even without her
sister-in-law's interpretation. Yes, St. John's career was spoiled. If
he entered the church at all, having made such a connection, it would be
but to lead a half-way, feeble life, and to bring discredit on his
faith. If he gave it up, there was nothing before him but a life of ease
with a large fortune and a natural tendency to indolence. It was not in
him to think of another profession and to make an interest and an aim
to himself other than the one that he had had from childhood. His mother
knew him too well to believe that possible. Humanly speaking, St. John
Varian had lost his best chance of distinction when he gave his fate
into the keeping of this beautiful adventuress. He might have been what
he was brought up to be; he would never be anything else.
"Think of it," said Miss Varian, tapping her fan sharply on the arm of
her chair, as she talked, "think of it. I suppose that woman isn't
coming with her daughter, because she hasn't clothes to come in. I
suppose every cent has been expended on the girl, and the summer's
campaign has run them deep in debt. No doubt that poor boy will have to
pay for the powder and balls that shot him, by and bye. Not post-obit,
but post-matrimonium. Ha, ha! I don't know which is worse. To think of
his being such a fool. Why, at his age his father was a man of the
world. He could have been trusted not to be caught by the first woman
that angled for him. But then, mamma was always resolute with him and
made him understand something of life, and rely upon himself. He was
never coddled. I don't think I ever remember Felix when he couldn't take
care of himself."
Missy had not loved her stepfather, and this comparison enraged her
(though not by its novelty). Naturally, she could not look for sympathy
to her mother, who had been devoted to her husband. So she had to bite
her lips and keep time with her foot upon the tiles, to Miss Varian's
fan upon the arm chair.
"There!" exclaimed the latter at this exasperating juncture. "There, I
hear the whistle." No one else heard it of course, but no one ventured
to dispute the correctness of the blind woman's wonderful hearing.
"Half an hour at least to wait," exclaimed Missy, almost crying as she
flung herself into a chair. "And Peters will drive his slowest, and the
tea will all be ruined. What can have kept the train so late." Mrs.
Varian pressed her hand before her eyes. It seemed to her that another
half hour of this fret and suspense would be worse than a calamity. But
she had gone further in her matter than the vehement souls who bemoaned
themselves beside her--she could be silent.
"I shall go and walk up and down on the piazza," said Missy, starting
up, "I long for the fresh air."
Mrs. Varian looked appealing towards her, but she did not see it; and
throwing a cloak over her shoulders, she went out on the piazza. It was
a cool, clear October night; there was no moon, but there were hosts of
stars, which she could dimly see through the great trees not yet bare of
foliage, though the lawn was strewn with leaves. The air cooled and
rested her; but her thoughts were still a trifle bloodthirsty.
"Poor mamma," she said to herself, glancing through the window, as she
walked quickly to and fro, "poor mamma. If she could only come out and
walk, and feel the fresh air on her face, and get away from Aunt
Harriet. I believe I was contemptible to come away and leave her. I can
see Aunt Harriet is saying something dreadful, from mamma's expression.
I wish I could kill her." Missy allowed herself to think in highly
colored language. She had so often said to herself that she would like
to strangle Aunt Harriet, to drown her with her own hands, to hang her,
that she had omitted to perceive that it wasn't altogether right. She
stood at the window looking in, holding her cloak together with one
hand, and with the other holding up her dress from the floor of the
piazza, which was wet with dew. So she had no hand left to clench as she
looked at her; but she set her teeth together vindictively and knit her
brow.
"If ever there was a wicked woman!" she exclaimed below her breath. She
certainly wasn't a handsome woman, as Missy looked at her, sitting in
rather a stiff chair by the fire-place, with her feet on a stool. She
was heavily built, and her clothes were put on awkwardly, as if they did
not belong to her, or had not been put on by her. She was nodding her
head in a peremptory way as she said the thing that Missy was sure was
distressing her mother. Then Missy watched while her mother, with a look
of more open suffering than was usual with her, leaned her head back
upon the pillows, and pressed her hands silently together. "How pretty
she is, poor mamma," she thought. "Every one admires her, though she is
so faded and suffering. Beauty is a great gift," and then she began
slowly to walk up and down, gazing in at the windows as she passed them,
and looking at the picture framed by the hangings within. The light of
the fire and the light of the lamp both fell on the reclining figure of
her mother. Her face had resumed its ordinary quiet, and her graceful
white hands were lying unclasped on the rich shawl spread over her. Her
face was still beautiful in outline; her hair was brown and soft; there
was something pathetic in her eyes. She was graceful, refined and
elegant, the sort of woman that men always serve with alacrity and a
shade of chivalry, even when she is faded and no longer young. She was
dependent and not particularly practical; but there were always plenty
to take care of her, and to do the part of life for which she was
unfitted. If a woman can't take care of herself, there are generally
enough ready to do it for her.
CHAPTER II.
ST. JOHN.
"There is the carriage!" exclaimed Missy, as she caught the sound of
wheels in the distance. She darted into the house, her heart beating
with violence. "Mamma, I believe they are coming," she said with forced
calmness, as she went into the parlor, shaking out the fringe of the
shawl across her mother's lap, and straightening the foot-stool. "Aunt
Harriet, do let me move your chair a little back. Goneril's one idea
seems to be to put it always as much in the way as possible."
"Don't scold," said Miss Varian, tartly. "Your new sister may take a
prejudice against you."
Missy disdained to answer, but occupied herself with putting on the fire
some choice pine knots which she had been reserving for this moment.
They blazed up with effusion; the room was beautiful. The carriage
wheels drew nearer; they were before the house. Missy threw open the
parlor door and advanced into the hall, with a very firm step, but with
a very weak heart. She knew her hands were cold and that they trembled.
How could she keep this from the knowledge of her guest; it was all very
well to walk forward under the crystal lamps, as if she were a queen.
But queens arrange to keep their hands from shaking, and to command
their voices.
The maid had already gone out to the steps to bring in the shawls and
bags. Everything seemed to swim before Missy as she stood in the hall
door. The light went out in a flood across the piazza, but there seemed
to be darkness beyond, about the carriage. There was no murmur of
voices. Missy in bewilderment saw her brother, and then the maid coming
up the steps after him and carrying nothing. In her agitation she hardly
looked at him, as, at the door, he stooped down and kissed her, passing
on. But the touch of his hand was light and cold.
"You have no wraps, or bags, or anything," she said confusedly,
following him.
"No," he said, in a forced voice, throwing his hat on a table as he
passed it, and going towards the stairs. "Is mamma in her room?"
"No, in the parlor waiting for you."
A contraction passed across his face as he turned toward the open parlor
door, from which such a light came. He went in, however, quickly, and
hurried to his mother's sofa. She had half raised herself from it, and
with an agitated face looked up at him.
"You are--alone--St. John?"
"I am alone, mamma," he said in a strained, unnatural voice, stooping to
embrace her.
Miss Varian had caught the scent of trouble and was standing up beside
her chair.
"Aunt Harriet," he said, as if he had forgotten her, going over to her
and kissing her.
"You are late," she said, as he turned away.
"Am I?" he said, looking at his watch, but very much as if he did not
see it. "Yes, I suppose so. There was an accident or something on the
road. The days are growing short. I am afraid I have kept you waiting."
Then he walked restlessly up and down the room, and took up and laid
down a book upon the table, and spoke to a dog that came whisking about
his feet, but in a way that showed that the book and the dog had not
either entered into his mind.
"I will go and see about tea," said Missy, faintly, glad to get away.
St. John's face frightened her. He looked ten years older. He was
pallid. There was a most affecting look of suffering about his mouth.
His eyes were strange to her; they were absolutely unlike her brother's
eyes. What could it all mean? What had befallen him? She felt as if they
were all in a dream. She hurried into the dining-room, where the
waitress was whispering with gesticulation to the cook and laundress,
whose faces appeared in the further door full of curiosity. Her presence
put them to flight; the waitress, much humbled, bestirred herself to
obey Missy's orders and remove the unneeded plate and chair, and to make
the table look as if it were not intended for more than would sit down
to it. How large it looked; Missy was so sorry that extra leaf had been
put in. And all the best china, and the silver that was not used every
day. What a glare and glitter they made; she hated the sight of them;
she knew they would give St. John a stab. She would have taken some off
the table, but that she felt the demure waitress would make a note of
it. She had patiently to see her lighting the candles in the sconces.
Poor St. John's eyes would ache at so much light. But there was no help
for it now.
"Put tea upon the table at once," said Missy, sharply. There was no
relief for her but scolding the innocent maid, and no one could have the
heart to deny her that, if it would do her any good.
In a few moments the tea was served, and Missy went to announce it
herself. Things were not altered in the parlor. St. John and his aunt
were trying to talk in a way that would not convict the one of a broken
heart, and the other of a consuming curiosity. Mrs. Varian, very pale,
was leaning her head back on the pillows, and not speaking or looking at
them.
"Mamma, tea is ready," said Missy, coming in. "St. John, take Aunt
Harriet. Mamma will come with me."
"I think you may send me in a cup of tea," said Mrs. Varian. "I am
almost too tired to go into the dining-room."
"Very well; that will be best. I will send Anne to wait upon you."
So the party of three went into the brilliantly-lighted dining-room, and
sat down at the table that had been laid for five. Perhaps St. John
didn't see anything but the light; that hurt his eyes, for he put his
hand up once or twice to shield them. It was a ghastly feast. Aunt
Harriet talked fast and much. St. John could not follow her enough to
answer her with any show of sense. Missy blundered about the sugar in
the two cups of tea she made, and tried to speak in her ordinary tone,
but in vain. St. John sent oysters twice to his aunt, and not at all to
Missy, and when the servant brought him her plate he said, what? and put
it down before himself, and went on pouring cream into his tea, though
he had done it twice before.
"No matter," said Missy sharply, to the girl, who could not make him
understand, and who looked inclined to titter. She did not want the
oysters, but she longed to see the poor fellow eat something himself,
and she watched him furtively from behind the urn. He took everything
upon his plate that was brought to him, but the physical effort of
eating seemed impossible to him. He could not even drink the tea, which
Missy had quietly renewed since the deluge of cream.
The excitement had even affected Miss Varian's appetite; she found fault
with the rolls. This was a comfort to Missy, and restored to her the
feeling that the world was on its time-honored route, notwithstanding
her brother's troubles. At last it was impossible to watch it any
longer. He was sitting unevenly at the head of the table, with his
profile almost turned to her--as if he were ready to go away, ah, too
ready!--if he could get away. His untouched plate was pushed back.
"St. John," said Missy, "do you want to take this cup of tea in to
mamma, or shall Rosa go with it?"
"I will take it," he said, with an eager movement, getting up. The tears
rushed into Missy's eyes as she watched him going out of the door with
the cup of tea in his unsteady hand. Then she heard the parlor door
shut, as Anne came out and left the mother and son together. Missy could
fancy the eager, tender words, the outburst of wretchedness. Her own
heart ached unutterably. "As one whom his mother comforteth." Oh, that
he might be comforted, even though she was shut out, and could not help
him, and her help was not thought of. It was her first approach to great
trouble since she had been old enough to feel it intelligibly. How happy
we have been, she thought, as people always think; how smooth and sweet
our life has flowed; and now it is turned all out of its course, and
will never be the same again. It was a life-and-death matter, even
though no one wore a shroud, and no sod was broken; the smooth, happy
boy's face was gone. She would never look on it again, and she had loved
it so. She thought of him as he had been, only two months ago, when he
went away, easy, frank, happy, good. Everybody loved him. It was the
fashion to be fond of him, and it did not seem to hurt him. Missy
thought of his beauty, his fine proportions, his look of perfect health.
"Like as a moth fretting a garment," this trouble had already begun. His
harassed features, his sallow tint--why, it was like a dream. Poor St.
John! the only thing his sister had had to reproach him with had been
his boyishness, and that was over and done. He had not the regularity of
feature that had made his father remarkable for beauty, but he had the
same warm coloring, the deep blue eye, the fair yellow hair. He was
larger, too, than his father--a broad-shouldered, six-foot fellow, who
had been grown on the sunny side of the wall. About his brain power
there was a difference of opinion, as there will be about undeveloped
resources. His mother's judgment did not count; his aunt thought him
unusually clever for his age. Missy looked upon him as doubtfully
average. His masters loved him, and thought there might be a good deal
in him, if it could be waked up (but it hadn't been); his comrades
thought him a good fellow, but were sure he wouldn't set the sea on
fire. The men about the village, oyster men and stable boys, sailors of
sloops and tillers of soil, were all ready, to a man, to bet upon him,
whatever he might undertake. And here he was, not twenty yet, a boy whom
fortune had seemed to agree should be left to ripen to utmost slow
perfection, suddenly shaken with a blast of ice and fire, and called
upon to show cause why more time should be given him to develop the
powers within him, and to meet the inherent cruelty of life. It was
precipitate and cruel; and the sister's heart cried out against it.
What was the mother's heart crying out? Missy yearned to know. But here
was, no one knew how much time to pass before she could see her mother.
Her duty now was to keep Aunt Harriet away from them, and to hold her in
check. And this was not easy. Freed from the restraint of St. John's
presence, Miss Varian's anxiety showed itself in irritability. She found
fault with everything, and soon brought her tea to an end. Then she
called for Goneril to take her to the parlor. While Rosa went for
Goneril, Missy said, firmly:
"Wait a few minutes, Aunt Harriet. I am sure St. John wants to see mamma
alone a little while."
Then Miss Varian gave way to a very bad fit of temper, only stopped by
the re-entrance of the servant. It was gall to her to think that his
mother could only comfort him, and that she had no place. But she
respected the decencies of life enough not to betray herself before the
servants. So while Missy busied herself in putting away the cake, and
locking up the tea caddy, she sat silent, listening eagerly for any
sound or movement in the parlor.
"If I had the evening paper, I would read it to you," said Missy, having
come to the end of her invented business. "Rosa, go and look in the hall
for it."
"It is on the parlor table, miss."
"Well, no matter then; tell the cook to come here. I want to read her a
receipt for soup to-morrow."
The receipt book was the only bit of literature in the dining-room, so
the cook came, and Missy read her the receipt for the new soup, and then
another receipt that had fallen into desuetude, and might be revived
with benefit to the ménage. And then she gave her orders for breakfast,
and charged the cook with a message for the clam man and the scallop
man, and the man who brought fish. For at Yellowcoats every man brings
the captive of his own bow and spear (or drag and net), and the man who
wooes oysters never vends fish; and the man who digs clams, digs clams
and never potatoes; and scallops are a distinct calling.
All this time Missy was listening, with intent ear, for some movement in
the parlor, Miss Varian listening no less intently. The tea-table was
cleared--the cook could be detained no longer with any show of reason;
the waitress waited to know if there was anything she could bring Miss
Rothermel. It was so very unusual for any one to sit in the dining-room
after tea; there were no books in it, nor any easy chairs, nor anything
to do. The waitress, being a creature of habit, was quite disturbed to
see them stay, but she knew very well what it meant.
At last! There was a movement across the hall--the parlor door opened,
and they heard St. John and his mother come out and go slowly up the
stairs. When they were on the first landing, Miss Varian said, sharply,
"Well, I suppose we can be released now."
"Yes, I think it will be as pleasant in the parlor," said Missy, giving
her arm to Miss Varian, and going forward with a firm step. She
installed her companion in an easy chair, seated herself, and read aloud
the evening paper. Politics, fashions, marriages, and deaths, what a
senseless jumble they made in her mind. She was often called sharply to
account for betraying the jumble in her tone, for Miss Varian had
recovered herself enough to feel an interest in the paper, while she
felt sure she should have no tidings of St. John's trouble that night.
It was easy to see nothing would be told her till it was officially
discussed, with Missy in council, and till it was decided how much and
what she was to hear. So she resolved to revenge herself by keeping
Missy out of it as long as she could. The paper, to the last personal,
had to be read. And then she found it necessary to have two or three
notes written. Goneril was no scribe, so Missy was always expected to
write her notes for her, which she always did, filled with a proud
consciousness of being pretty good to do it, for somebody who wasn't her
aunt, and who was her enemy. Aunt Harriet had always a good many notes
to write; she never could get over the habit of wanting things her own
way, and to have your own way, even about the covering of a footstool,
requires sometimes the writing of a good many little notes; the looking
up of a good many addresses, the putting on of a good many stamps, the
sending a good many times to the post-office. All these things Missy
generally did with outward precision and perfection. But to-night her
hand shook, her mind wandered, she made mighty errors, and blotted and
crossed out and misdirected like an ordinary mortal in a state of
agitation. It was not lost upon Miss Varian, who heard the pen
scratching through a dozen words at a time.
"Anything but an erasure in writing to such a person as Mrs. Olor, and
particularly about a matter such as this. If you can't put your mind on
it to-night, I'd rather you'd leave it till to-morrow."
"I haven't found any difficulty in putting my mind on it," said Missy.
"If you could give me a lucid sentence, I think I could write it out. I
believe I have done it before." So she tore up the letter, her cheeks
burning, and began a fresh one.
All this time she listened for the sounds overhead. Sometimes it would
be silent, of course they could not hear the sound of voices--sometimes
for five minutes together there would be the sound of St. John's tread
as he walked backward and forward the length of the room. Eleven o'clock
came.
"I am going to bed," said Missy, pushing away the writing things. "I
will finish your business in the morning. Shall I ring for Goneril?"
While Goneril was coming, Missy put out the lamp, and gathered up her
books. When she had gone up and shut herself into her room, she began to
cry. The two hours' strain upon her nerves, in keeping up before Miss
Varian, had been great; then the suspense and pity for St. John; and not
least, the feeling that she was forgotten and outside of all he
suffered, and her mother knew. Mamma could have called me, even if St.
John had not remembered, she thought bitterly. By and bye she heard her
mother's door open and her brother's step cross the hall, and stealing
out she looked after him down the stairs. He walked once or twice up and
down the lower hall, then taking up his hat, went out, and she heard his
step on the gravel walk that led down to the beach gate. Then she felt a
great longing to go into her mother's room, and hear all. But an
obstinate jealous pride kept her back. She lingered near the open door
of her room till Anne the maid went into her mother's room, and after a
few moments came out.
"Did mamma ask for me?" she said, as the woman passed her door.
"No, miss. She told me she did not want anything, that I was to leave
the light, and that all were to go to bed."
Then Missy shut her door, and dried her tears, or rather they dried away
before the hot fire of her hurt feelings. St. John's trouble, whatever
it was, began to grow less to her. At least he had his mother, if he
had lost his love; and mother to her had always been more than any love.
And then, he had had the fulness of life, he had had an experience; he
had lived more than she had, though he was but twenty, and she was
twenty-seven. She was angry, humbled, wounded. Poor Missy; and then she
hated herself for it, and knew that she ought to be crying for St. John,
instead of envying him his mother's heart. It is detestable to find
yourself falling below the occasion, and Missy knew that was just what
she was doing. She was thinking about herself and her own wounds and
wants, and she should have been filled with the sorrow of her brother.
Well, so she would have been if he had asked her. She was sure she would
have given him her whole heart, if he had wanted it. This was destined
to be a night of suspenses. Missy undressed herself, and put on a
wrapper, and said her very tumultuous and fragmentary evening prayers,
and read a chapter in one or two good books, without the least
understanding, and then put her light behind a screen in the corner, and
went to the window, and began to wonder why St. John did not come back.
The night was clear and starlight, but there was no moon, and it looked
dark as she gazed out. She could see a light or two twinkling out on the
bay, at the mast of some sloop or yacht. An hour passed. She walked
about her room, in growing uneasiness, and opened her door softly,
wondering if her mother shared her watch, and with what feelings.
Another half hour, and it truly seemed to her, unused to such
excitements, that she could bear it no longer. Where could he be, what
could it mean? All the jealousy was over before this time, and she
would have gone quickly enough to her mother, but that the silence in
her room, made her fear to disturb her, and to give her a sleepless
night. At last, just as the hands of her little watch reached two, she
heard a movement of the latch of the beach gate, and her brother's step
coming up the path. She flew down to the door of the summer parlor and
opened it for him. There was only a faint light coming from the hall. He
did not speak, and she followed him across the parlor, into the hall.
"Where have you been?" she said humbly, "I have been so worried."
But when she got into the hall under the light, she uttered a little
scream, "St. John! You are all wet, look at your feet."
The polished floor was marked with every step.
"It is nothing," he said hoarsely, going towards the stairs.
"Is mamma's light burning?"
"You are not going to mamma's room," said Missy, earnestly, "at this
hour of the night? You might make her very ill. I think you are very
inconsiderate."
There came into his eyes for a moment a hungry, evil look. He looked at
Missy as if he could have killed her.
"Then tell her why I didn't come," he said in an unnatural voice, taking
a candle from her hand, and going up the stairs, shut himself into his
own room.
Poor Missy was frightened. She wished she had let him go to his mother;
as the light of the lamp fell on his face, it was dreadful. His clear
blue eyes, with their dark lashes, had always looked at her with
feelings that she could interpret. She had seen him angry--a
short-lived, sudden anger, that had melted while you looked, but never
malicious; but this was malice, despair. The habitual expression of his
eye was soft, happy, bright; a good nature looking out. She did not
think he had lost his mind; she only thought he might be losing his
soul. His eyes were bloodshot, his face of such a dreadful color.
"This is trouble," she said to herself, as with trembling hands she put
out the light, and went up the dark staircase. At her mother's door she
paused and listened, and a voice within called her. How gladly she heard
it! She went in, longing to throw herself into her mother's arms and cry
what is it? But she controlled herself, and went softly to the sofa
where her mother lay, still undressed, the lamp burning on the table
beside her, her eyes shining with an unusual lustre.
"I didn't know you were awake," said Missy, sitting down on an ottoman
by the fire. "Your room is cold," and she pulled together the embers,
and put on a stick or two of wood, her teeth chattering. She knew quite
well it wasn't the cold that made them chatter.
"Where is St. John?" said her mother.
"He has just come in," returned Missy, looking furtively at her--"and
has gone to bed."
"Why didn't he come in to me?" asked Mrs. Varian, anxiously.
"Because I thought that it--it was so late--you ought not to be kept
awake so long."
"Did you tell him not to come?"
"Well, yes."
Mrs. Varian sighed. "It would have been better not," she said.
Missy turned her face to the fire, which was beginning to blaze, and
stretched out her hands to it. "Well, mamma," she said a little
querulously, after several moments of silence, "I suppose you don't
think that I care anything about St. John's trouble. I should think you
might tell me without being asked to."
"O my child!" exclaimed her mother. "Forgive me. I have been so absorbed
in him."
"O, I know that," retorted Missy, crying a little. "That isn't what I
want to know."
"It won't take long to tell you. The girl to whom he was engaged, has
fled from him and from her mother, and last night was married privately
to a man for whom, it seems, she has long had a passion."
"Then why did she ever engage herself to St. John?" cried Missy, turning
her pale and excited face towards her mother.
"I suppose it was the mother's work. The mother must be unscrupulous and
daring. No doubt she worked hard for such a prize as St. John, and she
found him easy prey, poor boy. Easier to manage than her daughter, whose
passions are strong, and whose will is undisciplined. The girl could not
conquer the thought of the old lover, though she had dissembled cruelly.
I think she is but little to be preferred to her mother, inasmuch as her
intention was the same; she meant to sacrifice St. John, and to satisfy
her ambition. Only at the last moment, her passion conquered, and she
broke faith both with her mother and him. O Missy, what wicked, wicked
lives! Does it seem possible that there can be such women living?"
"I thank them from the bottom of my heart," said Missy, from between her
set teeth.
"Yes," said her mother with a sigh. "It is right to feel that, I know.
But oh, my boy; it is so hard to see him suffer. To have loved so, and
been so duped. And he cannot, in his disgust and revulsion, conquer his
great love for her. He is writhing in such pangs of jealousy. Think,
last night this time he was dreaming happy dreams about her, as foolish
and as fond as boy could be. To-night, she is in the arms of
another--separated from him forever--leaving him with mockery and
coldness, without a word of penitence or supplication. She flung him off
as if she had disdained and loathed him."
"How did it come out--how did he hear it first?"
"This morning, he went for her to drive. They were to have had a very
happy day. St. John, you know, is so nice and thoughtful about planning
pleasures and expeditions. I think he must have had an insight into
their characters, though he was so blinded. First, they were to go to
see some pictures, then to the Park for an hour or two, then to
Delmonico's for an early dinner; then to do some shopping before coming
to the cars. The shopping meant letting her choose all sorts of
expensive things to wear, to which she was unaccustomed, while he paid
the bills. Poor boy, think of that not opening his eyes. I asked if she
never remonstrated, 'Yes, a little perhaps, at first.' Well, they were
to have had this perfect day; and St. John mounted the stairs to their
apartment without a misgiving.
"The moment the door was opened he felt what was coming. The room was in
confusion; the mother, wild and dishevelled, turned from him with a
shriek. It took but a moment, but it was a horrible moment, to persuade
her to tell him the truth.
"'Yes,' she cried, with a sudden impulse--perhaps it was the first
honest word she had ever spoken to the poor boy--'Yes, you shall know
everything. You shall know all that I know. There is no good in keeping
things back now. She has gone; she is a deceitful, bad girl. She has
left me to poverty and you to misery. She has gone off with a wicked
man, a man who destroyed her sister, and left her, but whom she has
always loved. She has broken her promise to me--she has deceived me, she
has ruined me. What shall I do! how shall I pay her bills! I shall have
to hide myself; and I thought I had got through with being poor! She
promised me, she promised me to bear with you and to carry this out.
Everything hung upon it, every one was waiting--the landlord, the grocer
even knew that she was going to make a fine match, and they were
waiting. I had to explain it all to them. You can't think how like
heaven it seemed to have a prospect of easy times. I have had a hard
life, a hard life, ever since I can remember. How I have worked for that
girl, and for her sister before her--what sacrifices I have made! You
can't think, a man can't know. I really enjoy telling the truth; it's
such a long time since I've done it. Making the best of things--making
out that things were one way with us when they were another--telling
lies to every body--almost to each other! Oh, what shall I do without
her! I don't know where to go or which way to turn! She is a wicked girl
to have served me such a trick. She will be come up with yet. She will
hate that man--hate him worse than she hated you. Nobody could say you
were not sweet and nice to every one, even if you were too young. And
he--he is an evil, deep, bad man. He will break her heart for her, as he
broke her sister's. And he hasn't got a penny. And she, oh! she has a
fury of a temper, and she must have her own way if she dies for it.
Well, she's got it, and I almost hope she will be punished. I'd like to
see her poor as poverty, and come begging to the door.'
"And so on, Missy, in her wretched, selfish moan of disappointed greed,
while the poor boy stood stunned and almost stupefied. It did not seem
to him at all real or true; he felt as if he must wake up from it; for
the girl had been a good actress; and the mother, though he had always
felt a little uncomfortable with her, had simulated the manners of a
lady, and his refined tastes never had been shocked; at least never with
force enough to break the spell of the daughter's influence. Fancy what
this revelation was to him; the woman, in her transport of anger, and in
her despair of further help from him, tearing away their flimsy
hypocrisies, and revealing their disgusting meanness. It all seemed
hideous raving to St. John, till she thrust into his hand the letter
that the girl had left. Then the sight of the handwriting that had
always given him such emotions, and the cruel words, made an end of his
dream, and he was quite awake."
"What did she write?" asked Missy.
"That he has not told me. He cannot seem to bring himself to speak the
words. But I gather from him, it was a vehement protestation of what she
felt for her old lover, and the contempt in which she held the poor boy,
and perhaps some rude defiance of her mother. St. John, I think, could
hardly have spoken many words during the interview. He emptied his
pockets, poor boy, and left the wretched woman silent with amazement.
She may well have repented of her reckless speech--how much she might
have got out of him, if she had still played the hypocrite. He came down
the stairs which half an hour before he had mounted, weak, like a person
after months of illness. When he got into the carriage, his eyes fell on
some lovely flowers which he had brought for her, and the sight and
scent of them seemed to make clear the horrible reality. I think he
really cannot tell what he did with the rest of the day. He told the man
to drive to the Park, and there he wandered about, no doubt, for hours.
I am sure he has not tasted food since morning. It must result in a
terrible illness. How did he look, Missy, when he came in from the
beach?"
Missy evaded; and her heart smote her that she had not brought the poor
boy to his mother, instead of turning him away from the only chance of
comfort. "Shall I go and see?" she said. And going softly into the hall,
she stood outside the door of his room and listened. "It is all quiet,"
she said, coming back. "Perhaps he has fallen asleep. He looked utterly
worn out when he came in." Then she crept up beside her mother, and
pulling a shawl about her, they sat talking, hand in hand, till the
stars grew pale, and the chilly dawn broke.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIRST SERMON.
It was Sunday afternoon, a year and a half after this, and St. John had
just been preaching his first sermon. Missy's dream of happiness was
realized, and her brother was called to Yellowcoats parish--called
before he was ordained; and for three months the parish had been waiting
patiently for that event, and living upon "supplies." St. John had not
wished to come to Yellowcoats, his mother had not wholly desired it, but
the fire and force of Missy's will had conquered, and here he was.
"I think it's a mistake," St. John had said. "Half the congregation will
think I ought to be playing marbles yet, and wearing knickerbockers.
Besides, it isn't the kind of work I want."
Then his mother had admitted, that it would be a great happiness to have
him with her; and Missy had presented to his conscience, in many forms,
that place and surroundings were indications of duty. It was not for
nothing that he had been born and brought up at Yellowcoats; that there
he had family influence, and knowledge of the people with whom he was to
deal. Was it not his home? Did he owe any other place as much? And was
it nothing that a vacancy had occurred just as he was ready to come?
"All the same, I doubt if it is well," he said, and came; for he was
young and not self-willed, and the kind of work he wanted had not come
before him. He consented to come and try. "But remember, Missy, I do not
promise you to stay."
Upon one thing he was firm, he would not live at home. The rectory was
in tolerable order, and there he was to live, with one servant. He never
would be happy unless he were uncomfortable, said his sister;
nevertheless, she liked him better for it.
St. John was changed, very deeply changed, since that October night, a
year and a half ago; but he had come to be again sweet-natured and
natural, and they loved him more than ever at home. He had grown silent,
and never got back his young looks again. He had thrown himself into his
studies with great earnestness, and had worked, perhaps, more than was
quite wise. Lent was just over, and his ordination; and he was naturally
a little wan and weary from it; but after preaching that first sermon,
there was a flush upon his cheek. The bishop had been there in the
morning, and had preached; in the afternoon, he had had no one with him,
and had taken all the duty. He was alone with his people, and was fairly
launched. It had been well known that he was going to preach, and the
church was very full. Perhaps speculation about the knickerbockers and
the marbles had brought some. Perhaps affection and real interest in
their young townsman had brought others. All the "denominations" were
amply represented, and all the young women of the village who had smart
spring bonnets, wore them, and came with their young men. In short, it
was more like a funeral than an ordinary afternoon service; for a
funeral in Yellowcoats was an improved occasion always. The church
building was a very poor affair, shabby in detail as well as ungainly in
plan, but it was well situated, in the midst of shade, with an old
graveyard on one side, and the road that led to the door of the rectory,
fifty feet back, on the other, and beyond some green grass and trees
there were sheds for horses. The windows were of clear diamond-shaped
glass, so that when the rattling old shades were rolled up, one saw
lovely glimpses of the bay, and some green fields, and nearer, the
delicate young green of the locust trees that stood thick in the
inclosure. One could always look heaven-ward and sea-ward out of the
windows of Yellowcoats church, and that was the only advantage it
presented as a building.
Lent had come late that year; and the spring had come early. The air was
soft and sweet, the verdure more advanced than is usual for the last of
April. The earth was still sodden and wet, though the spring sun was
shining warmly on it. The crocuses were peeping up about the stones of
the foundation, and in the grass the Star of Bethlehem and the
periwinkle were in blossom. The locusts, with their thin, high-up
foliage, were just a faint green, their rough bark rusty from the
winter's storms.
It is rather an ordeal to hear one's brother preach his first sermon,
particularly if he is a younger brother, and one has more solicitude for
his success, than confidence in it. Missy's heart beat furiously while
he said the prayers--she very much wished he hadn't come to Yellowcoats.
His voice soothed her; there was no indication in it that his heart was
beating with irregularity. But then would dart in the thought of the
coming sermon, and the trepidation would return. There was one thing to
be thankful for, and that was, that mamma was not there. And when the
sermon came, she scarcely heard the text; it was several minutes before
she heard anything. By and by she got steadied by something in his voice
and manner, not probably in the words. And after that, she renounced
solicitude and assumed confidence. Yes, she need not be afraid for St.
John. Though there was nothing wonderful in the sermon. The congregation
had heard many a better, probably. But while it was simple, it was not
trite. It was thought out, and definite, and well-expressed. The Rev.
Dr. Platitude would have made three out of it, and thought himself
extravagant. But what was it that held the people so silent, that made
them follow him so? For Missy would have heard a leaf turned six pews
off; would have felt it through and through her if a distant neighbor
had even buttoned up her glove. No; nobody was turning pages, or
buttoning gloves, or thinking of spring bonnets. St. John had them in
his hand; they were his while he chose to hold them. There was an utter
simplicity about him; an absence of speculation about himself. Missy
looked at him and wondered if it were indeed her brother. There was a
deep light in his eyes, that one sometimes sees in blue eyes; there was
a faint flush on his cheek; there was a steady look about his mouth. It
began to dawn on Missy that he was going to be one of those men who are
to preach from their hearts as well as from their brains; who are to
bring out from their own soul's labor, food for the hungry souls about
them. She began to feel that St. John's sermon had come somehow from the
weary Lent that was just ended; from the hard pressure of the past
eighteen months; from the cruel wound that had seemed to find his very
life. But what were the people crying about? Heaven knows. For they had
heard many sermons before, and been like the pebbles on the shore for
hardness and rattling indifference. And they did cry, though St. John
did not; but his eyes were deep and earnest.
"Mamma," exclaimed Missy, throwing herself down by her mother's sofa,
and hiding her face on her shoulder--"it was like Paradise--all the
people cried."
"I didn't suppose they did that in Paradise."
"Oh, you know what I mean. It was like Paradise to me to see them cry.
At any rate, you needn't have any fear about St. John."
"I never had any fear of him, that way," said the mother, quietly.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR.
It was a lovely July afternoon, and at five o'clock Missy had taken her
work and a book down to the beach-gate, and sat there rather idly
reading, while the tide, which was only a few feet away from her, was
breaking on the pebbles with a sound that is dead against serious mental
application. There was a drowsy hum of insects in the air, a faint
whispering in the trees overhead. She took off the light hat that shaded
her face, and threw it on the grass, and leaning back in the high-backed
cane chair, thought what a comfort not to be in a hurry about anything.
She was delicately and coolly dressed, just fresh from a bath and a
sleep. Life seemed luxurious at that moment. She watched a sail-boat,
almost as idle as she was herself, lolling across the bay, the faint
west wind coming in light puffs that gave it but little impetus.
Presently the plash of oars aroused her, and turning her head she saw
St. John pulling up to the beach.
"Ah, that's nice!" she cried. "You've come to tea."
"Well, yes, but it is not tea time yet."
"Not for an hour and a half. This is very self-indulgent, coming home to
tea twice in one week. I am afraid Bridget hasn't got the receipt for
muffins quite through her head yet."
"Yes, Bridget does very well. I wish every one did as well as Bridget.
Myself, for instance."
"Oh, nonsense; now you're moping again."
"No, I am not. Nothing as excusable as that. But I'm lazy. How can any
one keep from getting that in this place, I should like to know?"
"I don't know why this place must bear the blame of all one's moods,"
said Missy, much annoyed. "_I_ don't get lazy here."
"But you see I do."
"Maybe you'd do that anywhere."
"I'll put myself where I sha'n't have any more chance to be lazy than a
car horse; where it won't be a question of whether I want to go or not.
I gave you fair warning, Missy; I told you this wasn't the life for me."
"Well, if you want to make me perfectly wretched--" said Missy, throwing
down her book.
St. John had come up from the beach, and had thrown himself on the
grass, with his hands clasped under his head, his hat lying beside him.
"I won't talk of it if it makes you wretched. Only you mustn't be
surprised when I decide upon anything you don't like."
"I'd rather be surprised once than worried out of my life all the time."
"Very well, it's agreed." And St. John was silent, which Missy did not
mean him to be. She wanted to argue with him about his restlessness.
"Such a good work as you are doing," she said. "Think what every one
says about you."
"I don't want to think about it, if you please."
"Think of all those Rogers children being baptised, and of old Hillyard
coming into the church. I should as soon have thought of Ship Point Rock
melting as his hard heart. Nobody ever heard of anything more wonderful.
And the repairs of the church; how the people are giving. Think what it
will be to see a recess chancel, and stalls, and a real altar."
"Yes," said her brother, with a sigh, "that will be very nice. But it
will come on now anyway. Anybody can do it."
"Oh, St. John, you dishearten me. Already you want to do 'some great
thing.' Isn't that a bad sign, for so young a man?"
He was silent.
"I wish," she said, with a shade of impatience, "I wish you'd tell me,
if you don't mind, what sort of work you want to do? What sort of
people, pray, do you want to have the charge of?"
"I like wicked people," he said, very quietly.
"You--St. John! Fie. What do you know about wickedness?"
"More than you think, perhaps," he said uneasily, getting up, and
turning his back upon the blue water. "Come, we won't talk about this
any more. What have you been doing since Tuesday, and how is mamma?"
"Mamma is as usual; we haven't done anything of interest. Oh, yes. I
went to call on the new people next door; and we are much interested in
making out what and who they are. I was not admitted. Madame is an
invalid, I believe, and rarely sees any one. The children are queer
little things, the girl a beauty. I see them often peeping through the
hedge."
"How about the gentleman? have you seen him?"
"No; the Olors know him slightly and say he's nice. The wife seems to be
a mystery. No one knows anything about her. I am quite curious. They
have lived several years abroad, and do not seem to have many ties here.
At least no one seems to know much of them, in the city."
"I hope they're church people?"
"I don't know, indeed. I should not think it likely. The children have
an elfish, untamed look, and there is such a troop of foreign-looking
servants. What they need of all those people to keep such a plain, small
house going, I can't imagine. I have no doubt they will demoralize our
women. Two nurses do nothing but sit on the beach all day, and look at
the two children who dig in the sand. The coachman never seems to do
anything but smoke his pipe from the time of taking his master to the
cars in the morning till the time of going for him in the evening. They
have a man-waiter. I cannot think what for. He and the cook and the maid
all seem to be French, and spend much of their morning in the
boat-house. We have the 'Fille de Mme. Angot,' and odors of cheap cigars
across the hedge. It isn't pleasant."
"How you do long to reconstruct that household!"
"In self-defense. I shouldn't wonder if we had to change every servant
in our house before the summer is over. Even Goneril does nothing but
furtively watch them from the upper windows and make reflections upon
the easy times they have."
At this moment there was a splash in the water, and a cry. They had been
sitting with their backs to the shell which St. John had left below on
the beach, and a boy of five, the new neighbors' boy, had climbed into
it, and, quite naturally, tumbled out of it. St. John vaulted over the
fence, took two or three strides into the water, and picked him out.
"Heigho, young man, what would you have done if I hadn't been here?" he
said, landing him dripping on the beach.
"Let me alone, will you!" cried the sturdy fellow, showing his gratitude
and his shocked nerves by kicking at his benefactor. He did not cry, but
he swelled with his efforts to keep from it.
"Of course I will," said his preserver mildly, looking down at him. "But
I'd like to know what's become of your nurse. Where is she?"
"None of you's business," returned this sweet child, putting down his
head. He was a dear little fellow, sturdy and well built, with stout
bare legs, and tawny hair, banged on the forehead, and long and wavy
behind. He had clear blue eyes, and a very tanned skin and very
irregular features. He spoke with an accent of mixed Irish and French.
"I'm very sorry about it," said St. John, gently, "but I'm afraid you'll
get cold. Better tell me where to find the nurse."
"None of you's business," returned the boy.
"There she is," said Missy in a low voice, "ever so far beyond the
steamboat landing, with the waiter. See if you can make them hear."
St. John put his hand to his mouth and called. But alas! they were too
deeply engrossed for such a sound to reach them.
"The child will get a horrid cold," said Missy, "it won't do to wait.
I'll take him up to the house, and send one of the servants home with
him."
But Missy reckoned without her host; this latter declined to go to "her
house," and planted his feet firmly in the sand.
"You'll have to carry him," she intimated _sotto voce_ to her brother.
Then he hit from the shoulder, and it was well seen that was not a thing
that could be done. The shock to his nerves and the bath had already
resulted in making his lips blue. The water was dripping from his hair
to his neck, and it was fair to suppose he felt a little chilly, as the
breeze was increasing a trifle.
"I'll tell you," said Missy, cheerfully. "You shall take me to your
house, if you won't go to mine. I don't know the way, but I suppose you
do. Through the boat-house?"
The boy lifted his eyes doubtfully to see if she were in good faith,
glowered at St. John, and after a moment made a step towards the
boat-house.
"What a nice boat-house you've got," said Missy, walking on in front of
him. "I wish we had as big a one."
"Got my things in it," said the child, and then, frightened at his own
part in the conversation, put down his head and was silent.
"Do you keep your toys here? Why, how nice!" exclaimed Missy, pausing at
the door. "Why, what a nice room, and here's a baby-house. Pray whose is
that?"
"That's Gabby's, and that's mine--and this is my wheelbarrow--and that's
her hoop--" And so on, through a catalogue of playthings that would have
set up a juvenile asylum.
"I never saw so many playthings," said Missy, getting hold of his hand
in a moment of enthusiasm over a new velocipede. "Have you got any more
up at the house?"
"Lots," said the boy, succinctly.
"Won't you take me to see them?" And so, hand in hand, they set off, St.
John watching them from the door of the boat-house with amusement.
Before they reached the house, Missy began to have some misgivings about
the proceeding. She did not enjoy the idea of taking the enemy in the
rear. What sort of people were they, and how would they like the liberty
of having her enter from the beach? Some people do not like to be
indebted to their neighbors for saving their children's lives. It's all
a matter of temperament, education--and they might not like the
precedent. She wished she might find a servant to whose care to commit
him, and herself steal out the way she had come in. But, though there
had seemed to be nothing but servants visible every time she had passed
the house, or looked over at it from the upper windows, there were none
to be found to-day. The place was as silent as if no one lived in it.
She paused at the kitchen door, and called faintly, and told the boy to
call, which he did with a good courage. But no response. Then they went
around to the front piazza, and the boy, Jay, he said his name was,
strutted up and down it, and declined to go in, or to go up stairs. He
was getting bluer about the lips, and she knew he must not be left. So
she rang the bell, several times, with proper intervals, but there was
no answer. At last she went into the hall, and taking a shawl she found
there, wrapped it around the child.
"Play you were a Highland Chief," she said, and he submitted.
She rang once more, and then followed the tugging of Jay's hand through
the hall into the dining-room. There the table was laid, quite in state,
for one. From the adjacent kitchen came an odor of soup, which was very
good, but there was no living thing visible in it but a big dog, who
thumped his tail hard on the floor. Then they went back into the hall,
and over the stairs came a voice, rather querulous:
"Vell, vot is it--_Vite_? Vhere are all se servants?" Then, seeing a
lady, the maid came down a few steps and apologized. Missy led up the
child and explained the condition of affairs. Jay began to frown, and
fret and pull away, as soon as she approached him. It was clear
Alphonsine was not one of his affinities. She was a coffee-colored
Frenchwoman, with a good accent and a bad temper, and had been asleep
when the sixth ring of the bell had reached her. Missy began to be
pretty sick of the whole business, and to wish to be out of it. So,
rather peremptorily advising her to change the child's clothes and rub
him well, she started to go away, boldly departing by the front gate,
which was not a stone's throw from their own entrance. But she had
barely reached the gate when the French woman came running after her,
with a most voluble apology, and a message from Madame, that if it would
not be asking too much of the young lady, would she kindly come back for
a moment and allow Madame to express to her her thanks for her great
goodness? The woman explained that her mistress was an invalid, and put
the matter in such a light that there was no chance of refusing to go
back, which was what Missy would very much have liked to do. The whole
thing seemed awkward and uncomfortable, and she turned back feeling as
little inclined to be gracious as possible.
The woman led the way up the stairs, at the head of which stood Jay, his
teeth now chattering.
"Pray get his wet clothes off!" she said to the woman. "I'll find my
way, if you'll point out the door."
The woman was not much pleased with this, and showed it by preceding her
to the door, and watching her well into the room before she turned to
push the unwilling Jay into the nursery, and with deliberation, not to
say sullenness, take off his dripping clothes.
Missy found herself in a pretty room, rather warm, and rather dark, and
rather close with foreign-smelling toilet odors. Before she had seen or
spoken to the lady on the sofa, she had felt a strong inclination to
push open the windows, and let in the glory of the sinking western sun,
and the fresh breeze of evening. She felt a healthy revolt from the rich
smells and the dim light. A soft voice spoke to her from the sofa, and
then, as she came nearer, she saw the loveliest creature! Like all
plain women, she had an enthusiasm for beauty in her own sex. She almost
forgot to speak, she was so enchanted with the face before her. It was,
indeed, beautiful; rare, dark eyes, perfect features, skin of a lovely
tint. Missy was so dazzled by the sight she hardly knew whether she were
attracted or not. The lady's voice was low and musical. Missy did not
know whether she liked the voice or not. She could only listen and
wonder. It was an experience--something new come into her life. She
felt, in an odd sort of way, how small her knowledge of people was; how
much existed from which she had been shut out.
"I've lived among people just like myself all my life; it's
contemptible," she thought. "No wonder I am narrow. A woman lives such a
stupid life at home."
She sat down and talked with Mrs. Andrews. Mrs. Andrews! What a prosaic
name for this exotic plant; as if one called a _Fritallaria Imperialis_
a potato. She began to wonder about Mr. Andrews. What was he? Why had no
one told her these people were remarkable? She almost forgot to answer
questions, and bear her part in the conversation. She did not yet know
whether she admired or not. She only knew she was near a person who had
lived a different life from hers; who had a history; who probably didn't
think as she did on any one subject; who was entering from a side door,
the existence of which she had not guessed, upon a scene which had
seemed to belong to Missy and her sort alone. From what realms did she
come? In what school had she been taught? She could not make her out,
while she was being thanked for bringing Jay home. There was a languor
about her manner of speaking of the little boy, which did not satisfy
Missy, used to mammas who lived for their children, and considered it
the pride and glory of life to know nothing beyond the nursery. This was
the first mother who had ever dared to be languid about her children on
Missy's small stage. She did not understand, and perhaps showed her
perplexity, for her new acquaintance, with a faint sigh, said: "Poor
little Jay; he is so strong and vehement, so alien. I believe he
terrifies me. I think it must be because I am weak."
"I never liked a child so much; he is a little man," said Missy, warmly.
"Ah, yes! you are well and strong; you are in sympathy with him--but
I--ah, well, I hope, Miss Rothermel, you will never have to feel
yourself useless and a burden."
"I hope not, I am sure," said Missy honestly, feeling a little hurt on
Jay's account, but still a great deal of pity for the soft voiced
invalid. "Mamma could understand you better. She has been ill many
years."
"Ah, the dear lady! I wish that I might know her. But with her it is
different in a way. She perhaps is used to it, if ever one can be used
to misery. But for me it is newer, I suppose, and, when young, one looks
for pleasure, just a little."
Missy colored; she had forgotten that her mother could seem old to any
one, and then she saw how very young her companion really was--younger
than herself, no doubt.
"It is very hard," she said. "Can't you interest yourself in the
children at all? They would be such a diversion if you could."
"My little Gabrielle, yes. But Jay is--so different, you know--so noisy;
I believe he makes me ill every time he comes near me."
"Gabrielle looks like you," said Missy. "I have seen her on the beach
sometimes."
Then the beautiful eyes lighted up, and Missy began to be enchanted. She
did not know that she had produced the illumination, and that the
beautiful creature was made happy by an opportunity to talk about
herself. She gradually--sweetly slid into it, and Missy was wrapt in
admiration. Her companion talked well about herself, _con amore_, but
delicately and like a true artist. A beautiful picture was growing up
before Missy. She would have been at a loss to say who painted it. She
did not even think her egotistic, though she would have pardoned egotism
in one who seemed so much better worth talking of than ordinary people.
Her loneliness, her suffering, her youth, her exile from her own people,
her uncongenial surroundings--how had Missy learned so much in one-half
hour? And yet Mrs. Andrews had not seemed to talk about herself. It was
sketchy; but Missy was imaginative, and when a carriage driving to the
gate made her start up, she was surprised to find it was half an hour
instead of half a life-time since she had come into the room.
"It is Mr. Andrews," she said, glancing from the window, "and I must
go."
"Don't!" said the invalid, earnestly.
"O, it would be better," said Missy, "it is so awkward. I know husbands
hate to find tiresome friends always in their wives' rooms when they
come home."
"Yes, perhaps so, when they come to their wives' rooms when they get
home."
There was a slight distension of the nostril and a slight compression of
the lips when this was said. Missy flushed between embarrassment and
indignation. Was it possible that Mr. Andrews was a brute, and was not
at this moment on the stairs on his way to this lonely lovely sufferer?
Mrs. Andrews did not want her to go--she stayed at least ten minutes,
standing ready to depart. As she went down the stairs, the servant
passed through the hall, and she heard him announce dinner to his
master, who promptly came in from the piazza, by which means, he and
Missy were brought face to face in the hall near the dining-room door.
Mr. Andrews probably felt, but did not express any astonishment at
seeing a strange young lady in white muslin, without even the
conventionality of a hat upon her head, walking about his temporary
castle; he merely bowed, and, being very hungry, went into the
dining-room to get his dinner. As for Missy, she felt it was very
awkward, and she was also full of resentment. She inclined her head in
the slightest manner, and only glanced at him to see whether he was
remarkable-looking, and whether he had any right to be a tyrant and a
brute. It takes a very handsome man to have any such right as that, and
Mr. Andrews was by no means handsome. He was not tall--rather a short
man, and almost a stout man. Not that exactly, but still not as slight
as he ought to have been for his height. He was not young
either--certainly forty possibly more. He had blue eyes, and hair and
whiskers of light brown. The expression of his face was rather stern. He
was evidently thinking of something that gave him no pleasure when he
looked up and saw Missy, and there was perhaps nothing in the sight of
her that induced him to cast the shadow from his brow. So she did not
see that he had a good smile, and that his eyes were particularly
intelligent and keen. She hurried past him with the settled belief that
he was a monster of cruelty; the odor of the soup, which was
particularly good, and the sound of the chair upon the floor as it was
pushed up before the lonely table, and the clinking of a glass were
added touches to the dark picture.
"I suppose he hasn't given her a thought," she said to herself, as the
gate shut after her. "Dinner, imagine it, comes first. He looks like a
gourmand; he _is_ a gourmand, I am sure. That soup was perfectly
delicious; I wish I had the receipt for it. But he is worse than a
gourmand. Gourmands are often good-natured. He is a tyrant, and I hate
him. Think of the misery of that poor young thing! How could she have
married him? I would give worlds to know her history. _He_ isn't capable
of a history. I suppose she must have been very poor, and forced into
the marriage by her parents. Nothing else can account for such a
_mésalliance_."
When she entered the parlor, St. John was sitting by his mother's sofa.
"How is our young friend?" he said. "Remember I saved his life; so don't
put on any airs because you got him to go home."
"It was a great deal harder work," said Missy; "and you like hard work,
you say. But, mamma, I have seen her, and she is the loveliest
creature--Mrs. Andrews, I mean! She is confined to her room--never
leaves it--a hopeless invalid. And he is a brute, an utter brute! I can
hardly find words to describe him. He is short and stout, and has a most
sinister expression. And now think of this--listen to what I say: _He
went in to dinner, without going up to her room at all!_ Can you think
of anything more heartless?"
"Oh, yes," said St. John, commonplacely; "not sending her up any dinner
would have been worse--not paying her bills--not taking her to the
country."
Missy scorned to reply to him, but directed her conversation to her
mother. "Her beauty is very remarkable, and she seems so young. The man
is certainly forty. I really wish I could find out something about them.
She is French, I think, though she speaks without an accent. She is so
different from the people one sees every day; she gives you an idea of a
different life from ours. And for my part, I am glad to see something of
another stratum. Do you know, I think we are very narrow? All women, of
course, are from necessity; but it seems to me I have led a smaller life
than other women."
"I don't think you need regret it," said her brother, seriously; "it
saves you a great deal."
"Pray don't say anything, you who like wicked people."
St. John was "hoist with his own petard."
"Then you think I might enjoy Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?" he said.
"Mr. Andrews would satisfy all your aspirations," returned Missy; "but
not his wife, unless it is wicked to be unconventional."
"But how did you find out she was unhappy; I hope she didn't tell you
so?" asked Mrs. Varian.
"No, of course she did not! I don't really know how I divined it; but it
was most easy to see. And then he did not come up to see her! is not
that enough?"
"Perhaps he was hungry--unusually hungry; or perhaps he is a victim to
dyspepsia, and cannot go through any excitement upon an empty stomach.
You know his doctors may have forbidden him."
"Really, St. John," said Missy, much annoyed, "it is not safe to find
fault with a man in your presence. Your class feeling is so strong, I
think you would defend him if he had two wives."
"Who knows but that may be the trouble?" he said. "He didn't know which
to go to first, and he may have had to send two dinners up. No wonder
that he has dyspepsia! That being the case--"
"You are rather illogical for a man. Who said he had dyspepsia? What
does that stand upon? Mamma, I want to have the children in here often.
Jay is a darling, and as to Gabby--"
"Gabby!" repeated her mother.
"Gabrielle," said Missy, blushing, and glancing anxiously at her
brother, to see if he were laughing. "It was Jay called her Gabby--a
horrid shortening, certainly. Gabrielle is a lovely name, I think. But
what's the matter, St. John? What have I said now?"
"Nothing," said her brother, in a forced, changed voice, as he got up
and walked about the room, every sparkle of merriment gone from his
eyes.
"It is time for tea, is it not?" said Mrs. Varian.
"Yes, I suppose it is," returned Missy, wearily, getting up and crossing
over to ring the bell, as if tea were one of the boundaries of her
narrow sphere.
CHAPTER V.
GABBY AND JAY.
After that, there were daily visits to Mrs. Andrews, daily messages
passing between the houses, daily hours with Gabby and Jay upon the
beach. It became the most interesting part of Miss Rothermel's life. It
was a romance to her, though she thought she was not romantic. Her dream
was to do good, a great deal of good, to somebody, all the better if she
happened to like the somebody. It was tiresome to do good all the time
to Aunt Harriet, who was all the time there ready to be done good to. It
was not conceivable that mamma could need her very much--mamma, who had
St. John, and who really did not seem an object of compassion at all,
rather some one to go to, to get comforted. She was "a-weary" of the few
poor people of the place. They seemed inexpressibly "narrow" to her now.
She seemed suddenly to have outgrown them. She condemned herself for
the time and thought she had bestowed upon them, when she counted up the
pitiful results.
"I suppose I have spent a month, and driven forty miles, and talked
volumes, if it were all put together, to get that wretched Burney boy to
go to Sunday school. And what does it amount to, after all, now that he
does go? He carries things in his pockets to eat, and he makes the other
children laugh, and he sits on the gravestones during service, and
whistles loud enough to have to be hunted away by the sexton every
Sunday. No; I shall let him go now; he may come or not, as he sees fit."
It was certainly much pleasanter to sit on the beach and curl Jay's
tawny hair, and make him pictures on shells, and teach him verses, and
his letters. Gabrielle, with her great dark, side-looking eyes, was not
as congenial to Missy, but even she was more satisfactory than the
Burney boy, with his dirty hands and terrible dialect. Children without
either refinement or innocence are not attractive, and though Missy
feared Gabby was not quite innocent, she had a good deal of refinement
in appearance and manner. She spoke with a slow, soft manner, and never
looked one straight in the eye. She had a passion for jewelry and fine
clothes, and made her way direct to any one who had on a bracelet or
locket of more than ordinary pretension, and hung over it fascinated. It
was sometimes difficult to shake her off, and the questions she asked
were wearisome. Missy's visitors were apt to pet and notice her very
much at first and then to grow very tired of her. She was a picturesque
object, though her face was often dirty, and her hair was always wild.
She wore beautiful clothes, badly put on and in wretched order;
embroidered French muslin dresses with the ruffles scorched and
over-starched; rich Roman scarfs with the fringes full of straws and
sticks; kid boots warped at the heel, and almost buttonless; stockings
faded, darned with an alien color, loose about the ankles. All this was
a trial to Missy, whose love of order and neatness was outraged by the
lovely little slattern.
For a long while she sewed on furtive buttons, picked clear fringes,
re-instated ruffles, caught up yawning rents. She would reconstruct
Gabby, then catch her in her arms and kiss her, and tell her how much
better she looked when she was neat. Gabby would submit to the caress,
but would give a sidelong glance at Missy's perfect appointments--yawn,
stretch out her arms, make probably a new rent, and tear away across the
lawn to be caught in the first thorn presenting. She was passionately
fond of fine clothes, but she was deeply lazy, and inconsequently
Bohemian. The idea of constraint galled her. She revolted from Missy's
lectures and repairing touches.
Then Missy tried her 'prentice hand on the faithless servants. The
faithless servants did not take it kindly. They resented her
suggestions, and hated her.
Then she faintly tried to bring the subject to the notice of the mother.
This was done with many misgivings, and with much difficulty, for it was
not easy to get the conversation turned on duties and possible
failures. Somehow, it was always a very different view the two took of
things, when they had their long talks together. It was always of
herself that Mrs. Andrews talked--always of her sufferings, her wrongs.
When your friend is posturing for a martyr, it is hard to get her into
an attitude of penitence without hurting her feelings. When she is
bewailing the faults of others, it is embarrassing to turn the office
into a confession of her own. Missy entered on her task humbly, knowing
that it would be a hard one. She did not realize why it would be so
hard. She had a romantic pity for her friend. She would not see her
faults. Indeed, any one might have been blinded, who began with a strong
admiration. When a woman is too ill to be talked to about her duties
even, it is hard to expect her to perform them with rigor. When Missy,
baffled and humbled, returned from that unfortunate mission, she
acknowledged to herself she had attempted an impossibility. "She cannot
see, she never has seen--probably she never will be obliged to see, what
neglect her children are suffering from. She is too ill to be able to
take in anything outside her sick room. The cross laid on her requires
all her strength. It is cruelty to ask her to bear anything more. I am
ashamed to have had the thought." So she turned to the poor little
children so sadly orphaned, as it seemed to her, and with tenderness,
tried to lighten their lot, and shield them from the tyrannies and
negligences of their attendants. Little Jay lived at his new friend's
house, ate at her table, almost slept in her bosom. He naturally
preferred this to the cold slatternliness of his own home, and he was
rarely missed or inquired for.
"He might have been in the bay for the past five hours, for all the
servants know about it," said Mrs. Varian, to whom all this was an
anxiety and depression. "Don't you think, Missy, you give them an excuse
in keeping him here so much? They naturally will say, if anything
happens, they thought he was with you, and that you take him away for
such long drives and walks, they never know where to find him."
"My dear mamma," cried Missy, "don't you think the wretches would find
an excuse for whatever they did? Is their duplicity to make it right for
me to abandon my poor little man to them?"
"At least always report it at the house when you take him away for half
a day."
So after that, Missy was careful to make known her plan at the Andrews'
before she took Jay away for any long excursion. She would stop at the
door in her little pony-carriage, and lifting out Jay, would send him in
to say to a pampered menial at the door, that they need not be uneasy
about him if he did not come back till one or two o'clock.
"We won't put on mournin' for ye before three, thin, honey," said the
man, on one occasion. Jay didn't understand the meaning of the words,
but he understood the cynical tone, and he kicked the fellow on a
beloved calf. Then the man, enraged, caught him by the arm and held him
off, but he continued to kick and hit from the shoulder with his one
poor little unpinioned arm. The man was white with rage, for Jay was
unpopular, and Miss Rothermel also, and he hated to be held in check by
her presence, and by the puerile fear of losing his place, which her
presence created.
Now it happened on this pleasant summer morning that Mr. Andrews had not
gone to town, and that he had not gone out on the bay, as was supposed
in the household, the wind having proved capricious. Consequently he was
just entering from the rear of the house, as this pretty tableau was
being presented on the front piazza. When the enraged combatants raised
their eyes, they found Mr. Andrews standing in the hall door, and darkly
regarding them.
"Papa! kill him!" cried Jay, as the flunky suddenly released him,
dashing at the unprotected calves like a fury. "Kill him for me!"
"With pleasure," said his father, calmly, "but you let it alone. Come to
the library at ten o'clock, I will see you about this matter," he said
to the man, who slunk away, while Jay came to take his father's
outstretched hand, very red and dishevelled. By this time Missy, much
alarmed, had sprung from the carriage, and ran down the walk, just in
time to confront the father. He was beginning to question the boy, but
turning around faced the young lady unexpectedly, and took off his hat.
Missy looked flushed and as excited as the boy.
"I hope you won't blame Jay," she said, "for it is safe to say it is the
man's fault. They tease him shamefully, and he is such a little fellow."
Mr. Andrews' face softened at these words. It was plain she thought he
was severe with his children, but that was lost in the sweetness of
hearing any one plead for his little boy with that intuitive and
irrational tenderness.
"I want to hit him!" interrupted Jay, doubling up his fist. "I want to
hit him right in his ugly mouth."
"Hush," said his father, frowning, "little boys must not hit any one,
least of all, their father's servants. You come to me whenever they
trouble you, and I will make it right."
"You're never here when they do it," said the child.
"Well, you keep quiet, and then come and tell me when I get home."
"I forget it then," said Jay, naively.
"Then I think it can't go very deep," returned his father, smiling.
"It will go deep enough to spoil his temper utterly, I'm afraid," said
Missy, biting her lips to keep from saying more.
"I am sorry enough," he began earnestly, but catching sight of her face,
his voice grew more distant. "I suppose it is inevitable," he added
slowly, as Jay, loosing his hold of his father's hand, picked up his
hat, straightened his frock, and went over to Missy's side.
"I am going to ride with Missy," he said, tugging a little at her dress.
"Come, it's time."
"Perhaps your father wants you to stay with him, as he isn't often at
home."
"O no," said Mr. Andrews, as they all walked towards the gate. "Jay is
better off with you, I am afraid, and happier. And I want to thank you,
Miss Rothermel, for your many kindnesses to the children. I assure you,
I--I appreciate them very much."
"O," cried Missy, stiffly, and putting very sharp needles into her
voice, "there is nothing to thank me for. It is a pleasure to have them
for their own sakes, and everything that I can do to make Mrs. Andrews
more comfortable about them, is an added pleasure."
Missy knew this was a fib the instant she had uttered it. She knew it
didn't make Mrs. Andrews a straw more comfortable to know the children
were in safe hands; but she wanted to say something to punish this
brutal husband, and this little stab dealt itself, so to speak. She was
very sorry about the fib, but she reflected one must not be too critical
in dealing with brutal husbands if one's motives are right. Mr. Andrews
stiffened too, and his face took a hard and cynical look.
"Undoubtedly," he said, and then he said no more. Jay held the gate open
for them.
"Come," he said, "it's time to go." Missy stepped into the low
carriage--disdaining help, and gathered up the reins. Mr. Andrews lifted
Jay into the seat beside her.
"And I guess I'll stay to dinner with Missy, so you needn't send for
me," said Jay, seating himself comfortably and taking the whip, which
was evidently his prerogative. Nobody could help smiling, even brutal
husbands and people who had been telling fibs. "I haven't heard you
invited," said the representative of the former class.
"O, Jay knows he is always welcome. I will send him home before evening,
if I may keep him till then."
Mr. Andrews bowed, and the little carriage rolled away, the child
forgetting to look back at his father, eagerly pleased with the whip and
the drive, and the sunshine and the morning air. Mr. Andrews watched
them out of sight, and as they were lost among the trees in a turn of
the road, he sighed and turned stolidly towards the house. It was a low,
pretty cottage, the piazza was covered with flowering vines, there were
large trees about it--the grass was green and well-kept, a trim hedge
separated it from the Varian place; at the rear, beyond the garden, was
the boat-house and then a low fence that ran along the yellow beach. The
water sparkled clear and blue; what a morning it was; and what a
peaceful, pretty attractive little home it looked. People passing along
the road might well gaze at it with envy, and imagine it the "haunt of
all affections pure." This thought passed through Mr. Andrews' mind, as
he walked from the gate. It made his face a little harder than usual,
and it was usually hard enough.
CHAPTER VI.
A PASSING SOUL.
It was six weeks after this; life had been going on with little change,
when one morning Missy drew the reins of her brown horse before the
Rectory gate, and hurriedly springing out, ran down the path, leaving
the carriage at the roadside. She had a vail tied close across her
face; but she had no gloves, and her manner showed haste and excitement.
St. John was in his study. She ran in, exclaiming, as she opened the
door: "I wish you could come with me immediately, St. John. Get ready;
don't stop to ask questions. I will tell you while you're going."
"Mamma?" he asked, with a sudden contraction of the face, as he started
up and went across the room to get his hat.
"No! oh, thank Heaven! no. But don't stop for anything. Come; it is more
to me than you."
Then St. John knew that it was something that concerned the Andrews';
but generously made all the haste he could in following her. As he
stepped into the carriage after her, and took the reins from her hand,
he said:
"Well!" and turned to listen.
"It is Mrs. Andrews," she said, tremblingly. "She is dying; she may be
dead. I knew nothing of it till this morning, though her life has been
in danger through the night. Those cruel servants did not send for us,
and she has been in too much suffering to ask for any one. Now, she
scarcely knows me, but at first turned to me eagerly. She had something
to say; I don't know what. But she will never say it. Oh, St. John!
Death is so fearful--the silence. I can never hear that word, whatever
it is, of great or little moment."
"Her husband is with her?"
"That is the dreadful part. He is not at home. There is no one to do
anything. How they got the doctor is a wonder; except there is a brute
instinct, even in such creatures, that runs for the doctor. It was ages
before I could find the address of Mr. Andrews in town. Ages before I
could get any one off with the telegram. I came for you myself, because
I could trust no one else to get you quickly. Oh, St. John, do drive a
little faster!"
"And what am I to do, now that you have got me?" said her brother, in a
low tone, gazing before him at the horse, now almost on a gallop.
"Do? oh, St. John! save her! say a prayer for her! help her! What are
such as you to do but that? I didn't think you'd ask me. Oh, it is so
terrible to think of her poor soul. She is so unready; poor
thing--unless her sufferings will stand instead. _Don't_ you think they
may? Don't you think God might accept them instead of--of spirituality
and love for Him?"
"We're not set to judge, Missy," said her brother, soothingly. "Let us
hope all we can, and pray all we can. I wish that she were conscious, if
only for one moment."
"Well, pray for it," cried Missy, and then burst into tears. After a
moment, she turned passionately to him, and said: "St. John, I am afraid
it is partly for my own comfort I want her to speak and to be conscious
for one moment. I want to feel that I have a right to hope for her
eternal safety, and that I haven't been wasting all these weeks in
talking of things that didn't concern that, when I might have been
leading her to other thoughts. Oh, St. John, tell me, ought I to have
been talking about her soul all this time, when it was so hard? She
was--oh, I know you will understand me--she was so full of her
sufferings, and--well, of herself, that I couldn't easily talk about
what I knew in my heart she ought to be getting ready for. I didn't know
it was so near. Ah, I wasted the hours, and now her blood may be upon my
soul. St. John, there never was anybody so unready. It appalls me. I see
it all now. Poor, beautiful thing. She seems to be only made for earth.
Oh, the awe! St. John, if I had been a very good person, utterly holy, I
might have saved her, might I not? I should not have thought of anything
else, and by the force of my one purpose and desire, I could have
wakened her."
"Maybe not, my sister. Don't reproach yourself; only pray."
Missy twisted her hands together in her lap, and was motionless, as they
hurried on. In a moment more they were standing at the gate. As Missy
sprang out, little Jay met her, fretting and crying.
"Oh, why haven't they taken the children over to mamma, as I ordered?"
she cried; but there was no one to make excuse. "Go, go, my dear little
Jay," she pleaded. But Jay was all unstrung and unreasonable, feeling
the gloom and discomfort. "See," she cried, hurriedly kneeling down on
the grass beside him, "go to Mrs. Varian, and tell her you are come to
pay her a little visit; and tell her to let you go to my room, and on
the table there you will find a little package, tied up in a white
paper; and it is for you. I tied it up for you last night. Go see what
it is; you haven't any idea. It is something you will like so much!" Jay
was on his way before Missy got into the house.
It was a warm morning, close and obscure. One felt the oppression in
every nerve--an August suffocation. Low banks of threatening clouds lay
over the island that shut in the bay from the Sound, and over the West
Harbor. They boded and brooded, but would lie there for the many hours
of morning and midday that remained. Not a ripple moved the sullen
water; not a leaf stirred on the trees; the sun seemed hidden deep in
clouds of hot, still vapor. The house was all open, doors and windows,
gasping for breath. In the hall one or two servants stood aimlessly
about, listening at the foot of the stairs, or whispering together.
St. John followed his sister closely as she entered the house. The
servants made way for her, and they went quickly up the stairs. At the
door of the sick room they paused. Another woman, wringing her hands,
and listening with keen curiosity, stood gazing in. The room was in the
most confused state. The coffee-colored Alphonsine moved stolidly about,
and occasionally put a piece of furniture in its place, or removed a
garment thrown down in the haste and panic of the past night; but
standing still, more often, to gaze back at the bed. She crossed herself
often, in a mechanical manner, but looked more sullen than sympathetic.
There was a bath in the middle of the room, cloths and towels strewn
upon the floor beside it, mustard, a night-lamp flickering still in the
face of day, a bowl of ice, some brandy. The windows were thrown wide
open; the bed stood with its head near one--another one was opposite to
it. The light fell full upon the ghastly face of the suffering woman.
Beauty! had she ever been beautiful? "Like as a moth fretting a
garment," so had her anguish made her beauty to consume away. A ghastly
being--suffering, agonized, dying--wrestling with a destroying enemy!
Such conflicts cannot last long; the end was near.
As St. John and his sister entered the room, the doctor, who stood at
the head of the bed, was wiping the perspiration from his forehead and
glancing out of the window. He was troubled and worn out with the
night's work, and was watching eagerly for a brother physician who had
been summoned to his aid. He knew the new-comer could do no good, but he
could share the responsibility with him, and bring back the professional
atmosphere out of which he had been carried by the swift and terrible
progress of his patient's malady. Above all things, the doctor wished to
be professional and cool; and he knew he was neither in the midst of
this blundering crowd of servants, and in the sight of this fiercely
dying woman. He could have wished it all to be done over again. He had
lost his head, in a degree. He did not believe that anything could have
arrested the flight of life; all the same he wished he had known a
little more about the case; had taken the alarm quicker and sent for
other aid. He looked harassed and helpless, and very hot and tired. All
this St. John saw as he came in the room.
Missy looked questioningly at him, and then as he gave a gesture of
assent, came quickly to the side of the bed. She half knelt beside it,
and took the poor sufferer's hand in hers. The touch, perhaps, caused
her to open her eyes, and her lips moved. Then her glance, roving and
anguished, fell upon St. John. She lifted her hand with a sudden spasm
of life.
"A priest?" she said, huskily.
"Yes," said St. John, coming to her quietly.
"Then all of you go away--quick--I want to speak to him."
"There is no time to spare," said the doctor, as he passed St. John.
Missy followed him, and the servants followed her. She closed the door
and waited outside.
The servants seemed to be consoled by the presence of a priest; things
were taking the conventional death-bed turn. Even the doctor felt as if
the professional atmosphere were being restored in a degree. St. John,
indeed, had looked as if he knew what he was about, and had been calm in
the midst of the agitated and uncertain group, occupied himself,
perhaps, by but one thought. Young as he was, his sister and the doctor
and the servants shut him into the room with a feeling of much relief.
The servants nodded, and went their ways with apparent satisfaction. The
doctor threw himself into a chair in an adjoining room, and signified to
Miss Rothermel that he would rest till he was called. And she herself
knelt down beside an open window just outside the door, and waited, and
probably devoutly prayed for the passing soul making her tardy count
within.
She could not but speculate upon the interview. Now that the awful sense
of responsibility was lifted off her and shifted upon her brother's
shoulders, she felt more naturally and more humanly. She began to wonder
whether it had been to ask her for a priest that the dying woman had
struggled when she first saw her that morning. She was almost sure it
was, for she had clutched at St. John with such eagerness. It was
probable she did not know him and did not associate him with Missy. His
marked dress had been his passport. And Missy really did not know what
her friend's creed was. It seemed probable she had been a Roman
Catholic, but had dropped her form of faith in holiday times of youth
and possible wrong doing, and had never had grace to resume that, or any
other in the weary days of illness--unprofitable so long as they did not
threaten death. But now death was at the door, and she had clutched at
the hem of a priest's garment. So, thought Missy, it is real when it
comes to facts; for what fact so real as death? Everything else seemed
phantom-dim when she thought of that face upon the pillow, with the
wide-open window shedding all the gray morning's light upon it.
The moments passed; the still, dull, heavy air crept in at the window
upon which Missy bowed her head; the leaves scarcely stirred upon the
trees that stood up close beside it; a languid bird or two twittered an
occasional smothered note. There were few household sounds. The
servants, though released from their futile watching, did not resume
their household work. Missy smelt the evil odor of the Frenchman's
cigar, and was ashamed to find it vexed her, even at such a moment as
this; she braced herself to endure the "Fille de Mme. Angot," if that
should follow in a low whistle from under the trees. But it did not. The
Frenchman had that much respect for what was going on within.
At last! There was a stir--a moan, audible even through the door, and
Missy started to her feet, and signalled the doctor, who had heard it,
too. Her brother opened the door and admitted them. But what a ghastly
face was his; Missy started.
He turned back to the bed, and kneeling, read the commendatory prayer.
"Through the grave and gate of death,
Now the faint soul travaileth."
Ah, God help her; it is over. He has brought to pass His act, His
strange act, and only death lies there, senseless, dull death,
corruptible, animal, earthy, where but a moment before a soul of parts
and passions, had been chained.
Missy, new to death-beds, got up from her knees at last, weeping and
awed, and, laying her hand on her brother's, said, "Come away, St. John,
you look so ill."
St. John arose and followed her, going to the room and sinking into the
chair lately occupied by the doctor. He looked ill indeed, but his
sister could offer him no comfort; quiet, and to be left alone was all
he asked of her. At this moment the doctor summoned in consultation
appeared; both the professional men went professionally into the chamber
of death, and Missy, clasping the inert hand of Gabrielle, who,
whimpering, had refused to go up stairs, went sorrowfully home with the
child, feeling that she had no more to do in the house of death that
day.
St. John came home in an hour or two. Mr. Andrews had not yet arrived.
Everything that could be done without him had, under the direction of
St. John and the doctor, been done. The house was quiet and in order, he
said. It was almost certain that Mr. Andrews would arrive in the next
train; the carriage was waiting at the depot for him, though no telegram
had come. St. John threw himself on the sofa, and seemed again to want
quiet, so his sister left him, and took the children to her own room. It
was so close in the house, and they were so restless, that after a while
she took them out upon the lawn. There was no sun, and just a cool air,
though no breeze, creeping in from the water. It was comparatively easy
to amuse them there, or rather, to let them amuse themselves. Gabrielle
was inquisitive and fretful, but little Jay seemed to feel languid and
tired by the morning's heat, and crept upon her lap at last and went to
sleep.
Missy, sitting in the deep shade of the trees near the beech gate,
soothed by the quiet, and worn with the morning's excitement, almost
slept herself. She had gone over many times in imagination the arrival
of the husband, and his first moment at the bedside of his dead wife.
She felt sure all this had now taken place, though she was too far from
the house to hear the arrival of the carriage from the depot. She
wondered whether he would send in for the children at once, or whether
he would be glad they were away; or whether he would think of them at
all. She was glad to remember she had no duty in the matter, and that
she did not have to see him, and it was rather a comfort to her to feel
she did not know the exact moment at which he was going through the
terrible scene, and feeling the first anguish of remorse. She kissed
Jay's tawny head, and with her arms around him, finally slept, leaning
back in the great chair. Gabrielle at first played at her feet idly,
then went down to the beach, and amused herself in the sand, but it was
hot, and she came back to the shade, and, lying on the rug at Missy's
feet, slept too.
A small steam yacht, meanwhile, had come into the harbor, had put off a
small boat, which was even now landing a gentleman near the boat-house
of the Andrews' place. The boat returned to the yacht; the gentleman set
down his bag on the steps of the boat-house, and looked around. All was
quiet; no one seemed moving at either of the two houses. Certainly it
was not a day to move if you could help it. The only hope was that those
dark clouds in the west would move, and make some change in the stagnant
state of things. The gentleman took off his straw hat and fanned himself
and walked slowly forward, then, catching sight of the group under the
trees, with something like a smile, turned back and approached them. He
stood looking down upon them, before any of them moved. Certainly, a
pretty enough group. Gabrielle was sleeping, face forward, on her arms,
a graceful figure, on the dark rug. Missy, with her soft, pretty hair
tumbled, and a flush on her cheek, lay nearly at full length in the
stretched-out sleepy chair, her light dress swept upon the grass, and
exposing one small and perfect foot with a gossamer stocking and a
darling high-heeled low-cut shoe. And Jay, flushed and hot, with his
tawny curls against her breast, and one brown hand in hers, lay across
her lap; her other hand, very white by contrast, holding the brown bare
legs in a protecting way; some picture-books, and a broad hat or two lay
upon the grass beside them. There was something in the sight that seemed
to move more than the spectator's admiration; but whatever emotion it
was, was quickly dispelled, and commonplace greeting and pleasure came
back into his face, as Gabrielle, aroused, got up with a cry of:
"Why, papa! where did you come from? I--I guess I was asleep."
Missy, with a start, sat up, bewildered. She had been dreaming, perhaps,
of the scene in the upper room in the house next door, which haunted her
imagination. And here she was, face to face with the man over whose
remorse she rather gloated, and it would be difficult to say how any one
could look less remorseful than he looked now. Certainly, more genial
and pleasant than she had ever seen him look before. She felt that she
must have been dreaming all the occurrences of the morning. Jay fretted
and refused to wake. Her dress was wet where his hot little head had
been lying; he threw his arm up over her neck and nestled back.
"I--we--what train--have you just come?" she stammered, trying to know
what she was talking of, and to believe that there was no dead face on
the pillow up-stairs.
"I did not come on a train, but in a yacht," he answered, putting his
arms around Gabby's shoulders, and holding her little hands in his. "We
started last night. Some friends of mine are on a cruise, and persuaded
me to let them bring me here. But an accident to the machinery kept us
over-night at our moorings, and interminable arrangements for the cruise
put us back this morning. We have had a hot day of it on the Sound, and
are just arrived. See, Gabrielle, there goes the yacht out of the mouth
of the harbor. It is a pity we can't run up a flag from the boat-house;
but it is too hot for exertion, and I suppose all the servants are
asleep."
"Then you haven't--" faltered Missy, "you--that is--you have not been to
the house--"
"No," said Mr. Andrews, looking at her as if he did not mean to be
surprised at anything she might say or do. "No, I am just on shore, and
unexpected at home. I hope you are quite well, Miss Rothermel;" for
Missy was turning very pale. "I am afraid that boy is too heavy for you;
let me take him."
Missy was struggling to get up, and Jay was fighting to keep his place,
and not to be disturbed.
"Let me take him. Jay, be quiet. What do you mean by this, my boy? Come
to me at once."
"No, oh no!" said Missy, regaining her feet, and holding the boy in her
arms. He put his damp curls down on her shoulder, and both arms around
her neck, and with sleepy, half-shut, obstinate eyes, looked down upon
the ground, and up upon his father.
Gabrielle, seeing the situation, said, amazed: "_Don't_ you know, papa?"
and then stopped suddenly, and looked frightened.
"Hush, Gabrielle," cried Missy, trembling. For Gabby's heartlessness
would be a cruel medium through which to communicate the news.
"There is some trouble?" said Mr. Andrews, quietly, looking from one to
the other. "Do not be afraid to tell me."
"Let us go up to the house," said Missy, hurriedly, taking a few steps
forward with her heavy burden. Mr. Andrews walked silently beside her,
looking upon the ground, with an expression not very different from the
one he wore habitually, though very different from the one he had just
been wearing. Gabby hung behind, looking askance at the two before her,
with mingled curiosity and apprehension in her face.
"You need not be afraid to tell me," he said, as they walked on. "Has
anything happened? I am quite unprepared, but I would rather know. I
suppose I have been telegraphed, if I was needed--"
"I sent the telegrams to your office," said Missy; "the first one at
nine this morning. My brother sent the last one. The carriage has been
at every train all day."
"It was a strange mischance. They did not know at the office that I was
going home in the yacht."
"The servants were so heedless, and they did not even send for us."
"You forget, I do not know," said Mr. Andrews, in a controlled voice, as
she paused, in walking as well as in speaking. For her agitation, and
the weight of the sleeping child together, made her tremble so that she
stopped, and leaned against a linden tree on the lawn, which they were
passing.
"Oh, it is hard that it should come upon me," cried Missy desperately,
as she looked at him with a strange pair of eyes, leaning against the
tree, very white and trembling, and holding the boy to her breast.
"Yes; it is hard," said her companion, "for I know it must be something
very painful to move you so. I will go to my house and learn about it
there. Come, Gabrielle; will you come with me, child?"
"Oh, stay," cried Missy, as he stretched out his hand to the little
girl, and was going away without her, as she began to cry and hang back,
taking hold of Missy's dress. "It will be hard to hear it there--from
servants. It is the worst news any one could hear. How can I tell you?
The poor little children, they are left--alone--to you."
And, bursting into tears, she sunk down beside Gabrielle on the grass,
and held her and Jay in one embrace. There was a silence but for the
sobs of Gabrielle, for Missy's tears were silent after the first burst;
they were raining now on Jay's head, and she kissed his forehead again
and again. "I have told you very badly," she said brokenly, after a
moment. "I hoped you would not hear it all at once; but it was not my
fault."
There was no answer, and she went on. "The illness was so sudden and
terrible, and there was no hope, after we knew of it. I feel so dazed
and tired I hardly know what to tell you of it. It is several hours
since--since all was over. I don't suppose anything could have been done
to make it different; but it must be so dreadful to you to think you
were not here. Oh, I don't know at all how you can bear it."
She looked up at him as she said this. He stood perfectly still and
upright before her, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, hard and rigid.
But whether he was hearing what she said, and weighing it critically, or
whether he did not hear or comprehend, she could not tell. There was no
change of expression, no emotion in eye or mouth to enlighten her. She
had, in her pity for him, and her agitation at being the one to
communicate the evil tidings, forgotten the rancor that she bore him,
and the remorse that she had wished he might endure. These feelings
began sharply to awaken, as she glanced at him. She felt her tears burn
her cheeks, looking at his unmoistened eyes. She put down Jay upon his
feet, and disengaging herself from Gabrielle, stood up, keeping Jay's
hand in hers.
"My brother will tell you all the rest," she said, slowly moving on,
leading the children. Mr. Andrews mechanically followed her, looking
upon the ground. Missy's heart beat fast; she held the children tight by
the hand; it seemed to her that this was worse than all the rest. She
was not much used to tragedy, and had never had to tell a man the wife
was dead, whom he was expecting to meet within five minutes.
The men and women she had known had loved each other, and lived happily
together, in a measure. She was new to this sort of experience. She was
thrilling with the indignation that very young persons feel when their
ideal anything is overthrown. She was, practically, in the matter of
ideals, a very young person, though she was twenty-eight.
They were very near the house now. A few more steps and they would be at
the side door that led into the summer parlor. There was a total
silence, broken by Jay's whimpering, "I don't want to go home with papa;
I want to stay with you to-night."
Gabby, who didn't have any more cheerful recollection of home to-day
than he, chimed in a petition to stay. She thought she would rather look
over aunt Harriet's boxes, and be a little scolded, than go home to the
ejaculations and whisperings of the servants, and have to pass That
Room. This was about the depth of her grief; but she whimpered and
wanted to stay. When they reached the steps that led up to the door,
Missy paused and turned to Mr. Andrews, who was just behind her.
"Shall I keep the children?" she said, facing him, her cheeks flushed, a
child grasping each hand.
"Yes--if you will--if you will be so kind," he said. She had hoped his
voice would be shaken, would show agitation. But it did not. It was
rather low, but perfectly controlled, and he knew what he was saying. He
"remembered his manners." He was collected enough to be polite; "if you
will be so kind."
"Come then, children," she said, trembling all over, voice included, as
she went up the steps. He walked away without any further speech.
Leaving the children in the summer-parlor, she ran through the house to
one of the front windows, and pushing open a little the blind, sat down
palpitating and watched him going down to the gate. He walked slowly,
but his step was steady. He followed the road, and did not walk across
the grass, like a man who does not think what he is doing. When he
reached the gate, he did not turn to the right towards his own house, to
the gate of which a few steps more would have brought him, but he walked
up the road, with his head down, as if pondering something. Presently,
however, he turned and came back, passed the Varians' gate, and went on
into his own. And then Missy lost sight of him among the trees that
stood between the two houses. She threw herself upon a sofa, and pressed
her hands before her eyes, as she thought of that broken, pain-strained
figure, rigid on the bed up-stairs. And if he did not cry for his
coldness and cruelty, she did, till her head and her eyes ached.
That night, after Missy had put the children to bed in her own room, as
she went down stairs, she heard St. John sending a servant in to ask
Mr. Andrews if he would see him for a few moments.
"St. John," she exclaimed, in a low voice, joining him. "Why do you send
in? It is his place to send for you. I would not do it, really. I--I
hate the man. I told him you would tell him everything, and he has been
here four hours at least, and has never sent for you. I don't believe he
wants to hear anything. I have no doubt he has had a good dinner and is
reading the paper. May be he will ask you to join him with a cigar."
"Don't be uncharitable, Missy," said her brother, walking up and down
the room.
"But why do you send?" persisted his sister. "He doesn't want to see
you, or he would have sent."
"But I want to see him. So, Missy, don't let us talk about it any more."
It was evident to his sister that St. John did not anticipate the
meeting with much pleasure. He was a little restless, for him, till the
servant came back with a message, to the effect that Mr. Andrews would
be very glad to see Mr. Varian at once, if he were at liberty to come.
St. John looked rather pale as he kissed his sister good-night (for he
was not coming back, but going directly home to the rectory), and she
felt that his hand was cold.
"He is young for such experiences," she said to her mother, as she sat
down beside her sofa in the summer twilight.
"He doesn't seem young to me any longer," returned her mother.
"A few days such as this would make us all old," said Missy, with a
sigh, leaning her face down on her mother's arm. "Mamma, I am sure this
interview is very painful to St. John. I am sure he has been charged
with something to say to her husband, _by that poor soul_. How I wish it
weren't wrong to ask him what it was. But,"--with a sigh--"I suppose we
shall never know."
"Never, Missy. But we can be charitable. And when you are my age, my
child, you will be afraid to judge any one, and will distrust the sight
of your own eyes."
At this moment Miss Varian came lumbering into the room, leaning on the
arm of Goneril.
"I suppose," she said, not hearing the low voices, "that Missy is at her
nursery duties yet. Are you here, Dorla? I should think she might
remember that you might sometimes be a little lonely, while she is busy
in her new vocation."
Missy scorned to answer, but her mother said pleasantly: "Oh, she is
here; her babies have been asleep some time."
"I'm not surprised. I don't believe Gabby's grief has kept her awake.
That child has a heart like a pebble, small and hard. As to little Jay,
he has the constitution and the endowments of a rat terrier, nothing
beyond. I don't believe he ever will amount to anything more than a
good, sturdy little animal."
"He will amount to a big animal, I suppose, if he lives long enough,"
said Missy, with a sharp intonation of contempt.
"Well, not very, if he copies his father. Gabby has all the cleverness.
I should call Jay a dull child, as far as I can judge; dull of
intellect, but so strong and well that it gives him a certain force."
"Aunt Harriet!" cried Missy, impatiently, "can't you leave even
children alone? What have those poor little morsels done to you, that
you should defame them so?"
"Done? Oh, nothing, but waked me up from my nap this afternoon. And, you
know, deprived me and your mother of much of your soothing society for
the past two months."
"I haven't begrudged Missy to them," said her mother, affectionately,
drawing Missy's hand around her neck in the dimness. "I think the poor
little things have needed a friend for a long while, and, alas, they
need one now."
"It's my impression they're no worse off to-day than they were
yesterday. There is such a thing as gaining by a loss."
Mrs. Varian put her hand over Missy's mouth; Miss Varian, annoyed by not
being answered, went on with added sharpness:
"Goneril says the servants tell her all sorts of stories about the state
of things between master and mistress in the house next door. I am
afraid the poor man isn't to blame for snubbing her as he has done. They
say she--"
"Oh, my dear Harriet," said Mrs. Varian, keeping her hand on Missy's
lips, "don't you think it is a pity to be influenced by servants. It is
difficult enough to tell the truth ourselves, and keep it intact when it
goes through many hands; and I don't think that the ill-educated and
often unprincipled people who serve us, are able at all to judge of
character, and to convey facts correctly; do you? I don't doubt
two-thirds of the gossip among our servants is without foundation.
Imagine Goneril describing an interview between us; to begin with, she
would scarcely understand what we said, if we talked of anything but the
most commonplace things. She would think we quarreled, if we differed
about the characters in a novel."
"Goneril! She would not only misunderstand, but she would misstate with
premeditation and malice. That woman--" And on that perennial grievance,
the lady's wrath was turned, as her sister-in-law meant it should be,
and Missy's feelings were spared. She kissed her mother's hand secretly,
and whispered "thank you."
CHAPTER VII.
MISRULE.
Mrs. Andrews died late in August. Late in September, one afternoon,
Missy walked up and down at the foot of the lawn, and pondered deeply on
the state of things. That anything could go on worse than things went on
in the house next door, she felt to be improbable. That any children
could be more neglected, more fretted, more injudiciously treated, she
knew to be impossible. She did not mind it much that the servants
plundered their master, and that waste and extravagance went on most
merrily. But that her poor Jay should be reduced indeed to the level of
a rat terrier, by the alternate coaxing and thwarting of the low
creatures who had him in charge, was matter of different moment. It was
very bad for Gabrielle, of course. But Gabrielle was not Jay, and that
made all the difference. Still, even to save Gabrielle, Missy would have
made a good fight, if she had known what way to go to work. The children
were with her as much as ever; at least Jay was. Gabrielle was a little
more restless under restraint, and a good deal more unfathomable than a
month ago. She was intimate with one of the maids, and the Frenchman was
in love with this maid, and petted and joked with Gabrielle, who seemed
to carry messages between them, and to be much interested in their
affairs. She was more contented at home, and less often came to look
over Aunt Harriet's boxes of treasures and to be catechised by her as a
return.
As to Jay, he was passionate and stubborn, and Missy's heart was broken
by a fib he had just told her. The father came home at night, and
always, she believed, asked for the children, and when they could be
found, and made superficially respectable, they were brought to the
table for a little while. But Jay fell asleep sometimes, with his head
on the table-cloth, overcome with the long day's play. And Gabby, after
she had got a little money out of his pocket, and a little dessert off
his plate, preferred the society of the servants, and went away to them.
In the morning, they rarely breakfasted with him. They were some times
not up, and never dressed in time for that early meal. They took their
meals before or after the servants, as those dignitaries found most
convenient. Once, poor Jay wandered in hungry and cross at nine o'clock,
and told Missy he had had nothing to eat, and that Gabby was dancing for
the servants in the kitchen while they ate their breakfast. They made
such a noise, Jay said, they made his head ache, and he acknowledged to
kicking one of the women who wouldn't go and get him his breakfast, and
being put out from the festive scene in disgrace. He ate muffins and
omelette on Missy's lap, that morning, but it did not probably make the
other mornings any better. No one could advise anything. Mrs. Varian
could see no way out of it, and painful as it was, could suggest nothing
but patience. It was manifestly not their business to offer any
interference. St. John, his sister appealed to in vain. Except the
interview on the evening of the wife's death, and the few moments'
preceding the funeral services, there had been no communication between
them. St. John had called, but Mr. Andrews had been away from the house
at the moment. On Sundays, he did not go to church--on week days, he was
in the city. St. John told his sister, very truly, it would be
impertinence to force himself upon a person so nearly a stranger, and
she quite agreed with him. But Jay!
"Why isn't he my child, and why can't I snatch him up and run away with
him," she cried, tossing a handful of pebbles into the water and
wrapping her cloak closer around her as she walked away from the
beach-gate. She could not understand eloping with a man, but with her
tawny-haired mannikin she could have consented to fly, she felt.
It was a high September tide; the water was lapping against the wall,
the sky was blue, the wind was fresh. It was not yet sunset; she
suspected there were visitors in the house; a carriage had driven up to
the stable, from which she turned away her head, and which she resolved
not to recognize. Hastily following a path that led up to the little
wooded eminence that skirted the shore, she concealed her inhospitable
thoughts and was out of sight of the house. "I don't really know who
they were," she said to herself, when she was safe in the thicket. "So
many people have bay horses, and I did not see the coachman. And how
could I waste this glorious afternoon in the house? They will amuse Aunt
Harriet, and I could not be with mamma if I were entertaining them. I am
quite right in making my escape."
The little path was narrow and close; the thicket almost met above her
head. It was very still in there; the wind could not get in, and only
the sound of the waves, washing on the shore below, could.
"Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow--"
she sang in a low voice, as from a little child she had always sung, or
thought, as she passed along this tangled path. To be sure, it had the
disadvantage of being a low thicket of cedars, instead of a grove deep
and high. And the far billow was a near wave, and a small one at that.
But she had always had to translate her romance into the vernacular. She
had grown up in tame, pastoral green ways, in a home outwardly and
inwardly peaceful and unmarked; and her young enthusiasms had had to fit
themselves to her surroundings, or she should have been discontented
with them. A good deal of imagination helped her in this. She loved the
scenes for their own sakes, and for the sake of all the romance with
which they were interwoven. A sense of humor even did not interfere. She
laughed at herself as she grew older; but she loved the places just as
well, and went on calling them by their fictitious names.
Clouds of Michaelmas daisies bordered the path; purple asters crowded up
among the dead leaves and underbrush. She liked them all; and the dear
old path seemed sweeter and more sheltered to her than ever. Still, she
felt a care and an oppression unusual to her; she could not forget
little Jay, who was almost always at her side when she walked here. She
crossed the little bridge, that spanned what had been a "ravine" to her
in younger days; and climbing up the hill, stopped on the top of a sandy
cliff, crowned with a few cedars and much underbrush. Here was the blue
bay spread out before her; the neck of land and the island that closed
in the bay were all in bright autumn yellow and red. Sweet fern and
bayberry made the air odorous; the little purplish berries on the cedars
even gave out their faint tribute of smell in the clear, pure air. There
was a seat in the low branch of a cedar, just on the edge of the bank.
Here she sat down and tossed pebbles down the sandy steep, and thought
of the perplexing question--how to rescue Jay; and Gabby, too, in
parenthesis. Gabby was always in parenthesis, but she was not quite
forgotten.
Presently, on the still autumn atmosphere came the faint smell of a
cigar. At the same moment, the crashing of a man's tread among the dry
underbrush, in the opposite direction from whence she had herself come.
Before she had time to speculate on the subject, Mr. Andrews stood
before her, coming abruptly out of the thicket. He was as much
surprised as she, and perhaps no better pleased. It was impossible for
either to be unconscious of the last interview they had had just one
month ago. Mr. Andrews' complexion grew a little darker, which was an
indication that he was embarrassed, perhaps to find he was on the
Varian's land; perhaps that he was confronting a young woman who did not
approve of him; perhaps that he was confronting any young woman at all.
Who knows--these middle-aged men with thick skins may have sensibilities
of which no one dreams, and of which no one is desired to dream.
Miss Rothermel's ordinarily colorless cheeks were quite in a flame. She
half rose from her cedar seat, and then irresolutely sat down again. Mr.
Andrews threw away his cigar down the sand bank, and without looking
irresolute, possibly felt so, as he paused beside her. Her first word
sealed him in his resolution not to raise his hat and pass on, as he
would have done in an ordinary place. It was quite in character for her
to speak first.
"I didn't know you were in the country to-day," she said with
embarrassment. "You do not stay up very often, do you?"
Then she thought she couldn't possibly have chosen a remark more
personal and unwise. She did not like him to think she knew his habits,
and speculated about them. But here, she had told him the first thing.
"No," he said, "I do not stay up very often. I came home to-day in the
noon train to give the children a drive this afternoon; but I found when
I reached home, that they had gone off with the servants on a picnic.
Perhaps you knew about it? I own I was surprised."
"No," said Missy, flushing more deeply, "I did not know anything about
it, till they had gone away, and I disapproved it very much; not that I
have any right to approve or disapprove; but I am very fond of
Jay--and--and--oh, Mr. Andrews, I wonder if you would think it
unpardonable if I said something to you!"
Mr. Andrews may have doubted whether he should think what she had to say
very agreeable; but he was too gentlemanly to intimate it. She looked so
eager and interested, and it was all about his boy. So he said
indefinitely, that she was only too good to the children, and it was
impossible for him to think anything she said unpardonable.
Missy, with an underlying conviction that she was doing the precise
thing that she had made up her mind not to do--rushed on with a hurried
statement of the picnic facts; how Gabby had known the plan for two or
three days, and had closely guarded the secret; how provisions had been
put over night in the sail-boat, and the champagne carried down in the
early dawn; and how dear little Jay, carried away by the tide of
excitement, and tutored by the infamous maids, had actually told her a
falsehood, and explained to her the night before that she need not look
for him in the morning, for he should be in town all day with his papa,
who was going to take him to the dentist. Mr. Andrews uttered an
exclamation at this last statement, and ground his cane into the ground
at the root of the cedar-tree. "Poor little Jay," said Missy, looking
ready to cry. "Think what a course of evil he must have been put
through to have been induced to say that. Gabrielle I am not surprised
at. She isn't truthful. It doesn't seem to be her nature. I--I--didn't
mean to say that exactly."
"You needn't mind," said her companion, bitterly. "I am afraid it is the
truth."
"But Jay," said Missy, hurriedly, "is so sweet natured, and so clear and
honest, I can't think how they could have made him do it. It only shows
me how dreadful his temptations are, and how much he must go through
when he is at home."
"I don't see how it can be helped," said the father with a sort of
groan. "I can't be with them all the time; and if I were perhaps I
shouldn't mend the matter. I suppose they must take their chance like
others."
"Very well, if you are satisfied," she said stiffly.
"But I am not satisfied," he answered. "I should think I needn't assure
you of that. But I feel helpless, and I don't know what to do. I don't
want to part with the children just yet, you can understand that, no
doubt. And yet I don't see what arrangement I can make to improve their
condition at home. You must see it is perplexing."
"Will you let me tell you what to do," cried Missy, eagerly, twisting
her fingers together as she spoke.
"Gladly," he returned, looking down at her.
"Turn away every servant in your house." He looked blank and dismayed.
"They are as bad a lot as ever were brought together," she said. "They
are neither honest nor truthful, nor in any sense respectable. There is
not one of them that is worth trying to reform. I don't wonder you are
dismayed at the thought of change. Men do not know anything about such
things, naturally; take my word for it, you cannot keep them without
danger to your property, let alone your children."
"Are they worse than servants generally?" he said, helplessly. "I
thought they were always dishonest; mine have always been ever since I
have had a household."
"And we," said Missy, "have never had a dishonest servant in our house a
week."
"You have been very fortunate then."
"No," she said; "only we have had common prudence, and have looked after
them a little."
"Well," said Mr. Andrews, drawing a deep breath, "if I knew how to go to
work, I would get rid of them all. But I don't really know anything
about these matters."
"If it were in your business, you would know how to get rid of a
dishonest clerk, I suppose."
"Oh, yes, that is a different matter. I could easily deal with the men
in this case. But the women--well, really, you see it is uncomfortable.
And I don't know how to get rid of them, or where to get any better if I
do."
"Oh, that could be easily managed."
"Could it?" he said, earnestly. "Believe me, I would do anything
to--to--render the fate of my children less unfortunate."
There was a touch of feeling in his voice that softened Missy.
"I wish you would be resolute about this then, and make the change at
once. I could--mamma could tell you, perhaps, of good servants, and how
to manage. Believe me, it isn't so hard sending off servants and
getting new ones. I wish you were as angry with these as I am. You would
not find it hard."
Mr. Andrews smiled a little, but it was faintly, and he looked
perplexed.
"If I only knew what to do," he said again. "If you will tell me the
way, I will walk in it."
"Well, in the first place," said Missy, nothing loth, "I would take the
horses at once and drive over to Eel Creek, where I understand the
picnic party are, and capture the children--they may not get home till
midnight, for you see the wind is against them, and these men know
nothing about sailing. No doubt they meant to be home long before this
time, starting so early, but they are not in sight. I have been watching
for them. Then bring the children to our house; we will take care of
them till matters are settled. Then, you know, when the servants get
home, after being detected in such a scrape as this, they can expect
nothing but to be dismissed. I am sure they would be much surprised at
any other ending of the adventure, and they will take it very quietly."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of them, I believe," said Mr. Andrews, with a smile.
"Only I don't exactly know how to go about it. What have they done? What
shall I say to them? Is going on a picnic without permission sufficient
ground to dismiss them all at once?"
"The champagne is, and the claret--and the chickens--and the deceit--and
the children--and the sail-boat!" exclaimed Missy, rather incoherently.
"I suppose you are right," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh. "They may
well be glad to get off without any trouble."
"They may indeed. And if you call them together to-night, and speak
severely to them, and tell them to pack their trunks and leave by the
noon train to-morrow, they will think they have got off very easily."
"But what shall we do after they are gone?" asked Mr. Andrews,
despondently.
"Oh, that is easy enough!" cried Missy, starting up and taking the path
back to the house, her companion following her. "Mamma and I will take
care of the children for a few days, till you are all settled. And there
is an old servant of ours living in the village, who will go to you and
take charge of things till you get your servants. She is quite
capable--cooks well, and will do everything you need for a little while;
and it is easy enough to get a man to look after the horses for a day or
two, till you are suited with a coachman. One of the Rogers boys would
do very well; they are honest, good people, all of them, and need work
just now. They understand horses thoroughly; we had Tom ourselves for
awhile. You needn't be afraid of them."
"They couldn't possibly be worse than Michael. I am sure I don't know
how to thank you enough. The way really looks quite easy. But how about
the new women? where am I to look for them?"
"Well, it depends," said Missy, "on what sort of service you want. Now,
to be frank with you, Mr. Andrews, you have just twice as many servants
as you need. But maybe you like to have a great many; some people do. I
don't, you know. I can't bear to have a servant in the house who has no
_raison d'être_. Half your servants have no reasonable excuse for being
in your house, except that they want your money."
"I always wondered," said Mr. Andrews, humbly, "why we needed so many;
but there seemed no way of being comfortable with less."
"You see it is a small house," said Missy; "the work of keeping it in
order is not great. And in winter--but I don't suppose you mean to stay
in winter?"
"Yes, I mean to stay this winter. I think no place could be better for
the children, if I can get the proper people to take care of them."
"Well, then you want to get--first, a cook. I don't suppose you'll have
much company?"
"None, probably."
"Then you do not want a very pretentious one. A good plain cook--unless
you want a great many _entrées_ and great variety."
"Oh, as to that, I am thankful if I get three courses. The present cook
began bravely, but has been cutting me down steadily. Yesterday we had
no soup, and the day before, boiled rice and raisins for dessert."
"Oh," exclaimed Missy, indignantly, "that is an outrage, indeed! Well, I
think if you could be patient under that, you could get along with a
plain cook."
"Why must she be a plain cook?"
"Because," said Missy, artlessly, "if she is a plain cook and doesn't
understand _entrées_ and all that, she will help in the washing, and it
would be _such_ a blessing if you did not have to have a fourth woman in
the house."
Mr. Andrews looked bewildered, as he opened the gate for her to pass
out.
"You see," said Missy, apologetically, "it is such a silly thing to have
servants that you don't need. They are in each other's way in a small
house. You need a good plain cook, and a waitress, and let these two do
the washing and ironing. And then you need a nurse, or a nursery
governess, a quiet, nice person, who will do everything for the
children, including their mending. And then you need a coachman.
And--well, of course you'll know whether it will be comfortable or not
when you've tried it for a few weeks. But I am quite sure you will not
lack anything that you have now, except disorder."
"I am sure of it," said Mr. Andrews, submissively.
"The most important of all," said Missy, as they crossed the lawn, "is
the nurse--and I think I know the very person. I must ask mamma if she
does not think she would do very well. She lives a mile or two out of
the village; is a well brought up, well-educated girl, quite used to
work, and yet quite capable of teaching. She has such a quiet, steady
manner. I think her influence over the children would be so good. She
manages her own little brothers and sisters well, I have noticed.
Besides, she would probably come to you for very little more than the
wages of an ordinary servant."
Missy colored after she said this. It seemed quite absurd for her to be
economizing for her neighbor; but it was quite an involuntary action of
her thrifty mind.
"I beg your pardon," she said, confusedly. "It seems very officious, but
you know I can't help thinking it is a pity to spend money without
thought. Mamma laughs at me, but I can't help feeling annoyed at seeing
a great deal spent to save the trouble of a little thought. That is why
people go on multiplying servants, and paying whatever may be asked for
wages, because they do not want to give themselves the trouble of
thinking and planning about it."
"I think you are quite right," said Mr. Andrews. "And I beg you will not
imagine that my household extravagances are with intention. I have
always regretted that I could not have things managed differently, but I
could not find a way to do it."
This was dangerous ground, and Missy wished herself off it, particularly
as it was humbling to find herself on such familiar, counsel-giving
terms with this brutal husband; but, in truth, she had been quite
carried away by the near prospect of Having Her Own Way. She looked a
little confused, and was silent as they walked along. It did not seem to
be unnatural or uncomfortable to be silent with Mr. Andrews, who was
essentially a silent man. Just before they reached the house, she gave a
last look back towards the bay.
"I do not see them," she said, "they are not yet inside the harbor. I
should not wonder if you caught them before they start from Eel Creek.
Probably they were all day getting there."
"You are right, and I ought to hurry."
"You know the road to Eel Creek?"
"Well, yes, I think so; I am not quite sure, but probably I can find it.
I have a general idea."
"If there is any doubt, take one of our men with you."
"Thank you, that won't be necessary. I will inquire my way. Miss
Rothermel, you have been very good--I don't know how I can thank you
enough."
"Oh, as to that, don't thank me till you have got the other side of the
trouble. Only don't give out--"
"You are afraid of me," he said with a smile. "Well, I acknowledge I am
rather a coward, when it comes to the management of maid-servants. But I
will be firm."
They had now got to the steps that led into the summer parlor, and as
she turned to go up them, she gave a look at her companion, who was
lifting his hat and passing on. He looked so stalwart and so invincible,
that she believed he was anything but a coward, except where women were
concerned. Somewhere, however, there must be a loose scale in his armor.
He certainly was the sort of man tyrannized over easily by women.
"And yet," thought Missy, correcting the conviction, "in one case we
know he was a brutal tyrant. But no matter. Anything to rescue Jay." So
she gave him a pleasant smile, and told him they should wait tea for the
children, and went into the house, while he walked rapidly towards the
gate.
CHAPTER VIII.
A TEA TABLE TRUCE.
Two hours later, Mr. Andrews drove up to the door, in the darkness, with
a pair of sleepy children, and a pair of restless horses, and a coachman
feeling deeply the surreptitious claret and champagne. Missy, hearing
the turbulent voice of Jay, ran to the door, accompanied by Ann. The
bright light from the hall came flooding on the piazza as the door
opened, and Missy, reaching out her arms to take the sleepy boy from his
father, looked like a good angel, to his eyes. Gabby was following up
the steps and whimpering audibly.
"You will have your hands full, Miss Rothermel, I am afraid," he said
gloomily. "The children are very cross. But I am thankful that I took
your advice. The carouse was not nearly over. I believe the children
would have been drowned, if I had not gone for them. The creatures were
just embarking for the return voyage, all as drunk as lords. Heaven
knows what might have happened if they had got off. I ordered them on
shore, and put the sail-boat in charge of the man who lives near the
beach, and the wretches are to come home on foot. The walk may sober
them a little."
"Poor little Jay," cried Missy, hugging him. He slapped her, and then
began to roar with remorse and headache combined, and to throw himself
back and try to fall out of her arms. They were now in the hall. His
father, horrified, began to reprove him.
"Oh, don't," cried Missy, "poor little man. He is not responsible.
To-morrow morning he'll be all right. Come, Gabby, take off your hat,
child."
"I don't know what I should have done with them, if I had not had this
refuge," said Mr. Andrews, looking careworn indeed.
"Oh, that is nothing," said Missy cheerily; "we are so glad to have
them. And you, Mr. Andrews, mamma begs you will come in to tea."
"That will be impossible, I'm afraid; thank you very much," he said,
looking anxiously back towards the door, whence came the sound of
stamping horses, and an occasional mumbled ejaculation and a frequently
snapped whip. "I have to look after the horses, and this man."
"Let Peters do that," said Missy, bent on her own way. She had
determined to bury the hatchet and to have Mr. Andrews stay to tea. She
felt it was a gracious thing to do, though rather hard, and having made
up her mind to an act of magnanimity, objected to being thwarted.
"Mamma wants to see you," she said. "Besides, you have not had any
dinner, and you will not probably get any at home, unless you cook it
yourself. Let Peters go in and attend to the stable. It is the only
thing to do."
"Perhaps you are right," he said, irresolutely "Well, as you are so
kind, I will go home, and lock a few of the doors, and return in a
moment."
As he drove off, Missy heard him say a word or two to the coachman,
which convinced her he was not afraid of men servants, whatever he
might be of maid servants. Ann was sent to call Peters. Gabby, who was
really ill from over-eating and over-fatigue, was sent to bed in care of
Goneril. Jay, who pleaded to stay up to tea, was allowed to lie on the
sofa beside the fire, and get warmed after his long exposure to the
night air. Missy covered him with an afghan, and kneeling down beside
him, had just seen his eyes close in unconquerable sleep, when Mr.
Andrews came in. He was half way across the room before her mother's
"Missy!" started her to her feet. "Oh, I beg your pardon; I did not hear
you. Mamma, let me present Mr. Andrews."
Mrs. Varian half rose from her sofa, and Mr. Andrews thought her lovely
and gracious, as every one else did. He bowed to Miss Varian; and, no
doubt, he thought they were all angels, as indeed he was excusable for
thinking, coming from the dark and hopeless tangle of his own house. The
cheer of the fire and the lamp, the odor of the flowers, the grace of
the woman who had arisen to welcome him, the kindness of the one who had
been kneeling beside his little outcast, the air of order, luxury,
peace, all filled him with a sense that he had been living in another
world, on the other side of the arbor-vitæ hedge. He was, as has been
said, a silent man, and one of those straightforward men who never seem
to think that they need to speak when they have nothing to say. He was
not silent from shyness, but from simplicity of motive, from a native
honesty; consequently, his silence was not oppressive, but natural.
To-night, however, there was much to say. There were the details of the
broken-up camp at Eel Creek, the various stages of hilarity and
depression among the servants, the danger of the children, the
probabilities of a slow march, the ludicrous side of the coming midnight
court-martial. When they were ready to go in to tea, Missy stayed behind
for an instant to tuck Jay's afghan about him and put a chair beside
him, and to feel whether his pulse was quick. "Bless him," she
whispered, giving him a kiss, "better days are coming."
The tea table was as graceful and pretty as possible; the things to eat
rarely good, and Mr. Andrews, poor man, had been fasting all day. He
despised lunch, and he hadn't had any chance to get a dinner; so no
wonder he appreciated the tea that was set before him. Miss Varian was
in a good humor, and quite sharp and witty, and whatever Mrs. Varian
said, was always gracious and delightful. Miss Rothermel had enough to
do to pour out the tea, and she was quite satisfied with the march of
events, including Mr. Andrews' appetite, and the complexion of the
waffles. She thought of the soupless dinner he had mentioned, and of the
alms-house provision of boiled rice and raisins, and she felt for a
moment, what bliss to keep house for a man with such an appetite and no
ascetic tendencies. St. John was a continual trial to her. But then she
checked herself sharply, and thought how deceitful appearances were, and
how cruel had been the lot of the woman who had kept house for him, till
alas, a month ago exactly. It was a bitter commentary on her fate, that
he was able to enjoy broiled oysters so unblushingly within thirty days
of his bereavement. Happily, behind the tea-kettle, Missy's dark frown
was hidden; but she soon threw it off; she had made up her mind to be
amiable for this one evening, and she would not break her resolution.
After tea, when they were again around the parlor fire, St. John came
in. The sight of him changed the expression of the guest's face; the
care-worn look came back, and a silence. Before very long, he said,
rising, that he must go home, and make ready for the reception of the
criminals. This was plainly a thing that ought to be done, and Mrs.
Varian had been thinking so for half an hour. St. John went with him to
the door, and Missy heard Mr. Andrews say, as they parted on the piazza:
"I have wanted to see you. I hope you don't think that, because our
interview was what it was, I shrink from further acquaintance. Perhaps
_I_ should have gone to you, and said this. I hope you will take it now.
You can understand how hard it is for me to say this."
"I do understand," said St. John earnestly; "and I hope that the painful
association will not interfere with our future intercourse. Perhaps _I_
should have gone to _you_, and said this."
She lost what followed--an irreparable loss. She had been standing at
the window, which was open, behind the curtain, and could not have
helped hearing what they said.
"Rather a high and mighty penitent," she said to herself, indignantly,
going over his words in her mind. "And St. John is so young, and
so--well, I am afraid he's weak. It is natural for people to be weak
when they are young. He seemed only anxious to propitiate him. I suppose
he hopes in that way to get an influence over him. Of course, it must be
hard to stand up against a man of double his own age; but I should
think being a priest would give him courage."
At this time, Jay woke up, and, in taking him to bed, she missed St.
John's return to the parlor, and the remainder of his visit. "Mamma,
what do you think of him?" she said, sitting down beside her mother's
sofa late that night.
"I rather like him," was the answer.
"Yes, if one could forget everything. I think he is gentlemanly, and
unobjectionable in manner--almost pleasing. But I suppose I ought not to
forget what I know of his cruel neglect, and of the almost tragic end of
it."
"Of course, that seems terrible--but--"
"But, mamma!" cried Missy, "I scarcely expected you to say that. Oh, how
true it is, women are cruel to each other. Think--you know nothing in
favor of Mr. Andrews. Everything in his disfavor: nothing against Mrs.
Andrews: everything in her favor, and yet you say, 'I rather like him;
all this is very terrible--_but_--'"
"Well, you know I had never seen the wife. You are influenced by
admiration for her. I am influenced by something that attracts me in the
husband. We really, Missy, do not know much of the lives of either of
them."
"I know that she was neglected, left alone. That for days together she
never saw her husband. That his manner, on receiving the news of her
death, was more stolid and indifferent than mine would have been on
being told of the sudden and suffering death of a total stranger. I know
that she hated, feared him. And she was impulsive, quick, and probably
warm-hearted."
"Probably, Missy? Well, I don't want to wound you--but--but her children
did not seem very dear to her."
"Mamma, when one is suffering as she was, naturally, to an undisciplined
nature, life centers where the suffering is. You cannot think of
anything else. You just cry out, and bend your mind upon getting through
with your pain as best you may, unless you have learned the higher
lesson, which of course I know she hadn't. She had not in any sense
learned the uses of her sufferings; I don't deny that. But who heaped
those sufferings upon her? Who failed to make her better, if she was not
perfect, child as she was, compared with him? Think of the difference in
their ages. Oh, it makes me bitter to think of it. No, nothing can
excuse him, nothing."
"It is hard to say that. Wait till we know both stories."
"Those we never shall know. She can't tell us any more of hers, poor
soul, and he never will, you may be sure. Or, if he did, I should not
feel bound to believe him. I assure you, I am not impressed with him as
you are."
"He seems very tender towards his children."
"Yes, tender, but weak and irresolute. Possibly a little remorseful; we
don't know how long this will last. He is undoubtedly sorry he broke
their poor mother's heart, as sorry as such a stout, stolid thing can
be, and he doesn't want the children to be drowned by the servants, or
taught to swear or steal, just now, at any rate. He is willing to second
our efforts to save them. He will not oppose us, at any rate. You must
acknowledge it wouldn't look well, if he did."
"Now, Missy, you are uncharitable."
"No, mamma; you are over-charitable; this plausible gentleman has so
worked upon you. Really I--I hate him. I always have, and your taking
him up so only increases my aversion."
"Excuse me. My taking him up is imaginary."
"Oh, no, mamma, believe me, you have taken his side, unconsciously to
yourself. And, equally unconsciously, you have, from the very first, set
yourself against her, and deplored my infatuation. I have always seen
it."
"I confess that some things you told me prejudiced me against her. I
felt that her personal attraction must be great to make you overlook
them."
"You mean her telling me things against her husband, even as early as
our first interview."
"And her indifference to her children, Missy, and her great egotism."
"I can understand, mamma, how this would strike you. I am quite sure if
you had known her, you would not have wondered, or blamed; you would
only have pitied. She spoke to me because she saw my friendship, and
because, poor soul, she had seen no one but the servants for weeks or
months. I shouldn't have wondered if she had told me her whole history
the first time that I saw her."
"But she never did tell you her whole history, Missy. You know nothing
of it really, notwithstanding all the time you spent with her."
"And that you find against her! Really, mamma, you are hard to please.
You reproach her for telling me so much, and you distrust her because
she did not tell me more."
"Vague accusations, and complaints of injustice are easily made, Missy.
I should think we were in a better position to judge of matters, if you
had ever had a plain story of her life and its wrongs given to you."
"I wish, for your sake, that I had; but perhaps it was more noble in her
to die without doing it. I am afraid, mamma, we shall never think alike
about this. But if you can't sympathize with me, at least do not try me
by too much approbation of this man. I will bear anything in reason; but
if you and Aunt Harriet and St. John all continue to pay homage to him
as you did to-night, I shall think it rather trying."
"Oh, as to that, I think we were only civil; and you were quite as
amiable as we--which, my dear, you must continue to be, if you hope to
keep any hold over Jay's fate. Poor little fellow! do not, by an
unnecessary show of rancor, throw him back into the arms of Alphonsine
and Bridget."
"That is the only thing," said Missy, crossing the room to fasten the
window for the night. "I mean to get my own way about him; and I only
hope it will not involve speaking many more words, good or bad, to his
father."
CHAPTER IX.
THE SWEETS OF VICTORY.
The next morning a little note came from Mr. Andrews. It was addressed
to Missy.
"Dear Miss Rothermel--
"The woman named Alphonsine is very penitent, and begs to stay. Do
you think I might allow her?
Very truly yours,
"JAMES ANDREWS."
Missy dashed off a reply on the other side of his sheet of paper in
pencil.
"Don't keep her on any account. She is the worst of them all.
A.R."
As Missy twisted this up and handed it to the messenger, Mrs. Varian
rather anxiously asked to see it. "Don't you even put it in an
envelope?" she said glancing over the meagre slip. "Your notes are
generally so nice; this doesn't look like you, and is hardly civil."
"Business is business," said Missy, twisting it up again, and going out
to give it to the messenger. "I don't think it is worth while to waste
monograms and London paper on such matters as these."
"What sudden thrift! Where are the children?"
"I am going to look for them," said Missy, drawing on her gloves. "I
want to get them out of the way, and keep them safe, till the hegira is
over. I haven't much faith in Mr. Andrews' having the nerve to do it;
but perhaps I don't do him justice. If they are not all got off by the
noon train to-day, I shall know it will never be done."
Missy carried the children out with her in the pony-wagon; she even took
Mr. Andrews' intentions to be so probable of execution, that she went
two or three miles inland to see the woman whom she had fixed upon in
her own mind, as the successor to Alphonsine in the care of the
children. She even stopped at the tin-man's, in the village, to get the
address of a good substantial cook, whom she knew to be out of place,
who had a settled reputation for bread-baking, and an honorable record
in the matter of soup. She did not say for whom she wanted her--she was
a little ashamed of taking it for granted, that her advice would be
acted upon. All the same, it was as well to be prepared. She even drove
to a house in one of the bye-streets of the village, to see if a certain
Ellen, whose black eyes and white aprons had always met her approval,
was still out of a situation. All these were at her command--cook,
waitress, and nurse. It was fascinating to have everything go so smooth.
How delightful to have your own way; how heavenly to make people carry
out your plans. Through it all there ran one little thread of doubt as
to the steadfastness of Mr. Andrews; this only gave the matter zest. She
felt as if it were quite a stirring little vaudeville; it wasn't worth
while to make tragedy out of it, and get angry if she were
disappointed--but altogether she liked it. She liked driving about with
her brisk little pony on a bright September morning like this, doing her
errands, giving her orders, having people come out smiling to their
gates to speak to her. She liked all this, even when it was only her own
errands she did, and her own ordinary housekeeping that she looked out
for. It was a pleasure to secure the best butter and the freshest eggs,
and to drive to pretty, cool-looking farm-houses for them; to go for
cornmeal and graham flour just ground, to a romantic-looking old mill by
the edge of the woods, where the drip of the water and the shade of the
trees made a perpetual cool. People who had things to sell were always
glad to see her, for she bought a great many things and paid a good
price for them. She was often called upon for favors and for advice, and
this pleased her. The sight of the pretty little carriage was a signal
for many an inhabitant of farm-house or village, to come out to the
roadside and have a consultation with the young lady who drove it. She
was a favorite, and it is pleasant to be important--and to have your own
way. She generally had hers, even about other people's matters, for it
was a very good way, and a good way presented in such a manner as was
convincing. Of course, she had her disappointments; the clam-man's
daughter did, on one occasion, marry the scallop-man's son, against her
advice--but they came to such speedy grief, that it more than consoled
her. The miller's wife was not willing, last Spring, to listen to reason
about her butter, and so had lost all market for it among the people who
paid high prices, and had to carry it, finally, to the "store," and take
what she could get for it. Missy lost the butter, but she had the
satisfaction of knowing, that the next year her advice would be promptly
taken. All these things were sweet to her, but how much sweeter it was
to be feeling that she was managing completely a household in which she
had no legitimate business to interfere; that she was putting to rout a
troop of worthless servants who had opposed her, and ill-treated her
darling Jay. Above all, that she was making a very weak-kneed master
stand firm. Oh, if she could be sure that he _would_ stand firm! It was
this doubt, that made her feel as if it were all genteel comedy, and
really quite exciting.
The children were pretty good that morning, notwithstanding the orgies
of the night before. Gabrielle was subdued and a little ashamed, and
Jay's memory was not burdened with any remorse, nor had he missed his
sleep, nor omitted to make a very good breakfast in his new quarters. He
was burly and jolly and good as ever. He liked the drive, and the stops,
and the fresh cool breeze, and the bright September sunshine, and the
holding the whip in his hand.
The roadside was bright with golden-rod and purple asters, the Virginia
creeper was turning red on the fences and over the trees where it had
flung itself; catbrier, shining and glossy, cedar dark and dusky, sumach
red and brown, all in mat and tangle of the luxuriant summer's growth,
clothed the banks that edged the road. Jay stretched out his hand to
catch the bright leaves when they passed near them; the bottom of the
carriage was filled with branches of red leaves, with bunches of
Michaelmas daisies and asters already withering in the sun.
Missy looked at her watch; it was just noon. Her heart beat high. They
were on the road that led to the station. If the servants were sent off
by the midday train, they must meet them in the course of a few
moments. She now began to doubt whether it had not all fallen through.
It was impossible to say how she despised Mr. Andrews when she thought
it might be that he had given in. Every rod of road they passed over
added to this conviction. She looked at her watch again. If they did not
meet them within five minutes there was no further hope.
"What's the matter, Missy; why do you pull the pony so?" said Jay,
looking up into her face. They were going down a hill, where the road
was narrow, deep and sandy. At this moment they heard the lumbering, and
caught sight of a heavy vehicle coming up the hill towards them.
"It's the stage!" cried Gabby, growing interested. "And there's Léon,
and there's Bridget, and there's Alphonsine, and all of 'em."
Jay at this news set up a great shout, and started to his feet.
"Sit down, Jay," cried Missy; "don't you see there isn't room for the
stage to pass. I tell you to be quiet." Missy had her hands full in
managing Jay, and getting the pony out of the road, with his head up
into the bushes. This was the only part of the narrow road where they
could pass, so she had to draw up on one side, and wait while the heavy
stage crawled up the hill. The information was soon telegraphed through
the gloomy ranks, which presented a sullen front. The stage was driven
by one Moses, who had always driven it since any one could remember. He
sat bent up like a bow, with years of long and lazy driving; his hat
pushed a little back on his head. He nodded indifferently to Missy. It
was all he did to any one, so no one could complain. Beside him sat
Léon, dark and scowling; behind them sat Michael, red and wrathful;
behind him again, the dismissed cook, laundress, nurse, and last of all,
Alphonsine. It was the wreck of a household, indeed. Missy felt a
momentary elation when she saw them all together. She had not realized
how many there were, before, and to what a complete rout she had put
them. It was rather awkward, drawing up by the roadside, and having them
all pass in review before her, as it were; but it could not be
helped--the condition of a Long Island road never can be helped. A heavy
wagon, driven by one of the sons of Moses, the stage-driver, filled with
the trunks of the departing servants, crawled on after the stage. The
boy was rather rakish-looking; he sat on one of the trunks and smoked a
very bad cigar, which he was not at the pains to remove from his mouth
when he approached the lady. She glanced quickly at the trunks, and a
wandering wish passed through her mind that she might see the inside of
them, and estimate roughly the degree to which the master had been
plundered. She cast her eyes down after this, or only allowed them to
rest on her pony, who did not like being crowded up into the bushes, and
did not stand quite still. It is very possible that all might have gone
well, if Jay could have behaved himself decently; but his old wrath
returned when he saw Michael, and saw him from a friend's side.
"Hurrah!" he shouted, getting on his feet on the seat. "Hurrah! You have
got sent away, and it was because you got drunk, and was bad yesterday,
and I am glad of it, I am."
Michael was too angry and too much the worse for the last night's
revel, to control himself. "You little devil," he cried, and shook his
fist at the boy.
Even then, if the boy could have been subdued, it is possible that the
habit of decent silence before their betters, would have kept them all
quiet till they were out of hearing of the party in the pony carriage.
They all knew or suspected that Missy was their enemy, but she was
dignified, and no word had ever broken their habit of respect to her.
She flushed up and tried to keep Jay quiet, and did not look towards the
stage, now floundering through the sand alongside. But she had also the
pony to keep under, and he required both hands. Jay did not like to be
called a little devil, and there was no one to stop him, except by
counsel, which he did not ever much regard; he made a dash with the
whip, and lurching forward, struck towards Michael with all his small
might. The end of the lash, fine and stinging, reached that person's
red, and sun-scorched cheek.
"I'll teach you to call me little devil," cried Jay, as he dealt the
blow.
A howl of rage escaped the man, though it must have hurt him very
little. He made a spring for Jay. The stage was going so slowly it was
not difficult for him to leap from it and land beside the little
carriage. Moses pulled up, much interested. Moses' son, behind, pulled
up, interested quite as much. Michael caught the boy with a fierce hand.
Missy leaned forward, exclaiming, "Don't touch the child. I forbid you.
Don't touch him, unless you want to get yourself in trouble!"
A chorus of indignation burst from the crew in the stage. Michael,
backed by this, shook the child fiercely in her very lap, boxed his
ears, with one brutal hand after the other, and then hurled him back
upon her, and swung himself into the stage again. A shower of coarse and
horrid words assailed poor Missy's ears, as she caught him in her
disengaged arm. It had never been her luck before to be assailed by an
Irish tongue, loosed from the decency of servitude. She had never had
"words" with any of her mother's servants. This was quite a new
experience. She was white to her fingers' ends. Jay did not cry. He was
white too. Not cowed, but overpowered by brute strength, and stunned by
the blows he had got. Missy never knew exactly what they said; some
horrid words always stuck in her memory, but it was all a confused
hideous jumble besides. The women's tongues were the worst, their voices
the shrillest, the things they said the ones that stuck in the memory
most. Moses was so interested he sat open-mouthed and gazed and
listened. His son, infinitely delighted, gazed and listened too. At
last, Missy found voice to say, above the general babel:
"Moses, will you drive on, and let me pass? You will lose the train if
you don't go at once."
This recalled to him the fact that he had the mail-bag at his feet, and
losing the train meant losing the patronage of the Government of the
United States.
"By Jingo, that's a fact!" said Moses, gathering up the reins, and
calling out "gee-up" to the lean horses, who had been very glad to rest.
The stage lumbered on, and left the pony-carriage free to move, after
the baggage-wagon should have passed. But the baggage-wagon was driven
by Moses' son, and he had no desire to shorten or renounce the fun. He
did not carry the United States mail. He was probably not unfamiliar
with Billingsgate, and was not shocked, only pleasantly excited, by the
language employed. He even hurrahed a little, and laughed, and struck
his hands upon his knees, as Jay was pitched back into the carriage,
white and silenced. He liked a fight exceedingly, he did--any kind of a
fight.
As the stage moved on, and the viragoes leaned back and shook their
fists at the little carriage, and the two men roared back their
imprecations at it, he had not the heart to move on, and let the pony
out into the road. He knew how the little beast would dash away out of
sight down the hill, under Miss Rothermel's whip; they would be out of
hearing in a second. No, he couldn't do a thing like that. It wasn't in
him to spoil a fight. He laughed, and threw himself astride of the
trunk, but didn't touch the reins, and didn't stir a step aside from
blocking up the road. So it was that Missy got the full force of the
parting maledictions; so it was that she got the full tide of Irish,
mixed with the finer-grained shafts of French invective; so it was that
she knew that Alphonsine had read the little note that she had sent in
that morning to the relenting master, and that she was assured that she
had made an enemy for life.
"We'll be aven wid ye yet!" cried Bridget.
"Mademoiselle shall hear from the 'worst of them all' again," sneered
Alphonsine, darting a malignant look at her, from under her dark brows.
Then, and not till then, did the young driver of the luggage-wagon
"gee-up" to his horses and move on, puffing the smoke from his
villainous cigar into the faces of the pony-carriage party, as he passed
them, and looking infinitely content as he jolted on. He was not aware
that he had done anything insolent or malicious. He did not know that
the smell of his cigar, and the keen amusement of his look, had been the
last, and perhaps most cutting, of the insults she had received. These
wretches who had just disappeared from her presence were strangers and
foreigners, so to speak; but this low boy represented her home, her
village, her place of influence. Poor Missy! that was a bitter hour. Her
vaudeville was ending in a horrid rout and rabble; she was sore and sick
with the recollection of it. She had been dragged through the mud on the
field where she had felt sure of triumph. What was the triumph, compared
to the mud? She had succeeded in having them sent away; but they had
humiliated her, oh! most unspeakably. The degradation of having to
listen to such words, and to sit, impotent and silent before them, while
they raged and reviled her!
The pony dashed down the hill. They were out of sight of the place of
their defeat in a moment of time; but she felt as if never, never could
she get out of sight of their leering faces, out of hearing of their
horrid words.
When they were at the bottom of the hill and had turned into the main
road, Jay began to recover from the shock and fright, and to tremble and
cry. Gabrielle never took her eyes off Missy's face; she was full of
speculation, but such experiences were not as new to her as to Missy.
She, however, remembered, almost as well as Missy did, all those
insolent words, and, though not understanding them fully, kept them in
mind, and interpreted them in the light of events.
"Don't cry, Jay," Missy said mechanically. But she was so shaken she
could scarcely speak. She wanted to get home and think it over; to get
out of day-light, to get breath and recover her voice again, and her
self-respect, her power of feeling herself a lady.
Jay's continued crying tortured her; Gabby's eyes on her face angered
her. She was trembling all over. She had not made up her mind about
anything, only that everything was horrid and degrading, and that she
wished she had never seen or heard of any of the name of Andrews--even
little Jay.
As they approached the gate she saw that Mr. Andrews was walking slowly
up and down before his house, evidently watching for them. She tried to
drive quickly and pass him with a bow, but he came up beside them as
they passed through the gate, and she had to pull up the pony and go
slowly. He walked beside the carriage and took Jay's hand, which was
stretched out to him.
"Well, I've got them all off," he said, with a sigh of relief.
"We saw 'em all," cried Gabby, always glad to impart information. "We
saw 'em all; and, oh, such a time as we have had!"
"Michael beat me, and beat me," burst out Jay, quite broken down at the
thought of being sympathized with.
"And, oh, the things they said to Missy!" exclaimed Gabby.
"And he called me a little devil, and I'll kill him!" cried Jay,
beginning to sob.
While these side-lights were being thrown upon the occurrence, Mr.
Andrews looked anxiously at Missy, who was growing red and white, and
trembling very visibly.
"Be silent, children," he said impatiently. "You have had some trouble,
Miss Rothermel, I am afraid."
By this time they had reached the house; Missy threw down the reins,
which Mr. Andrews caught.
"I hope nothing has happened to distress you," he said.
She did not wait to give Jay to his father, but getting out very
quickly, and not noticing the hand that he offered her, said, in a voice
not very steady, "I don't want to talk about it. It makes me ill to
think of it. Call Peters, won't you, to take away the pony," ran up the
steps and disappeared into the house. In another minute she would have
cried.
He took the children out and drove the pony up to the stable. The
children followed him, and he spent half an hour with them on the beach,
trying to extract from them the history of the morning. It was rather
difficult to get at the facts, but he got at enough to make him feel
much disturbed in mind. The servant soon came down to take the children
in to dinner, and to ask him to come in, too. But this he declined,
wisely judging that his presence would not be very welcome now. He went
back to his empty house, put the key in his pocket, and drove down to
the village inn to get something to eat.
Late in the afternoon he went back to Mrs. Varian's, to ask for the
counsel which had been before so freely offered him. He felt quite
helpless, and could not move a step in reconstructing his household till
he had been told what to do. The afternoon was quite clear, and since
the sun had set, the fire on the hearth in the library looked very
cheerful. The servant let him into that room. There he found the
children playing together a game of checkers, and Goneril watching them.
Ann went up-stairs to summon Miss Rothermel, but returned presently to
say that Miss Rothermel was lying down with a severe headache, and
begged that Mr. Andrews would excuse her. Miss Varian, who was in the
adjoining parlor, dozing in a big arm-chair, roused at the sound of
voices, and called to Goneril to come and lead her into the library. It
was always an amusement to have a visitor, and she asked Mr. Andrews to
sit down again, which he was very ready to do--his own house at present
being a very uncheerful place to sit down in. She chatted briskly with
him, and praised the children liberally. This surprised the children,
who stopped their game to listen. They were much more used to hearing
themselves scolded by Miss Varian. Then she came to the condition of his
household, and asked him many questions. He was obliged to be very
frank, and to tell her that he had sent the servants all away, according
to Miss Rothermel's advice, and that now he was waiting further orders.
"Well, it's too bad," cried Miss Varian, with a laugh. "Missy has got
you into this fix, and she's bound to help you out of it. I won't hear
to her going to bed, and leaving you to starve. Why, what a predicament
you're in! Where did you get your dinner?"
Mr. Andrews said he had had a very fair meal at the hotel, and seemed
anxious to make the best of his position. "But who milks the cows, and
takes care of things at the stable? Horses can't be locked up like
chairs and tables."
"Oh!" answered Mr. Andrews, "Peters has found a very decent man for me.
I feel quite satisfied about the horses and cows; and if it were not for
imposing these children upon you, I should not be in any trouble about
the house. It's more comfortable now than it has been for some time, I
assure you."
"All the same," said Miss Varian, "there is no sense in your being kept
in this unsettled state, just because Missy chooses to set up a
headache. It's a new thing for her; she isn't the kind of young woman
that goes to bed with a headache whenever she's put out. It's a wonder
to me what has happened to disturb her. She was well enough at
breakfast, but wouldn't come down to her dinner. I never knew her to
stay away from dinner for a headache, or any such nonsense before.
Goneril shall go up and see why she can't come down."
"I beg you won't take any trouble about it," said Mr. Andrews, much
disturbed. "I am sure she is ill, she looked very pale. I would not have
her annoyed for anything. If it is not asking too much of you all, to
bear with the children, I will try to get some kind of a household
together to-morrow. I have no doubt I could hear of some one in the
village, or I could go to the city in the morning and get some at an
office."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Miss Varian, fervently. "That would break Missy's
heart, for she has been longing to get these creatures away. And you
wouldn't be likely to get any better. You know men are always imposed
upon."
"That is true," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh.
"Missy went to see about a cook this morning," put in Gabrielle, who had
renounced her game and crept up to hear the talking. "And a waitress
too. She said she had heard of a place for them, but she didn't say
where. Maybe it was for you, papa."
"Maybe," said her father, absently.
"Alphonsine said in the stage this morning that she seemed to take a
great interest in your affairs, you know."
"Hush!" said her father, with emphasis.
"How's that? Who's Alphonsine? Your nurse? And what did she say?" asked
Miss Varian, with keen interest.
"Some impertinence of the servants after they were sent away, I
suppose," said Mr. Andrews, threatening Gabrielle with a look.
"Did Missy hear it?" asked Miss Varian, persisting.
"Papa says I mustn't tell," returned Gabrielle, hesitating.
"Oh," said Miss Varian, sharply. "It is always well to obey one's
father."
"Gabrielle makes a great deal out of a very little," said Mr. Andrews,
suppressing his annoyance. "She has had the misfortune to be a great
deal thrown upon the care of servants. I shall be glad to get her into
different ways."
"She ought to be sent to boarding-school," said Miss Varian.
"I am afraid you are right; I must look about for a school for her in
the course of the next few months."
Gabrielle gave Miss Varian a very bitter look, but Miss Varian was none
the worse for that. Mr. Andrews now arose to go, but Miss Varian
protested he should not go till Missy had sent down the addresses of the
persons she had recommended.
"I won't have you kept in such a state for anybody's caprice," she said,
sending Goneril up with a message. And then Mr. Andrews knew that Miss
Varian did not love her step-niece.
"Missy is very fond of managing," she said. "She must understand she
can't lay down the reins whenever she chooses. She must carry out what
she undertakes."
Goneril was gone a very long time, it seemed to Mr. Andrews; he really
thought he was having a great deal of petticoat government. If it were
not for the two children, he would have got clear of the whole sex, he
thought. He would have taken bachelor apartments, and had not even a
chamber-maid. He would have gone to a club for his meals, and not have
spoken to a woman from year's end to year's end. But there was poor
little Jay, with his tawny hair all unkempt, and his saucy sister with
her sash ends in a tangle; for their sakes he must be grateful to these
kind and dictatorial friends. Certainly he could not do without women
while he had those two to care for. He must get used to women, he
supposed; get to be half a woman himself; learn how to keep house; be a
perfect Betty. He groaned, patiently, while Miss Varian kept up a brisk
talk about his matters.
At last Goneril came back. Goneril was much interested in his matters
too. She was so much interested, and so zealous, that he was quite
abashed. He wondered how many more women would be needed to put his
affairs _en train_. Goneril was a very tall, well-built woman, with an
energetic tread. She had her own views on most matters, and was not
withheld from uttering them by any false delicacy about a menial
position. Wasn't she the daughter of an American farmer? So, when she
came down to deliver Miss Rothermel's message, she added many of her own
observations to the message, and quite bewildered Mr. Andrews. He did
not know which was the original text, and which the comment on it; and
Miss Varian's cross-fire did not render matters simpler.
"Here's the names of the persons Miss Rothermel was speaking of,"
Goneril said, giving him the paper; "and the places where you'll find
'em. But my opinion is, you'll have your trouble for your pains, if you
go hunting up Melinda Larkins. She'll never come to you. She won't
undertake to live in a family where there isn't anybody to look after
things. Things go wrong in every house, more or less; but where there's
only Help, the troubles are laid to the wrong door, and you never know
what you'll be accused of."
"That is," said Miss Varian, sharply, "bad as a mistress is, it's worse
without a mistress."
"I don't know anything about mistresses," retorted Goneril, with a toss
of the head. "People that you live with may call themselves anything
they like. That don't make 'em so. They might call themselves em-presses
and prin-cesses, but it wouldn't make 'em so."
"And servants might call themselves Help, but that wouldn't make them
so. As long as they draw their wages for the work they do, they are
servants, and nothing more nor less than servants."
Poor Mr. Andrews felt as if he had got into a very hot fire, and as if,
somehow, he were guilty of having lighted it.
"I ought to be going to see about these--persons--I suppose; if I can
get them to-night it will be all the better," he said, rising, while the
discussion about titles was still raging.
"Well, you won't get anybody on such short notice that's worth having,"
Goneril interrupted herself to say. "Melinda Larkins wouldn't think of
taking a place, without going over to the island to see her folks about
it. She has some self-respect, if she is obliged to live out."
"If she is obliged to go into service, you mean," said Miss Varian.
"There won't be much difficulty about your getting her, Mr. Andrews, I
am sure. All these people are very poor, and will do anything for
money."
"Money isn't everything," began Goneril; but Mr. Andrews had got to the
hall.
"I can but go and see about them," he said, as he made his bow.
He heard a rage of tongues as he closed the door. He felt as if the
flames were shooting out after him and scorching his very eyebrows.
He drew a long breath when he was out of hearing of the house, and under
the trees in the night air. What bliss a world without women would be.
Here he was embroiled with three, after his brave fight of the morning
too, which should have won him their applause. There was no pleasing
them, and their tongues--their tongues. Pleased or displeased, he asked
nothing better than to get away from them. He thought for a rash moment
that he would steal Jay and go away with him to some monastery, and
leave Gabby to her fate. But, poor little Gabby, he was sorry for her,
even if she did love to impart information and to make mischief. Yes, he
must stay by them, poor little mites, and try to help them out of their
dismal plight. So he went to the stable, and saddled his horse, and
threw a severe order or two to the decent man, of whom he was not
afraid.
Then he rode into the jaws of fate, to see Melinda Larkins, who couldn't
make up her mind in a minute; to see the one proposed as nursery maid,
who wasn't in; to see the waitress, who asked him a great many questions
that he couldn't answer. "What part of the wash would be hers? What
evening could she have? Who was to get tea Sunday when the cook was out?
Was there to be a regular dinner for the children in the middle of the
day, and a regular dinner again at night?"
To all these questions, and many more as puzzling, Mr. Andrews could
give no well considered answer. He felt the necessity of appearing to
know a little about the ordering of his household; his dealings with men
had taught him that ignorance is fatal to authority, and strangely and
sadly as the sexes differed, there must be some general points of
resemblance. It would not do to let this trim young creature, with her
black eyes and her white apron, respectful as yet, standing at the gate
in an attitude of attention, know that he had never known who did the
wash in his house, or whether there was a regular dinner in the middle
of the day, or whether the cook ever went out, or how many evenings
belonged to the waitress. He said rather lamely that he had only come to
see if she were disengaged; he had not time to talk these details over.
If she were at liberty, she might come the next mor
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