TThat evening, however, a little incident occurred which made it difficult, nay, even impossible, to send the papers home with their leaves uncut. After tea, Missy hurried out, buttoning a sack on, and looking carefully around to see that she was not followed by neighborly notice. It had been a warm and lovely day; May was melting into June; the evening was perfect, the sun not quite below the hills as yet. Missy went across the lawn; the tide was high, and there was little wind. She pulled in the anchor of a little boat that rocked on the waves, and stepping in, took the oars and pushed out. No one was looking; Mr. Andrews was no doubt taking his solid and comfortable dinner, and had not yet ventured to accept Miss Varian's invitation to come and smoke his cigar at the beach gate. Missy had resolved that he should find no one there to bear him company, even if she gave up her favorite after-tea hour on the lawn, all summer. She pulled out into the bay, with a sense of getting free which is one of the pleasures of a woman on a horse or in a boat by herself. Some of Missy's happiest hours were spent skimming over the bay like a May-fly. No one could recall her to duty or bondage till she chose. She almost forgot Aunt Harriet when she was across the harbor; housekeeping cares fell from her when she pushed off into the water,and only came back when the keel grated on the shore again. To-night she drew a long breath of freedom as she pulled herself, with light-dipping oars, far out on the serene blue bay, and then, resting, held her breath and listened. How sweet and placid the scene!
That evening, however, a little incident occurred which made it difficult, nay, even impossible, to send the papers home with their leaves uncut. After tea, Missy hurried out, buttoning a sack on, and looking carefully around to see that she was not followed by neighborly notice. It had been a warm and lovely day; May was melting into June; the evening was perfect, the sun not quite below the hills as yet. Missy went across the lawn; the tide was high, and there was little wind. She pulled in the anchor of a little boat that rocked on the waves, and stepping in, took the oars and pushed out. No one was looking; Mr. Andrews was no doubt taking his solid and comfortable dinner, and had not yet ventured to accept Miss Varian's invitation to come and smoke his cigar at the beach gate. Missy had resolved that he should find no one there to bear him company, even if she gave up her favorite after-tea hour on the lawn, all summer. She pulled out into the bay, with a sense of getting free which is one of the pleasures of a woman on a horse or in a boat by herself. Some of Missy's happiest hours were spent skimming over the bay like a May-fly. No one could recall her to duty or bondage till she chose. She almost forgot Aunt Harriet when she was across the harbor; housekeeping cares fell from her when she pushed off into the water,and only came back when the keel grated on the shore again. To-night she drew a long breath of freedom as she pulled herself, with light-dipping oars, far out on the serene blue bay, and then, resting, held her breath and listened. How sweet and placid the scene!
Fret and headache, sin and temptation!—it was difficult to believe in them, out here in the cool and fresh stillness, palpitating with the gentle swell of the tide, fanned by an air that scarcely moved the waters, transfigured by the glorious hues that overspread the heavens and colored sea and land. "It is good to be here. Why must I ever go back again?" she thought, and then scorned herself for the unpractical and sentimental longing. "At any rate, I shall have time to go over to the West Harbor, before it is night, and perhaps get a look across Oak Neck into the Sound."
The village looked tranquil and sweet as she passed it; the smoke rose from a chimney here and there; the faint sounds came out to her like a dream; a little motion attracted the eye now and then, where the road was not hidden by the trees; a boatman moved about on the shore, but slowly, musically. The rich verdure of the early summer fields crept down to the yellow strip of sand, upon which the water splashed; two or three spires reached up into the rosy sky; pretty cottages peeped through the silent trees, green lawns lay with the evening shadows stretching across them. It was hard to believe that there, in that tranquillity, nestled sin and sickness; that there people went to law with each other, and drove sharp bargains, and told lies. That there indigestion and intemperance had their victims; that lust laid its cruel wait beneath that shade, that hypocrisy there played its little part.
"I will believe only what I see," thought Missy, gliding past. "All is lovely and serene." It was a long pull to the West Harbor. The pink had faded from the sky and from the waters before she turned towards home. She paddled along the shores of the little island that lies opposite Yellowcoats, and shuts in its pretty harbor from the Sound, and watched the changing of the sky from rose color to gray, and from gray to deep, dark blue, and the coming out of a silver thread of moon, and of a single star. Then one by one she saw lights glimmer in the distant village, and one, a little brighter and sharper than the rest, that even made for a moment a light against the sky.
"Lady Bird, Lady Bird, fly away home,Your house is on fire, and your children will burn,"
"Lady Bird, Lady Bird, fly away home,Your house is on fire, and your children will burn,"
she sang to herself as she rowed across the bay, with her back to the place she was going to, as is the sad necessity of rowers. She neared the shore just below Ship Point, and then, turning around her head, stopped involuntarily to listen, as she heard the sound of a bell. It must have been a fire, after all, she thought; for while she rowed across the bay, she had forgotten the sudden light that made her think of Lady Bird, and the sound of her oars had kept her from hearing the bells which had been ringing for some time, no doubt. Her first impulse was to spring on shore, and run up the lane towards the houses that lay on the outskirts of the village, and hear what was the matter. Then she reflected that she could do no good, and that her absence and the fire together might upset her mother; so she soberly turned her boat towards home,speculating nevertheless, upon the chances of the fire, and wondering whose old barn or out-house had fallen victim to the heel of its owner's pipe. She certainly had no feeling of personal interest in the matter, further than as all Yellowcoats was of personal interest to her.
But as she neared the steamboat landing, and came opposite a stretch of road that was clear of trees, she could hear voices, and see people moving along it.
A sudden feeling of fright came over her, for beyond the steamboat landing were but two houses, their own, and Mr. Andrews'. She pulled with all her strength and her boat shot through the water, but it seemed to her she crept, and that she had time to go through scenes of misfortune and trouble enough to turn her gray. She could see no blaze, but the bells down in the village were still pealing forth their call. There was just light enough to see motion upon the road, and hear voices, and there must have been a multitude of them to have been audible above the dash of her quick oars.
She scarcely dared look around when she felt the keel touch the stones; no, it was not the Andrews' house! What a sight on their own lawn! Volumes of smoke covered the house; a score of people thronged the place; men with lanterns were calling and shouting; piles of what looked like furniture lay about; women were flitting here and there on the outskirts of the crowd, she could see their light clothes through the haze. It was all so dim, she felt more terror than if a great flame had towered up and showed her all. Springing from the boat, she ran to the beach gate, now lying off its hinges on the sand.
"What is it?" she said faintly to the first person she encountered. One of the maids, hearing her voice, ran towards her from a group where she had been standing uselessly telling her story over and over.
"What is all this, Ann?" she said, hurrying forward to meet the girl.
"O Miss Rothermel! Oh! Oh!" she cried, and bursting into tears ran off, throwing her apron over her head. Missy's limbs shook under her. Her one thought was, of course, her mother. She struggled forward through the crowd, on this part of the lawn, all men.
"Keep back now, keep back. We don't want no women here," cried a man, pushing her away, without looking at her. They were working stoutly at something, she didn't know what. The crowd were being pushed back. The smoke was suffocating, the ground uncertain; ladders and furniture seemed under her feet at every step. She could not speak, she did not recognize the man who pushed her back, nor could she, through the smoke, see any face clearly enough to know it. She heard a good many oaths, and knew that the crowd were very much in the way, and that the men at work were swearing at those who hindered them. Still she struggled to get nearer. Every moment she seemed to grow weaker, and every moment the horror of failing to get to her mother, seemed to grow stronger. At last she saw what they were trying to do, to get a rope stretched round the house, to keep back the crowd, perhaps from danger, perhaps from plunder. She heard above the noise, Mr. Andrews' voice in command; the crowd seemed to obey him. A line was stretched across the lawn, some thirty feet from the house, and the idle people were pressed back behind it. Missy by a desperate effort writhed through the crowd, and caught at the rope, and held by that, though pushed and swayed up and down, and almost crushed between her taller and more powerful neighbors. Mr. Andrews, passing along inside the cleared space, was calling out some orders to the men. He passed within a foot or two of where she stood, and she found voice enough to call to him and make him hear.
"Where are you?" he said, hurriedly, coming towards her through the darkness.
"Let me come to where you are," she gasped, stretching out one hand to him, but keeping the other fast closed over the rope.
"Let Miss Rothermel pass there; fall back, won't you, quick."
They obeyed him, falling back, and in a moment Missy stood free inside the rope, holding desperately to the hand Mr. Andrews had stretched out to her.
"Mamma—" she said, brokenly, "tell me if she is hurt."
"She is safe—all right—I took her, at the first alarm, to my house. You'd better get to her as quickly as you can. Come with me, I will get you through the crowd; it is less on this side of the house."
He hurried her forward; she stumbled and nearly fell over a roll of carpet, and seemed to be walking over an expanse of books and table-covers and candlesticks.
"Don't worry about any of these things," he said,"they'll all be safe, now the crowd are all behind the rope."
"I don't worry about anything," she said, "but mamma."
"You can be easy about her; there, I can't be spared here, I think you can get on now. Tell her the fire is all out, and there is nothing to worry about. I will see to everything. Ho, there, let Miss Rothermel through, will you?"
She crawled under the rope, and the people made way for her very promptly. It was so dark, she could not recognize any of them, but she heard several familiar voices, and offers of assistance. She was soon out of the press, and then ran fleetly through the gate and out into the road, and then through the gate of the Andrews' cottage, and in a moment more was kneeling by her mother's side. Mrs. Varian, at the sight of her, broke down completely, and sobbed upon her shoulder. She had been perfectly calm through all the excitement, but the relief of seeing Missy was more than she could bear. No one had known where she was, and there had been unspoken terror in the mother's mind. A few hurried explanations were all that she could give. An alarm of fire had reached her in her room, about twilight, and an oppressive odor of smoke and burning wood. She had heard cries and exclamations of fright from the servants, and Goneril, in all haste, had run for Mr. Andrews. In a moment he was on the spot, and no words could express her gratitude for his consideration, and her admiration for his energy. Before anything else was done save to send the alarm to the village (which was the work of an instant, as a horse was saddled at the door), he hadinsisted upon bringing her here; she had walked down the stairs, but the smoke and the excitement had overcome her, and he had lifted her in his arms, and carried her out of her house into his own. After a little time Goneril had appeared, leading Miss Varian, and bringing a reassuring message from Mr. Andrews. The people from the village, she said, had got there in an incredible time. All Yellowcoats, certainly, had gone in at that gate, Miss Varian said, coming into the room at that moment, guiding herself by the door-posts and wainscoting in the unfamiliar place. Certainly she should alter her opinion of the extent of the population after this. And every man, woman and child in all the town swarmed round the place ten minutes after the alarm was given, and were there yet, though the fire had been out for almost half an hour.
"And," she went on, addressing Missy, "if it hadn't been for this neighbor of ours, that you have been pleased to snub so mightily, I think we shouldn't have had a roof over our heads, nor a stitch of clothing but what we have upon our backs. Such a crowd of incapables as you have in your employ. Such wringing of hands, such moaning, such flying about with no purpose. And even Peters lost his head completely. If Mr. Andrews and Goneril hadn't set them to work, and kept them at it till the others came, there would have been no help for us. Mr. Andrews insisted upon my coming away, ordered me, in fact. But I forgave him before I had got out the gate, though I was pretty mad at first."
"I wonder if I ought not to go and see if I can be of use," said Missy, irresolutely, rising up.
But the start and flutter in her mother's hand made her sit down again.
"It's my advice to you to stay where you are," said her aunt. "We are a lot of imbeciles, all of us. We are better out of the way. It isn't very pleasant to think of the linen closet emptied upon the lawn, and all Yellowcoats tramping over it, but it's better than being suffocated in the smoke, or crushed to death in the crowd."
Missy gave her mother a reassuring pressure of the hand, and did not move again. They were indeed a company of useless beings. It was a strange experience to her to be sitting still and thinking the destruction of her household goods a light misfortune. That linen closet, from which the unaccounted-for absence of a pillow-case, would have given her hours of annoyance; the book-cases, where order reigned and where dust never was allowed; the precious china on the dining-room shelves, only moved by her own hands—for all these she had not a thought of anxiety, as she felt her mother's hand in hers. The relief from the fears of that quarter of an hour, while she was making her way through the crowd, had had the effect of making these losses quite unfelt. Subdued, and nervously exhausted too, she sat beside her mother, while the noises gradually subsided on the grounds adjoining. The house was but a stone's throw from the road, and from the Varians' gate, and Miss Varian, with keen ear, sitting on the piazza outside, interpreted the sounds to those within.
"Now the women are beginning to go home," she said. "The children are fretting and sleepy; there, that one got a slap. Now the teams, hitched to thetrees outside, are unhitched and going away. I wonder how much plunder is being stowed away in the bottom of the wagons. I feel as if my bureau drawers were going off in lots to suit pilferers. There now, the boys and men are beginning to straggle off in pairs. You may be sure there isn't anything to see, iftheyare going. Talk of the curiosity of women. Men and boys hang on long aftertheirlegs give out. Ah! now we're beginning to get toward the end of the entertainment, I should think. I hear Mr. Andrews calling out to the men to clear the grounds, and see that the gates are shut; ah, bang goes the front gate. Well, I should think the poor man might be tired by this time. I should think he might come in and leave things in charge of some of those men who have been working with him."
The clock in the parlor struck ten, and then half-past. Eliza, who had been watching the children, and making up some beds above, now came down and begged Mrs. Varian to come up and go to bed, but she refused. The other servants, who had been over at the fire, possibly helping a little, now came in, bringing a message from Mr. Andrews, that he begged they would all go to bed; and that everything was safe and they must feel no anxiety. It might be some time before he could get away. Missy persuaded her aunt and her mother to go up. Eliza conducted Miss Varian to a small "spare" room. Missy felt a shudder as she put down her candle on the dressing-table of the room where she had seen Mrs. Andrews die. She hoped her mother did not know it.
While she was arranging her for the night, she had time to observe the room. It was very much changedsince she had last been in it; the pictures were taken from the walls, the position of the furniture altered, she was not sure but that it was other furniture. Certainly the sofa and footstool and large chair were gone. Mr. Andrews himself occupied the small room on the other side of the house that he had had from the first. This room, the largest and best in the house, had been kept as a sort of day nursery for the children through the winter. Missy had often thought of it as calculated to keep alive the memory of their mother, but now it seemed, as if with purpose, that had been avoided, and as if the whole past of the room was to be wiped out.
It could be no chance that had worked such a change. There were holes still in the wall where a bracket had been taken down. A new clock was on the mantelpiece; there was literally not a thing left the same, not even the carpet on the floor. It gave her a feeling of resentment; but this was not the moment to feel resentment. So she went softly down the stairs, telling her mother to try to sleep, and she would wait up, and see if she could do anything more than thank Mr. Andrews when he came in. This was no more than civil; but strangely, Missy did not feel civil, as she sat counting the minutes in the parlor below. She felt as if it were odious to be there, odious to feel that he was working for them, that she must be grateful to him. All her past prejudices, which had been dying out in the silence of the last few months, and under the knowledge of his steady kindness to his children, came back as she went up into that room, which, to her vivid imagination, must always bring back the most painful scene she had ever witnessed. She had neverexpected to enter this house again, at least while its present tenants occupied it, and here she was, and certain to stay here for one night and day at least. She had had none of these feelings as she sat during the evening silently thankful beside her mother; all this tumult of resentment had come since she had gone up-stairs. The memory of the beautiful young creature, whose dreadful death she had witnessed, came back to her with strange power; and the thought that she had been banished from her children's minds made her almost vindictive. How can I speak to him? how have I ever spoken to him? she thought, as her eyes wandered around the room, searching for some trace of her. But it was thoroughly a man's apartment, "bachelor quarters" indeed. Not a picture of the woman whose beauty would have graced a palace; not a token that she had ever been under this roof, that she had died here less than a year ago. The nurse had come into the room as Missy sat waiting, and, seeming to divine her thought, said, while she put straight chairs and books:
"Isn't it strange, Miss Rothermel, that there isn't any picture of Mrs. Andrews anywhere about the house? I should think their father would be afraid of the children forgetting all about her. I often talk to them about her, but I don't know much to say, because none of us ever saw her; and Mr. Andrews never talks about her to them, and I am sure Jay doesn't remember her at all. There was once a little box that Jay dragged out of a closet in the attic, and in the evening after he found it, he was playing with it in the parlor by his father, and Gabby caught sight of it, and cried, 'That's my mamma's box; give it to me, Jay.' Theyhad a little quarrel for it, and Gabby got it, and then Jay forgot all about it, and went to play with something else. But," went on Eliza, lowering her voice, "that evening I saw Mr. Andrews, after the children had gone to bed, empty all Gabrielle's things out of the box, and carry it up stairs, and put it away in a locked-up closet in the hall."
"Probably he wanted to punish her for taking it away from Jay," said Missy, insincerely, feeling all the time that it was not the thing for her to be allowing Eliza to tell her this.
"No," said Eliza, "for he brought her home a beautiful new box the next evening, and he wouldn't have done that if he had wished to punish her, I think."
"Eliza, don't you think you'd better see if the fire is good in the kitchen? Mr. Andrews might want a cup of coffee made, or something cooked to eat. He must be very tired."
Eliza meekly received her dismissal, and went into the kitchen. At half-past eleven o'clock Missy heard the gate open, and went forward to meet Mr. Andrews at the door.
"You are very tired," she said, falteringly.
"I believe I am," he returned, following her into the parlor. She was shocked when she saw him fully in the light of the lamp. He looked tired indeed, and begrimed with smoke, his coat torn, his arm tied up in a rude fashion, as if it had been hurt.
"Sit down," she said, hurriedly pulling out a chair. He stumbled into it.
"I really didn't know how tired I was," he said, laying back his head.
"Can't I get you some coffee, or some wine? You ought to take something at once, I think."
"I'd like a glass of wine," he said, rather faintly. "Here's the key. You'll find it in the sideboard."
But when he attempted to get the hand that wasn't bandaged into his pocket, he stopped, with a gesture of pain.
"Confound it!" he said; "it's a strain, I suppose;" and then he grew rather white.
"Let me get it," said Missy, hurriedly.
"The inside pocket of my coat—left side," he said. She fumbled in the pocket, rather agitatedly, feeling very sorry that he was so suffering, but not sorry enough to make her forget that it was very awkward for her to be bending over him and searching in his inside pocket for a key. At last she found it, and ran and fetched the wine. He seemed a little better when he drank it.
"What is the matter with your arm?" she said, standing by him to take back the glass.
"A ladder fell on it," he said.
"And you sent for the doctor, did you?"
"The doctor, no! What time has there been to be sending off for doctors?" he returned, rather impatiently, turning himself in the chair, but with a groan. Missy ran out of the room, and in two minutes somebody was on the way to the village for the doctor. Eliza came back into the room with her.
"Can't you get on the sofa? and we'll make you easier," said Missy, standing by him.
But he shook his head. "I think I'll rest a little here," he said, "and then get to my room."
"I know; I've sent for the doctor, but I am afraidit will be some time before he comes. I thought I might be doing something for your hand that's strained; I am afraid to meddle with your arm. Do you think your shoulder's out of place, or anything like that?"
"No, I hardly think it is," he said. "It's more likely nothing but a bruise; but it hurts like—thunder!"
This last came from an attempt to get out of his chair. Missy shook up the pillows of the sofa.
"See," she said, "you'll be more comfortable here; let Eliza help you." He submitted, and got to the sofa. "Now, before you lie down, let us get your coat off," she said. She felt as if he were Jay, and must be coaxed. But getting the coat off was not an easy matter; in fact, it was an impossible matter.
"It's torn a good deal," she said; "you wouldn't care if I got the scissors and cut it a little?"
"Cut it into slivers!" he said, concisely. He was evidently feeling concisely, poor man!
Eliza flew for the scissors; in a moment Missy's pretty fingers had done the work, and the poor mutilated coat fell to the floor, a sacrifice to neighborly devotion. "Now run and get me a pail of boiling water, and some flannels—quick. In the meantime, Mr. Andrews, turn your hand a little; I want to get at the button of your sleeve. Oh, dear! don't move it; I see. Here go the scissors again. I'll mend the sleeve for you, I promise; it's the least that I can do. There!nowit's all right. Now let me get this towel under your wrist. Ah! I know it hurt; but it had to be done. Now here's the hot water. Eliza, kneel here by Mr. Andrews; and as fast as I hand you the flannel, put it on his wrist—see, just there."
Missy withdrew, and gave her place to Eliza; but the first touch of her hands to the flannel which she was to wring out made her jump so, she felt sure she never could do justice to them.
"You'd better let me wring out the flannels, Miss Rothermel, and you put them on," said Eliza. "My hands are used to hot water." So Missy went back to her place, and knelt beside her patient, taking the steaming flannels from Eliza's hand, and putting them on his wrist. Before she put each one on, she held it up against her cheek, to see that it was not too hot. She was as gentle and as tender and as coaxing as if she were taking care of little Jay. It is a question how much sentiment a man in severe pain is capable of feeling. But certainly it ought to have been a solace to any one to be tended by such a sweet little nurse as this. Who would think that she could spit fire, or snub her neighbors, or "boss" it, even over servants?
Missy was a born nurse. She was quick-witted, nimble-fingered, sure-footed, and she was coaxing and tender when people were "down." She was absolutely sweet when any one was cornered or prostrate, and couldn't do any way but hers.
The hot cloths, which had stung him a little at first, soon began to relieve the pain in his wrist.
"There, now, I told you it would. You were so good to let us do it. Do bear it a little longer, please."
Missy's eyes had wandered to the clock many times, and her ears had been strained to catch the sound of the doctor's steps outside. But it was now an hour since the messenger had gone, and it was very certain he could not have been at home. When he mightcome, how many miles away he was at this moment, it was impossible to guess. She knew very well that the other arm was the real trouble; and she knew, too, that leaving it for so many hours unattended to might make it a bad business. Her experience never had gone beyond sprains and bruises, but she had the courage of genius; she would have tackled a compound fracture if it had come in her way.
"That tiresome doctor," she said, sweetly. "I wonder when he'll get here. See, I've muffled up the wrist in this hot bandage. Now suppose we try if we can't do something for this arm over here. I'll be ever so gentle. Now see, I didn't hurt you much before."
Mr. Andrews' face contracted with pain as she touched his wounded arm, even in the lightest manner. In fact, he was bearing as much pain as he thought he could, without having it touched. But it wasn't in nature to resist her, and he turned a little on his side, and the scissors flew up his sleeve and laid bare the bruised, discolored arm.
"You see," she said, softly getting a piece of oil-silk under it, "if it is only bruised this will help it, and if it's broken or out of joint or anything, it will not do any harm. It doesn't hurt you when I touch it here, does it?" she went on, watching his face keenly as she passed her hand lightly over his shoulder.
"It hurts everywhere," he answered groaning, but he did not wince particularly.
"I don't believe there's any dislocation," she said cheerfully, though not too cheerfully, for she knew better than to do that, when any one was suffering. "I don't believe there's any dislocation, and if there isn't,I'll soon relieve you, if you'll let me try." Eliza came back with more hot water, and again for a patient half hour the wringing of flannels and the application of them went on. At the end of that time, Missy began to think there was something besides sprain and bruise, for the patient was growing pale, and the pain was manifestly not abating. She gave him some more wine, and bathed his head, and fanned him, and wished for the doctor. There was no medicine in the house with which she was familiar. Her own beloved weapons were now out of reach, and she could not bring herself to give opium and the horrid drugs in which this benighted gentleman still believed. Ignatia, camomilla, moschus! Ah, what she might have done for him, if she could have known where to lay her hand on her tiny case of medicines. She gave him more wine; that was the only thing left for her to do, since he would probably not submit to letting her set his arm, which she was now convinced was broken. She felt quite capable of doing it, or of doing anything rather than sitting still and seeing him suffer. She privately dispatched Eliza to get bandages, and her work-basket, and to replenish the fire in the range.
At last, at a few minutes before two o'clock, the welcome sound of the doctor's gig driving to the gate, met her ear. She let him in, while Eliza sat beside the patient. He looked surprised to see her, and they both thought involuntarily of the last time they had been together in this house.
"You are a good neighbor," he said, taking off his hat and coat in the hall.
"We have had a good neighbor to-night in Mr. Andrews," said Missy, with a little stiffness. "He hasmade himself ill in our service, and we feel as if we could not do too much in taking care of him."
"Certainly," said the doctor, searching for his case of instruments in his pocket. "You have had a great fire, I hear. How much damage has been done?"
"I do not know at all. I had to stay with my mother, and Mr. Andrews is in too much pain since he came in, to answer any questions. I am very much afraid his arm is broken."
"Indeed," said the doctor, comfortably, shaking down the collar of his coat, which had been somewhat disarranged in the taking off of the superior garment. It seemed as if he were trying how long he could be about it.
Missy fumed.
"Now," he said, following her into the room. He seated himself by the patient in a chair which Missy had set for him when she heard the gate open, and asked him many questions, and poked about his arm and shoulder and seemed to try to be as long in making up his mind as he had been in getting ready to come in.
"Well?" said Missy at last, feeling she could not bear it any longer.
Mr. Andrews' face had expressed that he was about at the end of his patience several minutes before.
It was hoping too much, that he should tell them at once what was the matter; but by and by it was allowed them to infer that Mr. Andrews' arm was broken in two places; that the shoulder was all right, and that the wrist was only sprained, and was much the better for the treatment it had had. He praised Missy indirectly for her promptness, told her Mr. Andrews might thank her for at least one hand—which he couldundoubtedly have the use of in a few days. Mr. Andrews' face showed he wasn't prepared for being helpless for even a few days. The pain, great as it was, could not prevent his disgust at this.
"And how long before my arm will be fit to use?" he said shortly.
"Better get it into the splints before we decide when we shall take it out," said the doctor, with complacence, taking out his case of instruments.
He enjoyed his case of instruments, and there was so little use for it at Yellowcoats. It was on his tongue to say something discouraging about the length of the confinement probable, but Missy gave him a warning look, and said cheerfully, "a broken arm is nothing; I've always thought it the nicest accident that any one could have. Besides, it is your left arm. You won't mind the sling at all, if you do have to wear it for a few days longer than you might think necessary. St. John broke his arm once when he was a boy, and it was really nothing. We were surprised to find how soon it was all well."
Missy spoke as if she knew all about it.
"Then you know how to help me with the bandages?" the doctor said.
"Oh, yes, I remember quite well."
By the time that the arm was set, and the patient helped into his room by the doctor and Eliza, Missy had decided that Mr. Andrews bore pain pretty well for a man, and that the doctor was even stupider than she had thought. She also arrived at the conclusion that the whole situation was as awkward as possible, when the door closed upon the object of her solicitude, and she realized that she could do him no further good.It was only then that she became aware that she was deeply interested in the case. To do her justice, if it had been Eliza's arm she would have suffered a pang in giving it up. She was naturally a nurse, and naturally enthusiastic. She had made up her mind to disregard the doctor's orders totally and give the patient homeopathic treatment, according to her lights. But here was conventionality coming in. She must give him up, and he was no doubt to be shut up in that room for a day or two at least, to be stupefied with narcotics, and then dosed with tonics. Missy clenched her little tired hands together. Why could Eliza go in and take care of him, and she not? She could not influence him through Eliza, or Melinda, or the waitress. She must give up conventionality or homeopathy. It was a struggle, but conventionality won.
MINE HOST.
OOf this she was very glad the next morning: conventionality is best by daylight. She woke with a feeling that it was exceedingly awkward to be in Mr. Andrews' house, and to have no house of her own to go to. When she came down-stairs, Eliza was just putting Mr. Andrews' breakfast on a tray. She said he had had no sleep, and seemed to be uncomfortable. The breakfast-tray did not look very inviting, so Missy reconstructed itand sent it in, brightened with some white grapes that the gardener had just brought to the door, and three or four soft-looking roses, with the dew upon them.
Of this she was very glad the next morning: conventionality is best by daylight. She woke with a feeling that it was exceedingly awkward to be in Mr. Andrews' house, and to have no house of her own to go to. When she came down-stairs, Eliza was just putting Mr. Andrews' breakfast on a tray. She said he had had no sleep, and seemed to be uncomfortable. The breakfast-tray did not look very inviting, so Missy reconstructed itand sent it in, brightened with some white grapes that the gardener had just brought to the door, and three or four soft-looking roses, with the dew upon them.
"Tell Mr. Andrews I hope he will let us know if there is anything we can do for him," she said, half ashamed, as Eliza went up-stairs with the tray.
By this time Miss Varian had come down-stairs, and Goneril, very tired and cross, twitched some chairs and a footstool about for her; and Anne, looking oddly out of place, came in to know if she should carry Mrs. Varian's breakfast up to her. It was all very strange and uncomfortable. The servants had evidently spent much of their time in talking over the incidents of the fire, and Melinda was late with her breakfast. Missy couldn't imagine where they had all slept; but here they all were—two cooks in the kitchen, two waitresses in the dining-room, two maids in the parlor, and no breakfast ready. Miss Varian felt very irritable; the children had waked her by five o'clock with their noise, and she could not go to sleep again. The absence of her usual toilet luxuries exasperated her, and all the philosophy which she had displayed the night before forsook her. She scolded everybody, including Mr. Andrews, who was to blame for having such a hard bed in his spare room, and the cook, who was so late in getting breakfast ready. Missy disdained to answer her, but she felt as cross, in her way. The children, who had been sent out of doors to allow Miss Varian to go to sleep again, now came bursting in, and made matters worse by their noise. They were full of news about the fire, and, to judge by their smutty hands and aprons, had been cruising round the forbidden spot.
"Jay, if you love me," said Missy, putting her hands to her ears, "be quiet and don't talk any more about the fire. Let me eat my breakfast, and forget my miseries."
But Gabrielle could not be silenced, though Jay, when the hominy came, gave himself to that. She always had information to impart, and this occasion was too great to be lost. She told Missy everything she didn't want to hear, from the destruction of the flowerbeds by the crowd, to the remarks of the boys at the stable, about her father's broken arm.
"They said he was a fool, to work so hard for nothing; they expected to be paid, but he didn't. Then Peters said 'maybe he expects to be paid as well as you,' and then they all laughed. What did they all laugh for, Missy, and do you suppose my father does expect to be paid?"
"I suppose you were where you had no business to be," said Missy, shortly. "Now, if you will eat your breakfast, and be silent, we shall thank you."
Then Gabby retired into the hominy and there was a silence if not a peace. It was a dull morning—much fog, and little life in the air. Missy hadn't even looked out of the window. She dreaded the thought of what she was to see on the other side of the hedge. If it had been possible, she would have delayed the work that lay before her; but she was goaded on now by the thought that if she did not hurry, they must spend another night here, and eat another breakfast to the accompaniment of Gabby's information and observation. It was ten o'clock before she could get away, leaving directions to the servants to follow her.
It was a dismal scene; the faultless lawn trampled and torn up, the vines torn from the piazza and lying stretched and straggling on the ground. The windows were curtainless, the piazza steps broken, the piazza piled with ladders and steps and buckets; the front door had a black eye. There was at this side of the house not much evidence of the fire, but at the rear it was much worse. The summer parlor was badly damaged, the sashes quite burnt black, the ceiling all defaced. The flames had reached the room above, Missy's own room, and here had been stayed. The windows were broken out, a good deal of the woodwork charred, and the walls much damaged with water. These two rooms were all that were seriously injured. It was quite wonderful that the damage had gone no further; there had been no wind, and Mr. Andrews had been on the spot; if they had not had these two things in their favor, the house must have gone. Peters had shown himself a respectable donkey, and none of the women but Goneril proved to have any head in such an emergency. Missy tried to be comforted by the smallness of the material injury. But the desolation and disorder of the pretty rooms! In her own, Missy fairly cried. She felt completelydépaysée. A few hundred dollars and a few weeks would put it all in order again, but Missy was not in a philosophic mood. She felt herself an outcast and a wanderer, and turning bitterly from the scorched spot, vowed never to love anything again.
By this time the clumsy Peters and the headless maids had come up to be set to work. So turning the keys on the damaged rooms, she followed them out and began to try roughly to get the furniture backinto the rooms to which it belonged. Her ambition, at present, was to get her mother's and her aunt's rooms in order to have them return that night, and the kitchen so far reconstructed that the servants might do their work. But at night-fall, the prospect was so dismal, the hall so encumbered with unbestowed goods, the workmen so tardy, the progress so small, that Missy reluctantly acknowledged she would be cruel to her mother, if she insisted on bringing her back to such a scene of desolation. She must be contented to accept Mr. Andrews' considerate hospitality. He had sent over Eliza with a message at lunch time, in which he took it for granted that they were to stay there for the present, and covered all the ground of an invitation, and was less offensive. It was understood and inevitable, and so she tried to take it.
The rain came down heavily at six o'clock; as she locked herself out of the front door, and wrapping her waterproof around her, went down the wet steps, and out on the soaking ground, feeling tired and heartsick, she could not but contrast the scene with that of last evening, when, under the smiling rosy sunset, she had come down the steps on her way out to her stolen row upon the bay. It seemed a year ago, instead of a day. Ann followed close behind her, with various articles for the comfort of her mother. At the door of the Andrews' house Ann took off her mistress' waterproof and overshoes.
"I am almost too tired to speak, Ann," she said. "I shall go up-stairs and lie down, and you may bring me a cup of tea. I don't want any dinner."
But once up-stairs, Missy found she must changeher plans, and forget her weariness. Her mother was quite unable to go down to dinner; indeed, was only waiting for her tea, to try to quiet herself with a view to getting a tolerable night. Miss Varian had a violent attack of neuralgia; the whole house had been laid under tribute to alleviate her sufferings. She was to have her dinner in bed, and had ordered the house to be kept perfectly quiet after she had partaken of that meal. Eliza, the waitress, no less than Goneril, had been actively running up and down stairs, to take her orders to the kitchen. Melinda had received directions from Mr. Andrews to cook an unusually elaborate dinner, to do honor to the guests. Ann had confided this to Mrs. Varian in the afternoon. She thought it such a pity, for she knew nobody would eat it. And now, when Missy told her mother, as she took off her hat, that she was going to lie down and have a cup of tea, Mrs. Varian made an exclamation of regret.
"The meals that have gone up and down stairs to-day in this house!" she said. "Mr. Andrews, poor man, doesn't eat much, but it has to be carried to him. And your aunt has had her lunch in many varieties, and now her dinner. And I, alas! And now, if you can't go down, my dear, and the fine dinner has to go off the table without any one even to look at it, it will be unfortunate. You don't think you could go down just for the form of it, and try to eat something? Eliza has had to get out some of the silver that has been packed away, and I have heard much consultation outside about table-cloths. It does seem very awkward. Three guests, and all demanding to be served with dinner in their own rooms. Poor Missy, it always comeson you. There now, don't mind a word of what I've said, but stay here and rest, I know you need it."
For Missy had thrown herself down into a chair, and looked just ready to cry. She was quite overstrained, and if ever any woman needed a cup of tea and the luxury of being let alone, that woman was Missy.
"Of course I can go down," said Missy, with something between sobbing and spitting fire. "I can do anything in the world—but hold my tongue," she added, as she saw her mother look distressed. "Oh, of course I'll go down, I don't really mind it. I shan't have even to smooth my hair. For as there will be no critics but the children and the waitress, I may be saved that effort. I suppose I must praise the dinner liberally, to make Melinda happy. Oh, Iamso tired. My hands feel as if they were full of splinters and nails, and I can't go across the room to wash them. I wonder if the waitress would care if I didn't wash them. I'm sure I shouldn't. By the way, I must ring for Ann and tell her I am going down to dinner, or the best table-cloth will be taken off before I see it."
Ann took down the message in time to stay the spoliation of the table, and when dinner was served, came up to say so to her mistress. She was too tired to do more than wash her hands; she did not even look in the glass. She felt hysterical as well as weary, and said to herself, if Gabrielle says anything hateful, I shall certainly make a scene. The lights hurt her eyes as she went into the dining-room. Jay laid hold of her hand, and kissed it with fervor, and then pulled a bow off the side of her dress, to make up for the caress.
"So we are to have dinner together, are we, youand I and Gabby," she said, sinking into her chair, and pointing Jay to his.
"And papa," said Gabby, with a keenly interested look. "Didn't you know he was coming down to dinner?"
"No," said Missy, feeling herself grow red. "I thought he wasn't well enough."
At this moment, the door opened, and Mr. Andrews came in.
"I did not think you were able to come down," Missy said, rather awkwardly, rising. "You must excuse me—for—for taking my seat before you came."
"It was so tiresome staying up stairs," said Mr. Andrews simply, and they took their places silently.
The two children's seats had been placed opposite to Missy. But Jay refused to submit to this arrangement, and kicked against the table legs and cried till he was carried around to sit by Missy. He certainly behaved very badly, and made them all uncomfortable. Then, when they had got partly over this, and were trying to talk a little, Gabby took occasion to say, when there was a pause in the rather forced conversation, critically looking across at Missy:
"If you had known papa was coming down, would you have brushed your hair, do you think, Missy?"
The waitress, Missy was sure, suppressed a sudden giggle. Missy was so angry, and so agitated, she grew pale instead of red.
"I am sure I should," she said, deliberately, looking at her. "And perhaps, have put another cravat on, for this one, I am afraid, is rather dusty."
"Why didn't you put it on any way," said Jay.
"Why, because little children are not supposed to know or care; but for grown people, we have to try to be polite."
These brave words over, Missy felt she had done all that was possible in self-defense, and began to feel as if she should cry at the next assault. Poor Mr. Andrews looked bitterly annoyed. He was so pale and ill-looking, and had made such an effort to come down and be hospitable, that Missy's heart was softened. She resolved to make it easy for him, so she began to talk about the condition of the house and to ask questions and get advice. But the poor man was too ill, and too straightforward to talk about anything he wasn't thinking about. The presence of Gabrielle made him nervous as a woman; every time she opened her mouth, if only to ask for a glass of water, he was sure she was going to say something terrible. Such a dinner. Melinda's nice dishes went away almost untouched, almost unseen. At last Gabrielle, reassured by the subjection in which she found her elders, ventured upon that which lay nearest her heart, namely, the topic of discussion in the stable that morning.
"Papa," she said, in a very insinuating voice, and with a glance around, "doyou expect to be paid for—"
But Missy was too quick for her. She started to her feet, the color flaming to her face.
"Gabrielle, I forbid you to speak another word while I am in the room. Mr. Andrews, you must excuse me—I am very sorry to make you so uncomfortable, but I cannot—stand it—any longer," and with an hysterical choke she sprang to the door.
When she was gone, I wouldn't have been in Gabby's place for a good deal. Fortunately the waitress was out of the room when the fracas occurred, and when she came back, she was at liberty to suppose that the furious punishment bestowed upon Gabrielle was in consequence of an overturned glass of wine which was bedewing the best table-cloth. Some gentlemen are so particular about their table linen. She had not seen this side of Mr. Andrews' character before, but then, to be sure, they had never used the best linen since she had been in the family.
When Missy, panting and hysterical, reached the top of the stairs, she didn't know exactly what to do. She knew very well if she took refuge in her mother's room (which was her own, too), she destroyed all chance of sleep for her mother that night. She couldn't go into the nursery, where Gabby would probably be sent for punishment. She couldn't seek the sweet shelter of Miss Harriet Varian's sympathy, and it wasn't dignified to sit on the stairs. What was she to do? Just at this moment, Goneril came softly out of her mistress' room.
"Is Miss Varian asleep?" asked Missy, in a low tone.
"Heaven be praised,she is!" returned Goneril, with great fervor.
"Then I will go and sit by her till you get your dinner," she said, going past her into the room. Here was refuge and darkness, and she sat down in an easy chair near the door. How little consolation there was in being quiet, though, and thinking. She was so enraged—so humiliated. She had fought clear of the embarrassment and disgrace of last autumn, and hadflattered herself she had conquered both herself and gossip; and now it was all to be done over again. She had no heart to begin again. She was going away. She would go away. There was no reason she should not have her way, sometimes. There was a good excuse for a summer's absence. They would leave the carpenters and painters in the house—she didn't care for the house now, and what they did to it—and they would go to the mountains till she had got over this miserable sensitiveness, and till the Andrews' had got tired of Yellowcoats. Oh, that that might be soon! She never wanted to see one of the name again, not even Jay. (She had had these reflections before, and had thought better of them, at least as concerned Jay.) By and by, while she was still solacing herself with plans for flight, she heard the children come up-stairs, Jay fretting, as if he felt the discomfort in the air. Gabrielle was very silent. Eliza was rather hurried; she was human, though a good nurse, and there was a large and cheerful circle sitting down around the kitchen table to an unusually good dinner. It was rather hard lines to be putting the children to bed, when they ought to have stayed up, as they always did, until she had had her dinner. Now everything seemed out of joint for some reason, and the children as troublesome as possible. Eliza, excellent servant though she was, was but a servant, and to sit pat-patting Jay, while the festive circle down-stairs were getting through the choicest bits of pastry and of gossip, required more patience than she had. The children were hustled into their night-clothes rather hastily. Gabrielle, sulky and white, offered only slight petulant resistance, but Jay criedand grew worse-tempered every minute. At last Eliza got them both into bed and turned down the lamp.
"Now go to sleep, like a good boy," she said, tucking in the clothes of Jay's crib; but there was restlessness in her very tone, and though she sat down, she did not convey the idea of permanence, and Jay grew wider awake every moment, watching lest she should go away. At length, starting up impatiently, she cried:
"There's reason in all things. You're big enough to go to sleep by yourself. I must have my dinner."
And without a look behind, she hurried from the room. This had never happened before. She had always occupied herself in putting away the children's clothes, and in moving softly about the room, and singing in a low voice; and so Jay, without being absolutely coddled, had always fallen asleep with a sense of protection and companionship. But to-night everything was going wrong. Here was papa in such an awful way, and Missy running away from the table crying, and Gabby scared to death and punished—and now his nurse getting cross, and going down and leaving him all alone in the dark. There had been vague and terrible stories of what came in the dark, during the reign of Alphonsine and Bridget, which had not been quite obliterated.
Jay lay mute with amazement for a moment; and then, sitting up in bed, and looking into the dimness surrounding him, began to cry piteously, and to call upon Eliza to come back. But Eliza was out of reach of his cries now, and Gabby, stubborn and wicked,would not open her lips. He cried and sobbed till his throat felt sore and his head burning.
"Missy, Missy! I want you, Missy!"
Missy had listened, with vexation at Eliza, but with no intention of taking up her duties, till that plaintive cry smote her heart and melted it. The poor little lonely child, with no love but the unsteady love of hirelings! She started up and stole into the nursery. The cry with which Jay flung himself into her arms made him dearer to her than ever before. He clung to her, all trembling and beating, his wet little face buried in her neck.
"You won't go away and leave me, you won't, promise me, Missy, you won't go."
"No, Jay, my own little man, I won't. Lie down; I promise you, I'll stay."
Every one else had failed him, but he still believed in Missy. So he was pacified and reassured, and after awhile lay down, holding both her hands. She let down the side of his crib, and sitting beside him, laid her head on his pillow; he put one hand on her throat, and held the other tight in one of hers, and so, after awhile, he fell asleep. But a ground-swell of sobs still heaved his breast after such a heavy storm. Missy held the little warm hand tight, and kissed him in his sleep. She had promised not to go, and she dared not move his hand from her neck, nor stir her head from the pillow for fear of waking him.
The room was still and dim, and she was very tired, by and by the troubles of the day melted into dreams, and she slept. How long, she could not tell. A light gleaming in her face aroused her; she started up in sudden consternation, for Mr. Andrews stood lookingat her, in, it must be said, equal consternation. He had moved the screen from the nursery lamp, and coming up to the bed to look at his boy, had seen the not unpretty, but very unexpected picture of the two sleeping in this close embrace.
Missy's first feeling was one of anger; but surely Mr. Andrews had a right in his own nursery, and, as usual, she was in the wrong—she was where she had no business to be; her bitter vexation showed itself on her face.
"I beg your pardon," he said, stepping back, "I—I didn't know you were here."
"Jay cried so, I came in to pacify him," she said, "and he would not let me go."
"You are very kind to him," said the father earnestly.
"Not particularly," she returned, fastening up the side of the crib, and laying him softly further over on his pillow. "One doesn't like to see a child imposed upon, and Eliza was very wrong to leave him."
"Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, still earnestly, and Miss Rothermel prepared herself for something she did not want to hear, "I have no words to express to you the annoyance that I feel about Gabrielle."
Missy waved her hand impatiently.
"But I have words to express a resolution that I have formed this evening, and that is, that it shall be the last time that you shall suffer from her. I shall send her away to boarding-school as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements; and that I hope will be within a week, at furthest."
It was now Missy's turn to be in earnest.
"I hope you won't do anything of the kind, Mr. Andrews, on my account at least. I can only assure you, it would be far more annoying than anything she has ever done. I should never forgive myself for having caused you to do what I am quite sure would be the worst thing for her. She is very well situated now. You have good servants, she has the free country life she needs, and no bad companions. If she can't improve now, I'm afraid she never will."
"I'm afraid she never will, wherever she may be," answered Mr. Andrews, with almost a groan. "I could tell you something of her, if—if—"
"I am sure of one thing," rushed on Missy, not heeding what she might have heard if she had listened; "I am sure of one thing, I should never have a moment's peace, if I felt I had been in any way the cause of sending from her home such a desolate little child. I cannot forget that I had a friendship for her mother, and I should be always followed by the thought of her reproach."
Mr. Andrews' face changed; he bent his head slightly. The change was not lost on Missy.
"Besides that feeling," she said, with a touch of bitterness, "which, I have no doubt, you look upon as a weak piece of sentiment, I don't see what difference her going or staying can make to me. It would be a pity to do her an injury which would do no one any good. I shall not necessarily see her half-a-dozen times, before we go away, which, I hope, we shall do for the summer, very shortly. And when we come back Jay will have forgotten me, or you will all, perhaps, have left the place. It is really too much said already on a subject which is very insignificant, thoughit has proved sufficiently disagreeable." And she moved as if to go away.
"I quite agree with you that it has been very disagreeable; but I don't entirely see that what you have said alters my duty in the matter. I think she has deserved to be sent away; I am not sure that the discipline of a school would not be the best thing for her. I am quite sure that it is not my duty to destroy my own peace, or deprive my little boy of friends or kindness, by keeping her at home."
"Not your duty, Mr. Andrews!" cried Missy. "Well, of course we look at things from such different points, it's no use discussing—"
"We will waive the discussion of my duty," said Mr. Andrews, not urbanely; "but I should be very glad to know why you think it would hurt Gabrielle to send her to a good school?"
Like all home-bred girls, she had a great horror of boarding-schools, and with vivacity gave a dozen reasons for her horror, winding up with—"I believe it would make her a hundred times more deceitful than she is now. It would establish her thirst for intrigue; it would estrange her from you; it would deprive her of the little healthy love that she has for out-door life and innocent amusement. If you want to ruin Gabrielle, Mr. Andrews,praysend her to a boarding-school!"
"I don't want to ruin Gabrielle, but I want to have a little peace myself, and to let my neighbors have some, too."
"Your neighbors' peace needn't be considered, after—after we go away from the house; and I am sure you have frightened her enough to-night to makeher behave better while we are obliged to stay with you."
As soon as the words were out, Missy shivered at their sound. She did not mean to be so rude.
"I beg your pardon," she said, not with successful penitence; "but you know we did not impose our selves upon you from choice."
"I know you would not have come if you could have helped it, certainly. I am not to blame for that, however."
"Well, I'm sure I didn't mean to blame any one. You must excuse me; I am very tired to-night. Only let Gabrielle's matter be considered settled, won't you? I shall thank you very much, if you will promise me she shan't be sent away."
The father glanced at the small white bed, where Gabrielle lay motionless, with her eyes shut and her face turned from them, presumably asleep.
"I won't take any step about sending her away, if you feel so about it—for a little while, at least."
"Very well; thank you! Then it is settled. Good night." And Missy went away, not exactly, it must be owned, as if she had received a favor, but as if hardly-wrung justice had been obtained for Gabrielle and Gabrielle's dead mother. That, at least, was how she felt—and Mr. Andrews wasn't altogether stupid. He sighed as he bent over Jay's crib, and smoothed the hair back on his pillow, screening the light from his eyes, and turning down the lamp; but he did not go near the bed of the offending Gabrielle, and left the room without another glance in her direction.
YELLOWCOATS CALLS TO INQUIRE.