TThe next morning, Missy managed to get away without encountering any one more formidable than Jay and the servants. Mr. Andrews probably made an intentionally late breakfast, and Gabrielle was more than willing to keep out of sight. Matters at the house she found in worse confusion than ever. The only plumber in the village was more eminent for good-nature than for skill. He doctored furnaces and ranges, cooking stoves and "air-tights," but it must be said he was more successful with the latter. Water-backs, and traps, and reservoirs had grown up since he learned his trade, but, like a good-natured creature, he put his hand to whatever was asked of him, and sometimes succeeded in patching up leaks, and sometimes didn't. He was the worst berated man in Yellowcoats, but in the greatest demand. No one's wrath lasted out the first glance of his good-humored face. He never thought of keeping his word; indeed, it would have needed a great deal of principle to do it. The one that was first, got him, whether prince or peasant, and generally found it necessary to mount guard over him till the job was finished. He was willing to work all day, and all night, irrespective of meals or sleep. Such good-nature could not fail to be rewarded, and so every one "put up" with him, and he was not supplanted.
The next morning, Missy managed to get away without encountering any one more formidable than Jay and the servants. Mr. Andrews probably made an intentionally late breakfast, and Gabrielle was more than willing to keep out of sight. Matters at the house she found in worse confusion than ever. The only plumber in the village was more eminent for good-nature than for skill. He doctored furnaces and ranges, cooking stoves and "air-tights," but it must be said he was more successful with the latter. Water-backs, and traps, and reservoirs had grown up since he learned his trade, but, like a good-natured creature, he put his hand to whatever was asked of him, and sometimes succeeded in patching up leaks, and sometimes didn't. He was the worst berated man in Yellowcoats, but in the greatest demand. No one's wrath lasted out the first glance of his good-humored face. He never thought of keeping his word; indeed, it would have needed a great deal of principle to do it. The one that was first, got him, whether prince or peasant, and generally found it necessary to mount guard over him till the job was finished. He was willing to work all day, and all night, irrespective of meals or sleep. Such good-nature could not fail to be rewarded, and so every one "put up" with him, and he was not supplanted.
His yesterday's work at the Varians', however, had not been a success. He had left the range in a lamentable condition; something very distressing was the matter with the water-back, and the fire could not be made. The house-cleaners were all at a loss for hot water; trusting in his promise to be on hand the first thing in the morning, they had all waited for him, without sending in to Miss Rothermel. Upon inquiry, it was found that a magnate in the horse-and-cow business, some miles distant, had come to grief in the matter of his tin roof, and had captured Mike at an early hour, and was probably even now mounting guard over him, and it was believed that no threats or entreaties would induce him to give him up till the roof was water-tight. As it was a very bad roof, and had been in Mike's hands for years, it seemed probable that nothing short of a day or two would answer for its repair. Still, several hours of Peters' time was taken up in going over to appeal to the sense of honor of the horse-and-cow man. In the meanwhile, it was deplorable to see what a motive power hot water was, and how difficult it was to get it, when once one has come to depend upon a boiler. Very little could be done except in the small matter of putting drawers and closets in order. The women sat about the kitchen and berated Mike, unable even to get a bit of dinner cooked.
At three o'clock, Peters returned to say that there was no hope. The horse-and-cow man had taken the ladder away from the roof, and declared Mike shouldn't come down till the leaks were stopped, if it took him till November. Of course the house could not be habitable till the range was in order. Missy with a groan acknowledged her fate, and decided it was meant by destiny, that she should stay at Mr. Andrews' till everybody in the village was saturated with the intelligence.
She had been away from her mother all day, and Ann had reported her as was not feeling quite so well, so at half past three o'clock, she had turned her back upon the desolation, and leaving the servants to do what little they could or would, went back to sit with her mother for the rest of the afternoon, which had turned out fine and sunny.
Mrs. Varian was suffering quietly, as usual, but was very glad to have her daughter for a little while. The room was quiet and cool, and in an easy chair by the window, Missy found a little rest. She read aloud to her mother for awhile; but there soon began to be distractions.
"Mamma, here are the Wellses going in at our gate. I hope they'll enjoy the sight of the battered steps and the trampled lawn."
"It is but civil of them to come and leave a card, at all events."
"Ah, and here goes somebody else. Who is it, with such a pretty pony phaeton, and a puny little footman, and a pug dog? It must be the Oldhams. I didn't know they had come up. Well, I hope Ann has on a respectable cap, and that the bell wires are not broken, as it seems probable all Yellowcoats will call to inquire for us to-day."
"I am sure it is very kind of Yellowcoats. Why do you speak so, Missy? You surely can't resent it."
Missy bit her lips; she had a resentment that she had never let her mother share. Yes, she did resent it. It was bitter to her to know that they were allcoming, and that every one would know where they had found asylum, and that all the old story of last September would be revived. She was quite correct in thinking that all Yellowcoats was on its way there that afternoon. Ann must have had a lively time answering the bell and the questions.
It was now the third day since the fire. The second day had been a stormy one, and the sunshine seemed to have come on purpose to disseminate the gossip. Missy, from behind the blinds, watched the carriages drive in. There were Oldhams, country Oldhams and city Oldhams, a family far reaching and intricately entwined in Yellowcoats' connections. It was not safe to say anything anti-Oldham to any one in Yellowcoats, for they were related to everybody, gentle and simple, in the place. There came the Roncevalles, who had two men on the box, and were debonair and rich and easy-going. There were the Sombreros, in a heavy, not recent carriage, driven by a man who did not even hold himself straight, and who couldn't have been dragooned into a livery. But the inmates of the carriage held themselves straight, and other people had to walk straight before them. If the object of mankind is to secure the respect of its fellows, they had attained that object. People of manifold more pretension quailed before their silent disapprobation. They "rode their sure and even trot, while now the world rode by, now lagged behind." Missy felt a sharper pang of wonder what the Sombreros had heard about her, than what the people with the two men on the box, or the black ponies and the pug dog had heard; she felt that the Sombreros would never change their minds, and minds that don't change areto be held in awe. She saw them drive away with a heavier sense of apprehension than she had felt before. But they did not turn and look towards the Andrews' cottage, as the others did. Missy felt sure the two men on the box of the Roncevalles' carriage nudged each other; the two ladies in the carriage certainly did turn and look that way; very gently and decorously, but still they turned.
By and by a carriage coming out met a carriage driving in, directly before the Andrews' house. They stopped. The ladies bent eagerly forward and talked in low tones; more than one glance flashed towards the closed blinds of the widower's house. Missy's cheeks were scarlet and her breath came quick; but she was fascinated and could not look away. It was gentle Mrs. Olor and her pretty young daughters—who could dread anything from them? Stirring Mrs. Eve was just giving them the information that she had received from the waitress at the Varians' door. She was the kindest and busiest person in Yellowcoats, but she had a sense of humor, and she also was very particular about her own daughters, one of whom was with her in the carriage. Who could doubt what view she took of Miss Rothermel's aspirations? Missy watched breathlessly the faces; the mammas alone talked, the daughters listened, with smiles and rather pursed-up mouths. Superior the whole party seemed to feel themselves, as people always seem to feel when they have a little story against their neighbors, not reflecting that their own turn may come next. Missy had felt superior for twenty-seven years, though she hadn't talked more gossip than most other well-disposed and well-bred persons. Still, she had feltsuperior, and it was horrid to be made to feel inferior, and she bit her lips, and angry tears came up into her eyes. Her mother lay watching her silently on the bed.
"Well, Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?" she said at last, gently.
Missy forced herself to speak indifferently, "Only the Olors and the Eves. They have met just outside the gate, and are mincing us quite fine, I should judge from their animated looks."
"Well, I hope they haven't anything worse to say of us than that we've had a fire, and that the place looks sadly out of trim."
"Mamma," said Missy abruptly, as with wreathed smiles the friends parted and the carriages drove away, "what do you say to a journey this summer? I'm sadly cut up about this fire. I never shall have the heart to get things in order before autumn; I'm tired of Yellowcoats for the first time in my life, and—I want to go away."
"Go away, Missy! How could we do that? I fear I am not strong enough; and your Aunt Harriet—you know we resolved two years ago, we'd never try it again. She is so hard to please, and you remember what a trial we found the whole three months."
"It would be less of a trial than staying here. I, for one, would be glad to risk it. And as to you, I sometimes feel sure you need a change more than anything."
Mrs. Varian shook her head. "I need rest more than anything."
"Invalids always feel that, and yet see what benefit they get from journeys that they have dreaded."
"Besides," said the mother rather hesitatingly"you know there is always a chance of St. John's return."
"I didn't know," said Missy, a little coldly.
"You know as much as I do," returned her mother. "You saw his last letter. He says all depends upon his being accepted. He may come back at any time."
"Oh, as to that," cried Missy, "I think there is no danger that he will not be accepted. It would surprise me very much if he escaped. A man with a handsome income is generally found to have a vocation."
"You have been reading too much Browning and Balzac, I am afraid," said her mother with a sigh.
"I have been reading life, and hard, common sense," cried Missy. "I ought to have been prepared to find we were all to sit meekly waiting at home, while the saint of the family was on probation. It ought to be honor enough. But I admit I would like to have a voice in my sacrifices, and to make them self-denials."
"It is new to me to imagine you finding your pleasure anywhere but at home. Since you feel so about it, I am sure—"
"Oh, don't say anything more about it," cried Missy, thoroughly unhinged. "I can stay here, I suppose. I really am not quite new at doing what I don't like, even if I am only secular."
"You are tired, Missy. Now go and lie down, and don't think anything more about this matter. When we are both fresher, we will talk it over, and you shall decide what shall be done."
At half-past five o'clock she got up, and dressed carefully for dinner, bracing herself for the ordeal with much philosophy. At dinner, she found her philosophy quite superfluous, for Mr. Andrews did not makehis appearance, and Gabby scarcely lifted her eyes from her plate. This young person had been awake the night before, and an attentive listener to the conversation between her father and Missy, and it had naturally made a profound impression on her. It is difficult to say why Missy felt annoyed that Mr. Andrews did not come to dinner. She ought to have felt relieved; but on the contrary, she felt vexed. It is always disagreeable not to act your part when you have rehearsed it, and feel well up in it. But it was a great vexation to her to think that she was keeping him from his own dinner-table by reason of that unpleasant speech of the night before. She had only realized that he wasn't at breakfast at the time, with a sense of relief. She now remembered it with a sensation of chagrin. Also, she recalled his pallor and weariness of expression last night, which in her misery about herself, she had forgotten. It was possible he was really suffering to-day. It was only three days since he had met with a serious accident, all in their service.
"How is Mr. Andrews feeling to-day?" she asked of the waitress.
"Not quite so well, Miss, I think."
"Has he kept his room?"
"Oh, no, Miss, but he doesn't seem to have much appetite, and I believe the doctor told him he mustn't think of going to town for several days yet. He had been telling the doctor he was going down, and would stay away perhaps a week, and promised to keep very quiet there. But the doctor wouldn't hear of it, and said the hot weather might come on suddenly, and make him very sick, and besides, he wasn't fit to bear the journey."
Missy was quite chagrined by this information. Mr. Andrews had felt so constrained and uncomfortable in his own house, he could not bear it any longer. Or else he had so honorably desired to put her at her ease while she had to stay, that he had wanted to go away. Either view of the case was bad enough; but it was undeniably an awkward situation, and if he persisted in keeping away from the table for another meal, she should feel that it was unendurable, and they must go away, range or no range, order or disorder.
Jay followed her from the table, clinging to her skirts. She went directly to her mother, where the child's prattle covered her absent-minded silence.
It was a lovely June evening, fresh after the rain of yesterday, and she sat by the window watching the pink clouds fade into gray, and the twilight make its way over the fields and roadside. Jay babbled his innocent babble to inattentive ears; by and by he grew sleepy. Eliza came, and he was sent away.
It was about half-past eight, when the servant came up, and said that there was a person below who wished to see Mrs. or Miss Varian. Missy struck a match and looked at the card. It was the agent of the insurance company, in which the house had been insured.
"Why could he not come in the daytime! I absolutely can't talk business to-night."
The servant explained that he came up by the evening train, had been at the house, and was to go away by an early train in the morning.
There was no help for it; Missy dismissed the pink clouds and the soft creeping twilight and her thoughts, and went down stairs to the parlor. The room was lighted only by a lamp which stood on the table in themiddle of it, by which the agent sat. He was a trim, dapper, middle-aged man, not at all aware that he was not a gentleman, and very sharp about business matters, while he was affable and explanatory, as became a business man dealing with a young lady. His manner annoyed Missy, who would have got on much better if he had been simply business-like. She knew he had the better of her in his knowledge of matters, and her memory was very unusually faulty about the things she ought to have remembered. The papers were all in her room at home, and for aught she knew, had been lost or destroyed when that room was torn to pieces to save it from the flames. She certainly had not been wise enough to think of looking for them since the fire occurred.
"You will have to come again," she said; "I really am not prepared to-night to talk it over."
He seemed disposed to take advantage of this, and rather pressed an immediate decision on some question.
It was not till this moment that Missy knew that Mr. Andrews was in the room. He was lying on a sofa in a corner, and a screen stood before him, shielding him from the light.
"Mr. Andrews, I beg your pardon," she said, getting up. "I am afraid we are disturbing you. I didn't know you were here. We will go into the dining-room if this gentleman has anything more to say."
"I don't think he has," said Mr. Andrews, raising himself a little on his elbow. "Don't think of going to the dining-room, or of discussing the matter further, for I am sure you are too tired to-night. Perhaps I can attend to the matter for you."
An inquiring look towards the agent had a very salutary effect upon him. It was quite amazing to notice how his manner changed when he found he had a man to deal with. Missy sat by humbled, while she listened to their talk.
Why couldn't she have been business-like? Why couldn't she have said what Mr. Andrews was saying, without "losing her head," and getting nervous? It was her affair, and she certainly ought to know more about it than he did.
When the man was fairly out of the door, she gave a sigh, and said:
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Andrews, for helping me out of it."
"I think the man is rather a sharper, and I'm afraid you are not a business woman, Miss Rothermel."
"I am afraid not; and I always meant to be."
Then there was a pause. Mr. Andrews laid his head back on the pillow of the sofa, and seemed not to have anything more to say. Missy had a great deal to say, but she didn't know where to begin. She was full of contrition and purposes of amendment; but the situation was most embarrassing, and Mr. Andrews was not inclined to help her. Time pressed. It was insupportable to sit still by the lamp, and not say anything. Mr. Andrews was lying down, too. What if any one should come in, and find her sitting there, entertaining him? She wished for Aunt Harriet—for any one; but she must say her say; and she rushed at it.
"I am afraid," she said, in a voice that showed agitation, "I am afraid you are not so well to-day, Mr. Andrews."
"I have had an uncomfortable day; but I don'tsuppose I am materially worse—at least the doctor doesn't tell me so."
Then another pause. Certainly he did not mean to help her.
"I am afraid," she said, getting up, and laying down upon the table the paper-cutter that she had been turning and twisting in her fingers, "I am afraid our being here makes you very uncomfortable. And it ought to be just the other way. We are so much indebted to you! You have been so good—and—and—"
She made a step toward him, and standing behind the screen in front of his sofa, which came up to her waist, leaned on it for a moment, looking down—then said, "I don't know how to express it, exactly; I hope you'll understand. I know I haven't behaved well about—about—things—but I suppose I had some excuse. It is so hard to remember one's own insignificance, and to think only about other people! I have thought of no one's discomforts or miseries but my own. I haven't been nice at all; I've been horrid. I never should have believed it of myself. At my age it seems so paltry and undignified to be minding what people may say or think, if only you know you're doing right. I have resolved I will never let it come into my mind again, nor affect my conduct in any way. And I hope you will excuse my rudeness, and the discomfort I have caused you, and will let me make up for it in some way, while we stay with you."
He lay looking at her as she stood behind the screen, leaning a little toward him on her folded arms. The only light in the room was behind her, shining through her fair, fine hair, now in a little curling disorder; all her face was in shadow. It is possible she looked to the lonely man almost a "blessed damosel," leaning to him out of Heaven.
"You have made up for it," he said, "very fully. I hope we shall always be friends, if you will let me."
"It shan't be my fault if we are not," she said. Then, hurriedly saying good-night, she went away. There was a clock in the hall, which struck nine as she passed it. It had a peculiar tone, and she never could forget it. It had been striking as she passed it on the gloomy morning last summer, when she had hurried to that fearful death-bed.
It gave her a pang to hear it now. It seemed sharply to accuse her of something. It recalled to her all her prejudices, all her resolutions. It brought to her mind his manner when she had told him of his wife's death, his absence of feeling in all the days that followed. It revived his banishing the mother's memory from the children's minds; his ready purpose to send away her favorite Gabrielle. And then she thought of what she had just been saying—of what he had just said, and in what an earnest way! Her face burned at the recollection.
"Am I never to have any peace in this tiresome matter," she said to herself as she shut herself into her room. "I will not think of it any more, while I am obliged to remain in this house. I will honestly do all I can to make things comfortable; he has done enough to make that proper. Afterwards I will keep my promise by being kind to the children, and by really serving them when it is in my power. It does not involve me in any intimacy with him. You can stand a person's friend, and not see him once a year. I willnever do anything to injure or annoy him. That is being an honest friend, as we are bidden to be, even to our enemies. I have put myself and my pride away. I will do all I can to forward the comfort and pleasure of every one in the house, and there is the end of it."
A MISOGYNIST.
AActing upon this wise resolution, Missy came down the next morning a little late, to breakfast. She was not going to escape any one. She had on a fresh cambric morning-dress, and some roses in her belt. The breakfast-table looked quite populous when she entered, for Mr. Andrews was at the foot of the table, and the two children on one side, and Miss Varian on the other, in the seat that had been placed for Missy. Miss Varian's coming had been rather a surprise to everyone, for she had been nursing her neuralgia so assiduously, no one imagined it would go away so soon. Mr. Andrews got up when Miss Rothermel came in, and Jay shouted a welcome from out of his hominy plate.
Acting upon this wise resolution, Missy came down the next morning a little late, to breakfast. She was not going to escape any one. She had on a fresh cambric morning-dress, and some roses in her belt. The breakfast-table looked quite populous when she entered, for Mr. Andrews was at the foot of the table, and the two children on one side, and Miss Varian on the other, in the seat that had been placed for Missy. Miss Varian's coming had been rather a surprise to everyone, for she had been nursing her neuralgia so assiduously, no one imagined it would go away so soon. Mr. Andrews got up when Miss Rothermel came in, and Jay shouted a welcome from out of his hominy plate.
Aunt Harriet said, "Well, Missy, I suppose you didn't expect to see me."
"You've got Missy's place," said Jay, without ceremony.
"Oh, no matter," cried Missy, turning a little pale, for she foresaw that her fate would be to sit at thehead of the table and pour out the tea. Nobody sat there ordinarily, and the waitress poured out the tea. But the table was not very large, and Aunt Harriet had spread out herself, and her strawberries, and her glass of water, and her cup of coffee, and her little bouquet of flowers, over so much of the side on which she sat, that it would have caused quite a disturbance to have made a place for Missy there.
"Where will you sit, Miss Rothermel?" asked the waitress, with her hand on the chair, looking perplexed, and glancing from the encumbered neighborhood of Miss Varian, to the freer region behind the urn and tea-cups.
"Oh, anywhere, it makes no difference," said Missy, determined not to fail the first time she was put to the test. "Here, if it is more convenient."
The servant placed the chair at the head of the table, which Missy promptly took. Mr. Andrews, who had been standing with rather an anxious face, as if he saw his guest's struggle, sat down with a relieved expression.
"You are just in time to reconstruct my coffee," said Miss Varian. "Among her other good qualities, Mr. Andrews, your waitress does not number making good coffee. Mine is tepid, and the cream was put in last, I am sure. You must let Missy make you a cup; I am afraid you have forgotten what good coffee is, if you have been drinking this all winter."
Missy bit her lip, and then shrugged her shoulder, and gave Mr. Andrews a comical glance, as the only way of getting over her aunt's rudeness. She also gave the servant a smile, and a little shake of the head, as she handed the hot cup of coffee to her. The womanwas very red and angry, but this mollified her. Miss Varian had the most artless way of insulting servants. Nothing but the general understanding, that it was her way, and the certainty that she would give them a good deal of money at Christmas, kept the servants at home respectful to her.
"Yes, Missy does understand putting a cup of coffee together, even when it's only tolerable to begin with," she said, tasting it with satisfaction. "I think, Missy, if you showed the cook your way of making it, to-morrow morning, Mr. Andrews would bless you every day of his life."
"Why, my dear aunt, the coffee is excellent," cried Missy, "I don't know what you are thinking of. Next you'll be criticising these muffins, which are perfect. Shall I give you one?" Soon after this, the servant left the room, ostensibly to get some hot muffins, but really to pour out her wrath to the cook. While she was gone, Missy perceived that Mr. Andrews had neither tea nor coffee, and was eating very little breakfast. "Are you not going to have coffee?" she said.
"If you will give me some, I think I should like to judge whether Miss Varian is right." So Missy made him a cup of coffee, very hot and nice, and as there was no waitress in the room, got up and carried it to him herself, before he knew what she was doing.
"I beg you'll say it's good," she said. "Now, Jay," as she passed him, "you surelyhavehad hominy enough. Don't you want some strawberries." So she got him a plate from the side-board, and gave him some strawberries, and a kiss, and put the muffinswithin Gabby's reach before she sat down. Mr. Andrews' anxiety quite melted away, and he began to enjoy his breakfast.
"While you are up, Missy," said Miss Varian, just after she sat down, "give me a glass of water."
Missy laughed, and so did Jay and even Gabrielle, who looked alarmed as soon as she had done it. Could a person be sent to boarding-school for laughing in the wrong place, she wondered. Missy gave her aunt the glass of water, and arranged things so that she could find them near her plate. And so, the breakfast that had begun so threateningly, ended quite peacefully. The morning was warm, but lovely.
"I think, if you will take me to the piazza, I will sit there awhile, Missy, but you will have to get me my shawl and hat, or go off on a cruise to find Goneril, who is never where she ought to be."
"Oh, we'll indulge Goneril with a little breakfast to put her in a good humor for the day, and I'll find the shawl and hat," said Missy, taking her aunt's hand to lead her from the room.
Jay came to make her give him her other hand, and Gabby, allured by the sight of a new bauble on Miss Varian's watch-chain, followed them closely. Miss Varian was established on the front piazza, sheltered from the sun and wind (and conspicuous to the passers-by), Gabby was nailed to her side in fascinated contemplation of the trinket, which, it was quite probable, the capricious lady would end by giving her, and Missy was free to go to her mother for a little while. In half an hour she came down ready to go to her work in the dismantled house. She went into the parlor to find her parasol, and there was Mr. Andrewswith letters and papers before him, trying painfully to write with his stiff left hand. "Oh, you must let me do that for you," cried Missy, pulling off her gloves. "If they are business letters, that is," with a little hesitation, for she caught sight of a woman's handwriting, among the letters before him.
"The business ones are the pressing ones. It would be a great kindness, if you could. But you are needed at the house, perhaps."
"I can write for half an hour or so. I have sent the women over, with their work laid out for them for all the morning. I am quite used to this. I write Aunt Harriet's letters every evening, till I go almost to sleep."
"I shall not let you go to sleep," said Mr. Andrews, "over mine." So Missy wrote, and Mr. Andrews dictated, for half an hour at least. "That is all that is needed now; I am very much obliged to you."
"There are a good many more before you yet," she said, glancing at the heap.
"They will do as well another time. Perhaps, if anything comes to-day that has to be attended to, you will be kind enough to write me a few lines to-night."
"Yes, of course; and if you want anything for the afternoon mail, don't fail to send over for me." Then she went away, feeling very virtuous.
In the afternoon, as she came down the steps to go back to see if her mother wanted her, she saw Mr. Andrews just entering at the gate. It was the first time that he had been out, and he showed his four days' confinement to the house. As she met him, he said, with a little hesitation, "I have come to see if you won't go out for a little drive with us this afternoon. It is too fine a day to be shut up in the house."
Her heart sank. A driveen famillewith the Andrews', in the teeth of all that had happened in the last few days! How could she brave it? Her color changed a little and perhaps he saw it.
"Don't go if you don't fancy it," he said.
"Oh, it's just the afternoon for a drive. But I was going back to sit with mamma, who has been alone all day."
"I sent up to Mrs. Varian's room to see if there were any chance that she would go with us, and Goneril came creeping out on tiptoe to say she had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed."
The last hope was extinguished; she made just one more cowardly attempt. "But you," she said, "are you well enough? Isn't it rather against the doctor's orders?"
"No, he gave me permission himself this morning, finding me very much improved."
Then Missy said to herself, "I should think the man could see—" And aloud she said, "Oh, there is nothing in the way. I'll go to the house for my gloves and vail."
When she came back the open wagon stood before the gate of the cottage. Jay was already in it, brandishing the whip and shouting, much to Michael's displeasure, who stood by the horses' heads. Mr. Andrews was coming from the house. Gabby stood behind a post of the piazza, showing a face lead-color with sullenness and disappointment. She had no hat on, and was evidently not to be of the party.
"Isn't Gabby going?" said Missy to Jay.
"No," cried Jay, in selfish satisfaction, "Papa says there isn't room."
"Poor Gabby! why, that won't do," she said, going to meet Mr. Andrews in the path. "Won't you take Gabrielle?" she said. "There is plenty of room for the two children with me on the back seat."
Miss Rothermel enjoyed being magnanimous so much, Mr. Andrews hadn't the heart to refuse her.
"Which way are we going?" he asked, as Michael drove slowly. Jay clamored for a drive, which took them through the village. Miss Rothermel, of course, would give no vote. Gabrielle, when questioned, agreed with Jay. Mr. Andrews admitted it was a pretty drive. "The greatest good of the greatest number," thought Missy, while Michael drove that way.
They took the road through the village, where the men sat thick on the store steps, and where the young village maidens were taking their afternoon saunter. They met the Sombreros, they met the Oldhams and the Olors—whom did they not meet, enjoying or enduring their afternoon drive? Mr. Andrews had his arm in an unnecessarily conspicuous sling. It was malicious of Goneril to put on that glaring great white silk handkerchief. He was labeled hero, and people could not help looking. Missy did not blame them, but it was horrid all the same. However, when they were out of the village, and there were comparatively few people to meet, the influence of the charming day and the absence of charred remains and disordered rooms began to brighten her, and she almost liked it. They drove along a road by the bay. The tide was high, and was breaking with a contented little purring sound against the pebbles; little boats bent idly with the incoming tide and pulled lazily at their anchors. The bay was as blue as the sky; some white sails drifted on it, for scenic effect, no doubt, for what else? for there was no wind, but only a fresh cool air that came in puffs and ripples across the water. Beside them, on the other side of the road, were green and flowering banks, where Jay saw wild roses and anemones and little nameless and beloved wild flowers. There was privet budding and hawthorn fading, and barberry and catbrier and wild grape, in fresh June coloring. Little dust came here in this narrow road, and with this constant dampness from the bay. Nobody pulled down the vines, and they hung in undisturbed festoons from the cedars and the stones.
"I like this," said Jay, with a sort of sigh, after a long moment of silence.
"So do I," said Missy, giving him a kiss.
The sun was behind the cedar and barberry and catbrier banks. They went as far down the Neck as there was a road to go, and then turned back, "the gait they cam' again." The children were exceptionally good, and no one talked much. It was not the sort of hour when one talks much, good or bad, or thinks much, either. Enough bliss it was to be alive,
"But to be young was very heaven."
"But to be young was very heaven."
Jay liked it, and Missy liked it too, though she was twenty-eight. And Mr. Andrews, possibly, though he did not say anything about it.
When they came up the steep little hill by the old mill, Jay felt the spell of the water and the wildflowers broken, and began to clamor to be taken over on the front seat between papa and Michael. He was cold, he said, and he wanted to see the horses, and he didn't want to stay where he was, in point of fact. It was rather a serious thing to contradict Jay, and to carry him howling through the village, like a band to call attention to the arrival of a circus. It was well to afford entertainment to one's neighbors, but Missy did not think it necessary to court occasions of sacrifice, so, with her pleasure much diminished, they stopped, while Mr. Andrews managed to put out his one stiff hand, and then she proceeded to push the hopeful boy over the back of the seat, and establish him between his father and the coachman.
"I must say, Jay, you are a spoiled child," she exclaimed.
"That's so!" cried Jay, complacently, making a lunge towards the whip.
"If you say 'that's so' again, I shall be angry with you," said Missy. "Mr. Andrews,won'tyou try to stop the children from talking this vulgar slang. Jolly, coquettish, bizarre slang I don't mind, once in a very great while, from children, but this sort of kitchen and village boy vulgarity they never will get over, if they keep it up much longer."
"I have done my best," said Mr. Andrews.
"Well, I hope you'll excuse me for saying I don't think you have covered yourself with glory."
"Jay, we're a bad lot; we must reform at once," said the father, putting his stiff arm around his boy, and giving him a hug. "Miss Rothermel will give us up if we don't."
"That's so!" cried Jay, boisterously, kicking theshawl off his legs, and nearly tumbling off the seat in his enthusiasm.
"Ihavegiven you up," said Missy. "Don't put yourselves to the trouble of reforming on my account."
Nothing seemed to disturb the tranquillity of Mr. Andrews this evening. He looked around and saw Missy's face darken as they found themselves meeting carriages arriving from the cars, but it did not seem to depress him; on the contrary, he seemed quietly amused.
"The cars are three-quarters of an hour late!" exclaimed Missy, unguardedly; "I thought we should have escaped them."
"There is no dust to-night," said Mr. Andrews; "so they don't do us any harm."
"No, of course not," murmured Missy, bowing stiffly to Mrs. Eve and her placid-looking son, who swept past them as if they were fugitives from justice.
"There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea!"
"There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea!"
It was amazing why every one who came from the cars by the late train drove as if pursued by fate.
When they reached home, there was another trial awaiting Missy. A long-legged, good-looking man was sitting on the piazza, with his feet higher than his head, and a meerschaum in his mouth. He came forward briskly to meet the arrival and welcome his host; but he was aghast to find a well-dressed young lady getting out of the carriage, and could scarcely command words to explain that he had only that day heard of his friend's accident, and had hurried up, by the just-arrived train, to learn its extent. He wasevidently one of Mr. Andrews' bachelor friends—a woman-hater, like himself; and his thorough chagrin at seeing Miss Rothermel, after an introduction, go into the house, would have been amusing to any one less intimately connected with the surprise. Just as Missy—followed closely by the children, and, at a little distance, by the two gentlemen—was entering the house, a second female cavalcade, headed by Miss Varian, attended by two maids bearing bathing-clothes and towels, came from the direction of the water, and met them upon the piazza.
"Is that you, Missy?" said her aunt; "I have been trying my first bath of the season; and I assure you it was cold." As if this were not enough to try the nerves of the poor misogynist, Mrs. Varian at this moment descended the stairs, accompanied by Anne with her shawl and book.
"I thought I would give you a surprise, Missy," she said, with her sweet smile, "and be down-stairs to meet you."
Missy kissed her, and tried to look as if it were an agreeable surprise. The cup of the guest's amazement was now apparently full. Here were six strange women gathered on his friend's threshold to meet him, all evidently at home. Had Mr. Andrews' accident affected his reason, and had he begun a collection of these specimens, that had lately been his abhorrence? What had occurred, to turn this peaceful abode of meerschaum and Bourbon into a clear-starched and be-ribboned country house, where shooting-coats and colored shirts were out of place? What should he do about his boots? Was there a train to town to-night? or ought he to stay, and look after poor Andrews?Wasn't it his duty to telegraph to some one in town at once for medical advice? He had always heard that people turned against their friends when the brain was involved; and, most likely, this was a case in point, and Andrews had turned toward his enemies, as well.
All these thoughts rushed through his mind (and it wasn't a mind that could bear rushes through it, without showing its disturbance), while Mr. Andrews, with unusual urbanity, was bowing to Mrs. Varian, and making her welcome. It was the first time she had been down-stairs since she had been in the house, and it seemed to give him a great deal of pleasure. She always called out in him, as in every man who met her, the highest degree of chivalry that was in him.
But the guest did not look at her; he only looked at his friend, transformed into a ladies' man, a Chesterfield—everything that he wasn't before. He staggered in his gait as he looked on, and took hold of the door-post for support. Missy was glad Mr. Andrews did not observe his agitation; but none of it escaped her, and she longed to give a chance for explanation.
"What can he think of us?" she reflected miserably. But no moment for explanation arrived. The dinner-bell rang, with sharp promptness, as they stood in the doorway. It was Melinda's night out, and no grass was allowed to grow under the family's feet when that night came round. The children were hungry too, and rushed ahead into the dining-room; so nothing remained for Mr. Andrews, but to lay down his hat, give his arm to Mrs. Varian and followthem in. Miss Varian exclaimed she wasn't ready for dinner, just coming from the bath, but Missy dreaded her disturbing them by coming in later, and begged her to come at once. She was hungry, and consented. The guest, whose name seemed to be McKenzie, had nothing to do but to follow. There were places enough arranged at the table, but by a villainous, vicious contrivance of fate, every one got a seat before Missy, who had to place her aunt at table, and she was left staring at her enthronement at the head. "I don't think I'd better sit here," she faltered rather low to Mr. McKenzie, who was stranded beside her, "I think there may be something to carve, and I'm not much at that."
"Oh, by no means," he exclaimed, hurriedly, "I couldn't think of it—that is—I am sure you belong there—I—I—you—that is—"
"Oh, very well," said Missy, seeing that Mr. Andrews was looking rather anxiously in their direction, and sank into her seat.
"I want to sit next to Missy," cried Jay. "Even if she was cross to me, I love her all the same, don't you, papa?"
"All the same," said Mr. Andrews, smiling, and not looking disconcerted, as he took the stopper out of the decanter by him. Missy was very angry for a moment. Why had he not been disconcerted, as she most unhappily was? But in a few moments she thought better of it, and was ashamed of herself. There was poor mamma, who had made such an effort to come down; she must have a cheerful hour at all events. And the miserable man next her must be put at ease. The room was rather warm, and hisheat increased his agitation. His soup almost choked him, and Missy at one time thought she should have to introduce him to his napkin, he seemed too ill at ease to find it, though it was beside his plate. She put the salt within his reach, but he didn't see it, and a water bottle, but he was even beyond that. So she filled his glass and pushed it towards him. He saw it at last, and drank it off at one gulp.
"Mr. Andrews," said Missy, "can we have the door a little open? It is rather warm at this end of the room."
"Certainly, Miss Rothermel," exclaimed Mr. Andrews, getting up to open it. "Why didn't you speak before?"
"Heavens! Missy, what are you thinking about! The door open on my back. I should be ill with neuralgia in half an hour. Mr. Andrews, I beg you'll have a little mercy on us. Missy will kill off all the household if you let her have her way about ventilation."
"Oh!n'importe," cried Missy, as Mr. Andrews stood irresolute and embarrassed. "Mr. McKenzie and I may die of asphyxia, but that would be better than Aunt Harriet's getting neuralgia. Pray sit down, Mr. Andrews, I really am used to it."
"And I," said Miss Varian, going on uninterruptedly with her dinner, "am quite familiar with these cases of asphyxia. Pray don't be disturbed, Mr. Andrews. Miss Rothermel has them two or three times a week."
It was so ludicrous, the uninterrupted calm of Miss Varian, who knew she was going to have her own way, and the heat and agitation of the others; that,as Mr. Andrews reluctantly took his seat, they all laughed.
"It is quite true," said Mrs. Varian, wishing to reconcile him. "You know, Missy, you are very imprudent. I believe your aunt has saved you from a great many colds."
"From an early grave, no doubt," said Missy, fanning herself, and giving Mr. McKenzie another glass of water, while he was looking amazed from Mrs. Varian to her sister-in-law. He was still quite incapable of helping himself.
"If he has apoplexy, it will be on my conscience," thought Missy. So, after the discussion, she signalled the waitress to open a window near. This was quietly done, and Miss Varian never knew it, not being as sensitively organized as she thought she was. In the meanwhile, something had come on the table which had to be carved, and it had been put before Mr. Andrews.
"This is a hard case," said the host, "but a man with 'never a hand' can't carve. McKenzie, I believe I must put it upon you."
This was exactly the last straw. The wretched man actually gasped. He writhed, he tried to speak.
"Can't Melinda?" said Missy, quite forgetting that it wasn't her place to make suggestions. She felt sure Mr. Andrews had not seen the purple shade of Mr. McKenzie's complexion.
"Melinda has no gift," said Mr. Andrews. "I have tried her more than once, but she can't carve."
"Then let me try," cried Missy, springing up. "You'll seeIhave a gift."
"Missy!" murmured her mother, deprecatingly, atthis boldness. She evidently had not seen the state the guest was in.
"Mamma," cried Missy, "you know I've had to carve, and make tea, and do a hundred things that didn't belong to me, ever since I was twelve years old, and now you blame me for wanting to show off my accomplishments, when I'm quite of a proper age to display them. I've been imposed on by the family all my life, and now—the ingratitude of republics."
As Missy finished her speech, she stood by Mr. Andrews, who had reluctantly got up, and was glancing rather sternly at his friend.
But the friend did not look at him, he was gazing bewildered at Missy. The familiarity and complete at-home-ness of the whole party made him doubt his senses. It was bad enough to see the women so at ease, though he could believe anything of them. But Andrews evidently liked it, and was pleased with all the liberties they took. It was impossible to account for the state of things by any theory but that of brain disorder. How he got through the rest of the dinner, Missy never quite knew. He had no one to pour out glasses of water for him, and put the wine within reach, for she quite washed her hands of him and sent Gabrielle to take her place, while Mr. Andrews took Gabrielle's; and Missy remained to carve. When they came out from the dinner-table, Mrs. Varian went up stairs, and Missy went into the parlor to gather up some of her aunt's things, of which there were always plenty to gather up. The two gentlemen went on the piazza. She heard them talking as they sat down beside the window, and prepared to smoke.
"I must say, Andrews—"
"Yes."
"That—well. I was a little taken aback to find things—so—a—so—well—so altered with you."
He was beginning to breathe freer and to gain courage, now the atmosphere was clear of women.
"I don't quite understand," returned his friend. "You mean I'm looking badly? You might have thought so a day or two ago, but I'm quite myself to-day, thank heaven."
It seemed to Mr. McKenzie that that was just who he wasn't, but he only smiled derisively, and said, "No; I didn't mean that. I don't think you looking much amiss. On the contrary, you seem uncommonly jolly."
"Jolly!"
"Well for you—that is. Look here, Andrews, if there's a train back to town to-night, I guess I'll take it. I'm not a lady's man, you know. You see I didn't have any idea of what you expected of your friends. I'm not prepared."
"Prepared, for what? We didn't have a dinner-party, did we? I hope you don't mind meeting these neighbors of mine, who have been burned out of their own house, and have taken shelter for a few nights in mine."
"Neighbors," repeated the guest, who was a very good fellow, but not the quickest in the world.
"Why, yes—from the house next door, where the fire was. You knew there had been a fire, I take it, since you had heard about my accident."
"Yes."
"Well, those ladies, as I said, were obliged to leave their own house in flames, and I brought them in here."
"Oh!"
"They seem to be very much obliged to me for what they think I did for them on that occasion, and we get on very well together."
There was a pause, during which Mr. Andrews lighted his cigar, and Mr. McKenzie appeared to be digesting the intelligence.
"All the same, it seems a little queer," he said, after a good deal of deliberation.
"Queer? I must say I don't see it."
"Well, considering how you feel about such things, I mean. I don't suppose there's any real objection, if anybody likes it. There are enough of 'em to make it proper, I've no doubt."
"O yes, I don't think there's anything improper; you needn't be uneasy, in the least, McKenzie."
There were a good many puffs before the new-comer spoke. He was evidently thinking deeply.
"I'm not uneasy about it, but I suppose you know what people will be saying. I know better, of course; but they'll say it, all the same."
"Come, now, McKenzie, who cares for what they say? When you get a little older you won't mind, you know."
This was a club joke, for McKenzie wasn't very young. He had a way of turning red, however, very youthfully, and did care what people said about him, if it had anything to do with the sex opposed to his.
"Ah, bah! that's all nonsense. You'll care, I guess, as much as anybody, when you find what everybody, these ladies here into the bargain, expect of you."
"That's your opinion, is it? Well, come now, I'll set you at rest. These ladies are remarkably sensible. The youngest of them, who is the only one you'd be likely to want me to marry, has a great contempt for me; thinks I'm a brute, and all that. She's fond of the children, and is only civil to me because I happen to be their father and her host."
"Ah, bah!" cried McKenzie, with infinite contempt.
"It's the truth, McKenzie. And I'll tell you something more; she's a spit-fire, and I've been so afraid of her I haven't been near the house all winter."
"You've made up for it this summer, then. No, Andrews, don't you tell me any such stuff. I'm not so young asthat, you know."
Andrews laughed a little comfortably, as he smoked. "Well, there's no use in talking, then. But it's a hard case. You'd better not let her know your suspicions."
"Let her know! Heaven forbid! No, I don't think there's any danger."
"McKenzie, upon my word, I believe you're afraid of her too."
"Not in just the way you are."
"She's so little, she couldn't hurt you."
"Not just the way she's hurt you."
"You don't believe me yet. Well, now, let me tell you seriously. This young lady is not the marrying kind; she is too sensible by half. I wouldn't ask her for the world. And you know—well, you know I'm not likely to try it again very soon. We won't talk any more about this; but you may make your mind easy on the subject."
Missy heard as far as this; it wasn't strictly honorable, but she did. She had been sitting in a chair by the window, the easier to pick up a lot of chessmen, which were scattered on the window sill and under it. She had her lap full of the rattling things, when she became interested in the conversation on the piazza. She could not move for some seconds, being fascinated by the sound of her own name. Then, when she wanted to go, she was terrified by the fear of being discovered; the chessmen made such a rattling if she moved an inch; she felt it certain that Mr. Andrews would start and come to the window and look in to see who was eavesdropping, if he heard a sound. He would be sure to think it was Gabrielle, till he found it was the virtuous Missy. How she trembled. How angry she was, and how ashamed. But after this last pleasant declaration she started up, chessmen or no chessmen, and darted out of the room. Mr. Andrews did hear a noise, and did look in, and did think it was Gabrielle; but he could not see who it was that fled; and though Missy heard him sternly calling the little girl in the hall, she was not virtuous enough to go out and tell him, over the balusters, who had overheard his flattering remarks. This omission would probably have rankled in her conscience if she had not seen Gabrielle, from the window, come in at the front gate with Jay at the same moment. So the father must be assured that the children were neither of them the offenders. He could think what he pleased of the servants, that was no matter of hers.
She was too angry to go down-stairs again. She would have found it difficult to say why she was soangry. She knew she was sensible, she knew she was a spit-fire; she knew Mr. Andrews did not mean to ask her to marry him. All this was no news; he had a right to say what he had said, to an intimate friend. She could not expect to be considered sacred. Why shouldn't Mr Andrews talk about her to his friend? He had not been absolutely disrespectful; he had only mentioned facts—a little jocosely to be sure; and a woman hates to be spoken jocosely of between two men, even if admiringly. And Missy hated to be spoken of, at all. She felt that she was sacred, though she knew she hadn't any right to feel so. Poor thin-skinned Missy; it was so hard for her to keep from being hurt; everything hurt her, she was so egotistical.
In the morning it was a joyful sound to her to hear Michael driving to the door for the early train; it was comforting to see the guest drive away alone, and to know that further confidences were over between them for the present. Friends! Imagine calling such a creature your friend, thought Missy, turning away from the window.
It would have been a blessing if he had stayed away. It is difficult even for a humble-minded young woman to be amiable and easy with a person who has called her a spit-fire; it was almost impossible for Missy. Going down to breakfast was like facing a battery; she went to the door two or three times before she had the resolution to open it, and feel herself launched upon the day's embarrassments. Once at table, Mr. Andrews was so commonplace and unconscious, she felt herself strengthened by his weakness. It was a great advantage to know what he did not know. She knew exactly what he thought of her; he did not know that she knew this, nor did he know what she thought of him; Heaven forbid! So she could hold these two advantages in her hand and use them. The result was that she was a little shy and a little silent, and weighed her words very carefully, for a day or two. But bah! when did ever a woman made as Missy was, do anything unnatural to her for longer than a day or two. It was quite in character for her to lay out new parts to act, but equally in character for her to throw them aside impatiently, and fall back into her standardrôle. She not unfrequently declared to herself, I will be this, I will be that, but she always ended by being Missy. So that it was not surprising that when at last the house was ready for its occupants, and they moved bag and baggage out of the Andrews' cottage, the young lady was as unaffectedly herself as if Mr. McKenzie had not drawn that unhappy statement from his friend. Not that she had forgotten it, exactly. But she had let it drop into that crucible of injuries and misconceptions, an egotistical mind, and it was melted up into something that hurt no longer; in fact, even gave a little pleasure. She had been so natural and so pleasant, that the house seemed dreary to all the family but Gabby, when she was gone. She also missed the excitement herself, and it seemed rather tame the next morning to breakfast with Aunt Harriet alone. The tented field unfits one for the pastoral life; she found herself bored by the security and stupidity of the day on which she was entering. But that did not last long. She was in an hour or so, too busy to be bored.
ALPHONSINE.