Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

"No, in the parlor waiting for you."

A contraction passed across his face as he turned toward the open parlor door, from which such a light came. He went in, however, quickly, and hurried to his mother's sofa. She had half raised herself from it, and with an agitated face looked up at him.

"You are—alone—St. John?"

"I am alone, mamma," he said in a strained, unnatural voice, stooping to embrace her.

Miss Varian had caught the scent of trouble and was standing up beside her chair.

"Aunt Harriet," he said, as if he had forgotten her, going over to her and kissing her.

"You are late," she said, as he turned away.

"Am I?" he said, looking at his watch, but very much as if he did not see it. "Yes, I suppose so. There was an accident or something on the road. The days are growing short. I am afraid I have kept you waiting."

Then he walked restlessly up and down the room, and took up and laid down a book upon the table, and spoke to a dog that came whisking about his feet, but in a way that showed that the book and the dog had not either entered into his mind.

"I will go and see about tea," said Missy, faintly, glad to get away. St. John's face frightened her. He looked ten years older. He was pallid. There was a most affecting look of suffering about his mouth. His eyes were strange to her; they were absolutely unlike her brother's eyes. What could it all mean? What had befallen him? She felt as if they were all in a dream. She hurried into the dining-room, where the waitress was whispering with gesticulation to the cook and laundress, whose faces appeared in the further door full of curiosity. Her presence put them to flight; the waitress, much humbled, bestirred herself to obey Missy's orders and remove the unneeded plate and chair, and to make the table look as if it were not intended for more than would sit down to it. How large it looked; Missy was so sorry that extra leaf had been put in. And all the best china, and the silver that was not used every day. What a glare and glitter they made; she hated the sight of them; she knew they would give St. John a stab. She would have taken some off the table, but that she felt the demure waitress would make a note of it. She had patiently to see her lighting the candles in the sconces. Poor St. John's eyes would ache at so much light. But there was no help for it now.