Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

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 had flattered 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 cried and 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!"