Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

"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 was evidently 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 follow them 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—"