Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

"It is very odd," said Missy; "from the moment we put up the glass, they made off. Look! they are half way across to Cooper's Bluff. In five minutes they will be out of sight."

It was quite true. In less than five minutes the little sail had shot out of range of the glasses and eyes upon the Varian lawn, and all that could follow it was very vague conjecture. It occupied the thoughts of the little party till the sunset took its place, and then, the apprehension of dew and dampness for Mrs. Varian, and then the moving up to the house. Mr. Andrews carried some shawls and a book or two, and stopped at the door of the summer parlor, as the others went in. He consented, not reluctantly by any means, to go in with them.

"For I assure you," he said, as he entered, "I find it quite dismal at home since you all went away."

Miss Varian seemed to take this as a personal tribute, and made her thanks. "I had supposed," she added, "that Jay was the only one who felt it very much; but I'm glad to know you shared his amiable sentiments."

"By the way, where is he to-night?" asked Missy, putting a shade on the lamp.

"The children were bribed to go to bed very early to-night. Eliza asked permission to go home this evening, and stay till morning; and so, I suppose, they were persuaded to be sleepy early to suit her."

Late that evening, as Missy looked out, before shutting her window for the night, she thought again of the little vessel that had excited her curiosity. She rather wondered that she had bestowed so much speculation upon it; but again, when she awoke in the night, she found herself thinking of it, and wondering how there happened to be a woman in the party. Oystermen and fishermen do not burden themselves with women when they go out into the Sound; and this little vessel had not the look of a pleasure boat. She had rather a restless night, waking again and again; she heard all sorts of sounds. Once the dog at the barn began to bark, but stopped shortly after one sharp snarl. At another time, she was so sure she heard a noise upon the beach, that she got up and opened the window and looked out. The night was dark—no moon, and but faint light of stars. A light fog had gathered over the water. She listened long; at one moment she was certain she heard the voice of a child, crying; but it was only once, and for the space of a moment. And then all was silent. The wind among the trees, and the washing of the tide upon the shore she still could hear, but could hear nothing else. She went back to bed, feeling ashamed of herself. It was like Aunt Harriet, who heard robbers and assassins all night long, and called up Goneril to listen, whenever a bough swayed against a neighboring bough, or a nut dropped from a tree.

"At any rate, I won't tell of it at breakfast," thought the young lady, determinately, putting her face down on her pillow. By and by she started up, not having been able to soothe herself, and get asleep. That was not imagination, whatever the child's cry and the dog's bark had been. There was a sound of oars, growing gradually fainter as she listened. Well, why shouldn't there be? Men often had to go off to their sloops, to be ready for an early start when the wind served; maybe it was almost daybreak. But no, as she reasoned, the clock struck two. On such a dark night, it was unusual, at such an hour as this, for any one to be rowing out from shore. If there had been a man in the house, she would have risked ridicule, and roused him to go out and see that all was right. But the men slept at the stable—there was absurdity, and a little impropriety, in her going out alone at such an hour to call the men. It would rouse Mrs. Varian, no doubt, and give her a sleepless night. And as for Miss Varian, it would furnish her a weapon which would never wear out, if, as was probable, nothing should be found out of order about the place, or on the beach. No one likes to be laughed at; no one less than Miss Rothermel. She shut the window again, and resolutely lay down to sleep. But sleep refused to come. It is impossible to say what she feared; but she seemed to have entered into a cloud of apprehension, vague as it was bewildering. It was useless to reason with herself, she was simply frightened, and she should never dare to scorn Aunt Harriet again. Was this the way the poor woman felt every night after the household were all at rest? Well, it was very unpleasant, and she wasn't to be blamed for waking Goneril; if Missy hadn't been ashamed, she'd have waked somebody.

It was not till dawn fairly came that she was able to go to sleep. From this sleep she was confusedly wakened by a hurried knock at her door. The sun was streaming into the room. She felt as if she hadn't been asleep at all, and yet the misgivings of the night seemed endlessly far off in time.

"Well, what is it?" she answered, sitting up and pushing back her pillow, and feeling rather cross, it must be said.