Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

The servants snubbed, Missy proceeded to arrange the bonbons. This necessitated going to the china-closet for a dish to put them on. She hated this. She wished herself out of the place; her cheeks grew scarlet, stumbling about among his plates and glasses, his decanters and soup tureens. She heard low talking and laughing in the kitchen. What a fool she had been to put herself in this position! What did Jay have a birthday for, and tempt her out of her resolution? And then she remembered the poor young mother, the anniversary of whose sufferings they were keeping without a thought of her. She seemed to be fading out of the memories of all, loving and unloving, among whom, only a year ago, she had had her place. She was no more than a name now to her children. Who could tell whether her husband remembered her departure with relief or remorse, or remembered her at all? New servants moved about the house which she had left; new household usages prevailed; nothing of her seemed left. Here was one who had called herself her friend, who had thought of her for the first time to-day—this day, which her throes should have made sacred to her memory.

Missy tried to catch at the shadow which seemed passing away from her; tried to realize that this woman of whom she thought, had been, was, the wife of the man whom she had grown to like, to listen to, to wonder about. She tried to remember that this dark-eyed, pure-featured picture was the mother of tawny, snub-nosed, ruddy Jay; but it was all a picture, an effort of the brain, it was no reality. The reality seemed, Jay, in the flesh, she who felt she owned him, and the father about whom she could not keep her resolution, and the household which she had reconstructed.

The bonbons looked less pretty to her than when she bought them; she wished the fête was over, and she herself out of this uncomfortable house. The waitress, having ended her little gossip in the kitchen, came in and laid the cloth and closed the windows, and lighted a lamp or two. Missy arranged the bonbons and the flowers, and the deceitful charlotte russe, with its cave of surprises. It was nearly half past seven o'clock, and she put the cake upon the table, and proceeded to arrange the five candles around it. Now, every one who has put candles around a birthday cake knows that it is a business not devoid of difficulties. The colored wax drips on the table-cloth, the icing cracks if you look at it, the candles lean this way and that, the paper or the match with which you have lighted them, drops upon the linen or the cake, and makes a smutty mark. All these things happened to Miss Rothermel, and in the midst of it, in trooped the impatient children, headed by Jay, who had burst past Eliza, declaring that he wouldn't wait a minute longer. The sight of the table was premature; she did not mean to have him see it till it was perfect. He dragged a heavy chair up beside her, climbed up on it, tugged at her dress, pushed her elbow, shrieked in her ear. The moment was an unhappy one; Miss Rothermel was not serene, the provocation was extreme; she turned short upon him, boxed his ears, took him by the arms and set him down upon the floor.

"You're such a little torment," she said, "there is no pleasure in doing anything for you."

Jay roared, the sudden, short roar of good-natured passion; the children crowded round. Missy told them to stand back, while she bent forward to rescue a candle, tottering to its fall. Jay hushed his howls, intent upon the candle; the children were all around Missy, with their backs to the door. Gabrielle had gone around to the other side of the table, facing the door, and was leaning forward on her elbows, gazing silently, not at Missy, but beyond her. The candle nodded over the wrong way, a great blot of green wax dropped upon the table-cloth. Jay screamed with excitement, and made a dash forward to get his hands in the wax.

Missy stamped with her foot upon the floor—ah! that it must be told!—and slapped his hands and pushed him back. And then the sudden green gleam in Gabby's eyes made her start and look behind her. There in the door stood—Mr. Andrews and two ladies. How long they had been there, who can tell? There was a look of amusement on his face, a look of eager curiosity on the faces of the strangers. The hall was not lighted, the parlor was not lighted—the dining-room was, in contrast, quite brilliant, and the decorated table and the group of children quite a picture. Missy was not capable of speaking, for a moment. She caught the candle and blew it out, and tried to find her voice, which seemed to have been blown out, too.

"What a charming picture," cried the young lady. "This, I know, is Miss Rothermel—and which are my little cousins?—ah, this must be Jay—he is your image, Mr. Andrews," and she flew upon him with kisses, while the mother, singling out a stout, little girl, with a pigtail, not unlike him in feature, embraced her as Gabrielle. While this mistake was being rectified, and the correct Gabrielle being presented to her cousins, Missy recovered herself enough to turn to Mr. Andrews and tell him she did not think he was coming home that night.

"The telegram wasn't received then? I sent it at ten o'clock this morning."

No, no telegram had been received. The waitress was standing by, the picture of consternation, and corroborated the statement incoherently. Missy then explained as well as she could, her presence in the house, but nobody seemed to listen to her; the ladies were so engrossed with caressing the children, they did not heed. Mr. Andrews himself seemed not at all to be interested in any fact but that the children were having a good time, and that to balance it was the companion fact that there was no dinner ready.

The cook was looking through the kitchen door, which was ajar, with a bewildered face. The birthday cake and the bonbons were a mockery, no doubt, to the hungry travelers. Missy wished the cake and the travelers in the Red Sea together.