Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

Mr. Andrews said to himself, "We didn't do anything of the kind;" but it wasn't exactly the thing to say aloud, and he was obliged to content himself with taking pretty Miss Olor and seeing Miss Rothermel made over to the doctor, who had already diffused an odor of paregoric and rhubarb through the room.

Now the doctor was not a man generally invited out to dinner at Yellowcoats. He was underbred and elderly, and rather stupid. He did not expect to be invited, and nobody could have been more surprised than he to receive this invitation. He was indebted to his middle-agedness for it, and to his stupidity. Mrs. Eustace thought he would be a charming neighbor for Miss Rothermel, and the fact that he was a widower made it a beautiful satire.

The clergyman of the parish took in Mrs. Eustace to dinner; next to him came Missy, and then the doctor. Opposite, were a mamma and a papa of the young people at the other end of the table—a mamma, that is, of one, and a papa of another. At Mr. Andrews' end of the table they were all young and vivacious: two young Olors, two young men from town, and Miss Flora, who was youth itself. They were very vivacious—a thought too much so, for beings who were out of school. They laughed and talked about things which seemed to have grown up during their mushroom summer intimacy. Nobody could have seen any thing to laugh at in what they laughed about; their manners put every one else outside. Mr. Andrews seemed to be within the circle; he had heard the jokes so often, he seemed to understand them, and though it was possible that he was bored, he recovered himself sufficiently to be civil. Mrs. Eustace's end of the table was a notable contrast, as it was meant to be. She had been obliged to ask Missy (for whom in fact the dinner was given), but she had planned to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

The reverend gentleman was not a conversationalist, the medical one was heavier than lead. The mamma and papa were solid and undertook their dinner materially. Mrs. Eustace made talk diligently. She questioned the clergyman about his Sunday school, the doctor about his patients, she appealed to Miss Rothermel and the mamma opposite about subjects of domestic interest. She treated Missy as the cotemporary of herself and this mamma; she spoke in extenuation of the "young people's" shortcomings at the other end of the table; she begged these two mature ladies not to tell anybody in Yellowcoats what a noisy set they were. Dear Mr. Andrews, she said, enjoyed it so much. It was such a boon to him to have a cheerful home. He was like another man; only that morning he had told her he had not realized what a miserable life he had been leading till they came. And the children, poor neglected darlings, she could not bear to think of what they had had to endure for the past few months.

"I have dismissed their nurse," here she turned to the mamma. "I have found her a most untrusty person. She goes to-morrow. I have been so fortunate in securing a servant I have had at different times for several years. She is a capable, uncompromising creature, and admirable in the government of children. But here I am running on about the children; I beg you will excuse me, I know it isn't table-talk. Dear Miss Rothermel, tell me about your aunt's rheumatism."

The blow about Eliza's going away had been almost too much for Missy's fortitude. Mrs. Eustace looked at her critically, while she waited for the report of Miss Varian's rheumatism.

"I am afraid that isn't table-talk either," she managed to say; but at the moment the darlings in question came into the room, and all eyes were turned to them. Flora opened her arms for Jay to spring into, which he did with considerable roughness. Gabrielle sidled up to Mrs. Eustace, who embraced her with a warmth most beautiful to see, and made a place for her beside her, for dessert was on the table. The children had left off their mourning, and Gabrielle was braw with sashes and trinkets. As soon as Jay caught sight of Missy, he began to fret; not to go to her, but she evidently made him unhappy, and he kept looking at her furtively, and dashing about the glasses and making plunges for things out of his reach, and acting as the worst kind of a story-book boy acts, who is held up as a warning. Flora kept her temper admirably, and bore his kicks and pushes with a beaming sweetness. He also tore her lace, which, though cheap, was her own, and possibly her all.

"He always acts so badly when Miss Rothermel is near," she said, sotto voce, to her neighbors. "I don't know what it is. I suppose sensitively organized children feel the influence of temperament, don't you suppose they do? And really, don't laugh, but that's just the way Miss Rothermel always makes me feel—restless and fretful, and as if I'd like to break things, and maybe kick somebody."

This made them all laugh, even Mr. Andrews, who turned such an admiring, smiling gaze upon the sunburned Flora, as to fill her with genuine courage.

"Dear Jay," she said, caressing him, "they're laughing at me."