Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

"It never had occurred to me. I had forgotten that the house was left to him."

"And our united income, Missy, yours and mine, would have been seriously crippled if we had attempted to buy it from him, and to keep it up. This is an expensive place, and it would make you unhappy to see it less well kept than formerly. Even if—if I had not resolved upon this step for myself, it would scarcely have been possible to have remained here, at least, as we have been. This has been a great care and anxiety to me for many months. It would have been a great relief to me to have spoken to you, but your want of sympathy in St. John's work, made it impossible for me to talk to you about it. It has seemed so to St. John and me—we have given it much anxious thought—that the income from your father's property which I have settled all on you, is ample for your maintenance any where you choose to live. But—to me it has seemed a good plan, that you should take the old Roncevalle house across the way, with Aunt Harriet, and live there. It is vacant now you know, it is comfortable, the rent is low—"

Missy's eyes gave forth a sudden glow of light; she started to her feet, but then sank back upon her chair again.

"Mamma, that is too much—that is more than I can stand. The home is to be broken up—my whole life is to be laid waste. I am no longer set in a family—I am adrift—I am motherless and homeless—but that is not what I complain of. I only ask, why am I to take up the unpleasantest duty of your life? Why am I to be burdened with a blind, infirm and hateful woman who is in no way related to me by ties of blood or of affection? A beautiful home you have mapped out for me! An enchanting future! It seems to me you must think better of me than I have ever been led to believe you did, if you think me capable of such self-sacrifice."

"It is for you to take it up or lay it down as suits you, Missy. If Harriet will come with me, you know she will have a home and all the care that I can give her. But you can see that it is of no use to make such a proposition now. When she is older and more broken, she may be glad of the refuge we can give her, but now it would be in vain to think of it. And you, oh my child, do not be unkind when you think of what I have done. Reflect that I have given you my life, for all these many years. All that I have had has been yours, all that I have would still be yours, if you would share it in the consecrated retirement to which I now feel called. It would be the dearest wish of my heart fulfilled, if I could have you with me there. There would be scope for your energy, for all your talents, in the work that lies before us. But, I know I must not dream of this till you see things differently."

"No," said Missy, in a cold, hard tone. "You have one child, with whom your sympathy is perfect. He must suffice. Live for him now; I have had my share, no doubt."

"Missy! do not break my heart; I am not going to live for St. John. I am not going away from you for any human companionship. How can I talk to you? How explain what I feel, when you will not, cannot understand?"

"No, I cannot understand," cried Missy, with a sudden burst of tears. "Oh mother, mother, how can you go away from me? How can you leave me in this frightful loneliness? I am not to you what you are to me or you would never do it."

"Missy, you could have done it. I have not read your face in vain for these last few weeks. You could have done it, and you would. I cannot make a comparison between the affection that would have satisfied you to leave me—and the—the feeling of my heart that draws me out of the world into stillness, retreat, consecration. I cannot explain, cannot talk of it. If you do not understand, you cannot. It is no sacrifice, except the being separated from you—that will be the pain hidden in my joy, as it would have been the pain hidden in your joy if you had married. The pain would not have killed the joy, nor made you give it up. This is not the enthusiasm of a moment, Missy. It is what has come of long, long years of silence and of thought. A way has opened, beyond my hopes—possibilities of acceptance—of advance. There is a great work to be done: I must not hold it back from humility, from timidity. It seems so unspeakable a bliss that I—stranded—useless—wrecked—should be made a part of anything given to the glory of God. I daily fear it may be presumption to dream of such a thing, and that I shall be rebuked and checked. But even if I am, my offering is made—all—for Him to take or leave. All! ah, poor and miserable all, 'the dregs of a polluted life!' Would that from the first moment that I drew my breath my soul had reached up to Him with its every affection—with its every aspiration! Oh 'that I might love Him as well as ever any creature loved Him!' That patience and penitence might win Him to forget the wasted past, and restore the blighted years that are gone from me!"

She hid her face in her hands, and Missy, sinking down on the floor beside her, cried out, with tears: