Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

Late one afternoon, during this visit of hers, Missy stole into the little gallery by herself, and closed the door. The plaintive and persistent bell had shaken out its summons in the house. Her mother slept through it, overcome by the heat and by some unusual exertion in the morning. Missy did not consider herself bound to assist at all the offices, but she rather liked it, and crept in very often when no one was noticing, and when she happened to feel well enough. A few poor people came in this afternoon, and two or three Sisters. St. John said the prayers. When the prayers were over, and he had gone into the sacristy, Missy still lingered, leaning her head on the rail, and gazing down into the church. St. John came out, after a moment, and the poor people came up, two or three of them, and preferred petitions for pecuniary or spiritual aid, principally pecuniary.

After their audiences were ended, they shambled away; the Sisters had disappeared, and the church was empty but for one figure, standing near the door. St. John gave an inquiring look, and made a step forward. The lady, for it was a lady, seemed to hesitate, and her attitude and movements betrayed great agitation. Some late rays of the afternoon sun came piercing down through a high-up, colored window. Missy looked down with keen interest upon the two; it was another scene in her brother's life.

"You are too young for the care of penitents like that, my dear St. John," she said to herself, sententiously. For the lady was pretty, more than pretty, and young and graceful.

She came forward rapidly, her resolution once made, and stood before St. John, half way down the aisle. He did not look very young, thanks to its being "always fast and vigil, always watch and prayer," with him; his peculiar dress made him seem taller than he really was, almost gaunt. His face had a sobered, worn look, but an expression of great sweetness. He carried his head a little forward, and his eyes, which were almost always on the ground, he raised with a sort of gentle inquiry, an appealing, wondering interest, to the face before him. Because, to St. John, people were "souls," and he was always thinking of their eternal state. As to a lawyer, those he meets are possible clients, and to a doctor, patients, so to this other professional mind all were included in his hopes of penitence or progress. He raised his eyes to the new-comer's face, and Missy saw the start he gave, and the great change that took place in his expression. It was as if he were, for a moment, sharply assaulted with some strong pain. He put out his hand, and laid hold of the wooden railing of a prayer desk near him, as if to steady himself.

The lady, meanwhile, had not been too agitated to notice his emotion. She eagerly scanned his face, stretched out her hand to him timidly, then drew it back and clasped it in the other, and said something pleadingly to him, looking up to him with tears. Seeing she did not make him look at her again, and that he was rapidly gaining self-control, she flushed, drew back, with a manner almost angry. But in a moment, some humiliating recollection seemed to sweep over her mind and blot out her involuntary pride. Her face darkened, and her mouth quivered as she said, quite loud enough for Missy, in her loft, to hear:

"The only right I have to come to you, is that the wretched man whom you have befriended, and whom you are preparing for the gallows, is the man—to whom I am married."

St. John started again, and said—? The name Missy did not catch. The stranger assented, and went on speaking bitterly, and with a voice broken by agitation. "He tells me he has confessed to you. I do not believe it—I do not believe he would tell the truth, even upon the gallows. His perfidy to my poor sister, ruining her, breaking her heart, destroying her chance of being happy in a good marriage—to me enticing me away from you—and then dragging me through shame and suffering that I cannot even bear to think of—his low vices—his heartless frauds—has he told you all these?—You used to be young. I should think you would soon be old enough if you have to hear many such stories. I should think you would be tired of living in a world that had such things done in it."

St. John did not answer. His eyes never now left the ground.

"I am tired of it," she cried, with tears. "I am tired and sick of life. I want to die, and only I don't dare. Sometimes I come here to the church and the music and the preaching seem to make me ashamed of my wicked thoughts; but it doesn't stay, and I go back to all my miseries and I am no better. I don't know what has kept me from the worst kind of a life. I don't know what keeps me from the worst kind of a death. I have sometimes wondered if it wasn't that you pray for me—among your enemies, I suppose, if you do."