Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

It was in November, a sunny Indian summer day. After their early dinner, Missy went out to roam, as she loved now to do, over the grounds and along the beach from which for so many months she had been shut out. The evergreens made still a greenness with their faithful foliage, the lawn looked like summer. It was an unusual season. There was a chill in the shut-up rooms, and it made her heart too sore to go often in the house, but outside she could wander for hours, and feel only a gentle pang, a soft patient sorrow for what was gone from her never to return. She had been walking by the narrow path that led through the cedars, wondering, now at the highness of the tide which was washing up against the bank, now at the mildness of the air that made it almost impossible to believe it was November, when the woman who took care of the house came running after her. Out of breath, she told her some one had just come up by the cars, to look at the house; would she give her the bunch of keys which she had put in her pocket instead of giving them back to her, a few minutes before?

Missy felt a thrill of anger as she thought of some one to look at the house. This was indeed her natural enemy, for this time it must be a purchaser, for it was not yet in the market for rent. She gave the woman the keys, and then walked on, a storm of envy and discord in her heart. Yes, the one that should buy this house, she should hate. It was endurable while people only had it on lease, and came and went and left it as they found it. But when it should be bought and paid for, when trees could be cut down and new paths cut and changes made at the will of strangers, it would be more than she could bear. So few had come to look at it with a view to buying, she had unconsciously got into a way of thinking it would not be sold, and that this temporary misery of letting would go on, and she could yet feel her hold safe upon the trees and the shrubs and the familiar rooms and closets. Just as they were now, perhaps, they would remain for years, and she would have the care of them still, and grow old along with them; and some day the dark dream of alienation would dissolve and she would come back and die in her own room.

She had not known how this plan and this hope had taken possession of her, till the woman's out-of-breath story, of a stranger from the train, revealed it to her. Some one coming up from town at this season, meant business. Yes, the place was as good as sold: or, if this man didn't buy it, others would be coming to look at it; some one would buy it. At any rate her peace was gone. She had not known how insensibly she had depended upon escaping what she had declared to herself she was prepared for. People said they were asking more for the place than they would ever get. Perhaps St. John had gone to the agents and put it at a lower figure; perhaps the Order needed the money and couldn't wait. A bitterer feeling than she had known for a long time, came with these reflections. She walked on fast, away from all sight and hearing of the unwelcome intruders. She fancied how they were poking about the plumbing, and throwing open the blinds to see the condition of the paint and plaster, and standing on the lawn, with their backs to the bay, and gazing up at the house, and saying that chimney must come down, and a new window could be thrown out there, and the summer parlor must have something better by way of an entrance. She hated them; she would not put herself in the way of meeting them. She walked on and on, along the bank, till she was tired, and then sat down on an uprooted cedar, and pulled the cape of her coat over her head to keep warm, and waited till she should be sure they had gone back to the train. She sat with her watch in her hand, not able to think of the beauty of the smooth, blue bay, spread below her, nor the calm of the still autumn atmosphere. Nothing was calm to her now; she found she had been quite self-deceived, and was not half as resigned and good as she had thought herself.

"I wish it were all over and done," she said to herself keeping back bitter tears. "I wish the deed were signed, and the place gone. It is this suspense that I can't bear. Every time the train comes in, I shall think some one has come up to look at it. Every time I walk across the grounds, I shall dread that woman running after me, to ask me for the keys. Oh, the talking, and the lawyers, and the agents, and St. John coming up; one day it will be sold, and the next day there will be some hitch, and there will be backing and filling, and worrying, and fretting, that wears my life out to look ahead to."

Poor Missy, she certainly had had some discipline, and not the least painful part was that she did not find herself as good as she had thought she was.

At last she heard the whistle of the cars, faint and far off, to be sure, but distinct through the still autumn air, and she got up, and walked back. She went quickly, feeling a little chilled from sitting still so long, and, full of her painful thoughts, did not look much about her, till, having emerged from the cedars, and standing upon the lawn, she looked up, and suddenly became aware that the intruders had not gone away. A horse and wagon stood before the side entrance, the horse was blanketed and tied. She looked anxiously around, and saw at the beach gate, a gentleman standing, his hands in the pockets of his ulster, and his face towards the bay. He was not at all in the attitude of criticism that she had fancied, but seemed quite unconscious of the chimneys and the entrances. His face she could not see, and she hoped to escape his notice, by hurrying across the lawn before he turned around. But even her light step on the dry leaves broke his revery, which could not have been very deep, and he turned quickly about, and came towards her, as if he had been waiting for her. She uttered a quick cry as she recognized him, and when he stood beside her and offered her his hand, she was so agitated that she could not speak. She struggled hard to overcome this, and managed to say at last:

"I did not know—I wasn't prepared for seeing anybody but a stranger. I thought it was somebody to look at the house—"

"The woman told me you would soon be back—"

"And I—I can't help feeling," stammered poor Missy, feeling her agitation must be accounted for in some way, "that people that come to look at the house are my enemies. I'm—I'm very glad to see you."

"Even if I have come to look at the house?"