Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

At last! There was a stir—a moan, audible even through the door, and Missy started to her feet, and signalled the doctor, who had heard it, too. Her brother opened the door and admitted them. But what a ghastly face was his; Missy started.

He turned back to the bed, and kneeling, read the commendatory prayer.

"Through the grave and gate of death,
Now the faint soul travaileth."

Ah, God help her; it is over. He has brought to pass His act, His strange act, and only death lies there, senseless, dull death, corruptible, animal, earthy, where but a moment before a soul of parts and passions, had been chained.

Missy, new to death-beds, got up from her knees at last, weeping and awed, and, laying her hand on her brother's, said, "Come away, St. John, you look so ill."

St. John arose and followed her, going to the room and sinking into the chair lately occupied by the doctor. He looked ill indeed, but his sister could offer him no comfort; quiet, and to be left alone was all he asked of her. At this moment the doctor summoned in consultation appeared; both the professional men went professionally into the chamber of death, and Missy, clasping the inert hand of Gabrielle, who, whimpering, had refused to go up stairs, went sorrowfully home with the child, feeling that she had no more to do in the house of death that day.

St. John came home in an hour or two. Mr. Andrews had not yet arrived. Everything that could be done without him had, under the direction of St. John and the doctor, been done. The house was quiet and in order, he said. It was almost certain that Mr. Andrews would arrive in the next train; the carriage was waiting at the depot for him, though no telegram had come. St. John threw himself on the sofa, and seemed again to want quiet, so his sister left him, and took the children to her own room. It was so close in the house, and they were so restless, that after a while she took them out upon the lawn. There was no sun, and just a cool air, though no breeze, creeping in from the water. It was comparatively easy to amuse them there, or rather, to let them amuse themselves. Gabrielle was inquisitive and fretful, but little Jay seemed to feel languid and tired by the morning's heat, and crept upon her lap at last and went to sleep.

Missy, sitting in the deep shade of the trees near the beech gate, soothed by the quiet, and worn with the morning's excitement, almost slept herself. She had gone over many times in imagination the arrival of the husband, and his first moment at the bedside of his dead wife. She felt sure all this had now taken place, though she was too far from the house to hear the arrival of the carriage from the depot. She wondered whether he would send in for the children at once, or whether he would be glad they were away; or whether he would think of them at all. She was glad to remember she had no duty in the matter, and that she did not have to see him, and it was rather a comfort to her to feel she did not know the exact moment at which he was going through the terrible scene, and feeling the first anguish of remorse. She kissed Jay's tawny head, and with her arms around him, finally slept, leaning back in the great chair. Gabrielle at first played at her feet idly, then went down to the beach, and amused herself in the sand, but it was hot, and she came back to the shade, and, lying on the rug at Missy's feet, slept too.

A small steam yacht, meanwhile, had come into the harbor, had put off a small boat, which was even now landing a gentleman near the boat-house of the Andrews' place. The boat returned to the yacht; the gentleman set down his bag on the steps of the boat-house, and looked around. All was quiet; no one seemed moving at either of the two houses. Certainly it was not a day to move if you could help it. The only hope was that those dark clouds in the west would move, and make some change in the stagnant state of things. The gentleman took off his straw hat and fanned himself and walked slowly forward, then, catching sight of the group under the trees, with something like a smile, turned back and approached them. He stood looking down upon them, before any of them moved. Certainly, a pretty enough group. Gabrielle was sleeping, face forward, on her arms, a graceful figure, on the dark rug. Missy, with her soft, pretty hair tumbled, and a flush on her cheek, lay nearly at full length in the stretched-out sleepy chair, her light dress swept upon the grass, and exposing one small and perfect foot with a gossamer stocking and a darling high-heeled low-cut shoe. And Jay, flushed and hot, with his tawny curls against her breast, and one brown hand in hers, lay across her lap; her other hand, very white by contrast, holding the brown bare legs in a protecting way; some picture-books, and a broad hat or two lay upon the grass beside them. There was something in the sight that seemed to move more than the spectator's admiration; but whatever emotion it was, was quickly dispelled, and commonplace greeting and pleasure came back into his face, as Gabrielle, aroused, got up with a cry of:

"Why, papa! where did you come from? I—I guess I was asleep."