Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

"Oh, don't," cried Missy, "poor little man. He is not responsible. To-morrow morning he'll be all right. Come, Gabby, take off your hat, child."

"I don't know what I should have done with them, if I had not had this refuge," said Mr. Andrews, looking careworn indeed.

"Oh, that is nothing," said Missy cheerily; "we are so glad to have them. And you, Mr. Andrews, mamma begs you will come in to tea."

"That will be impossible, I'm afraid; thank you very much," he said, looking anxiously back towards the door, whence came the sound of stamping horses, and an occasional mumbled ejaculation and a frequently snapped whip. "I have to look after the horses, and this man."

"Let Peters do that," said Missy, bent on her own way. She had determined to bury the hatchet and to have Mr. Andrews stay to tea. She felt it was a gracious thing to do, though rather hard, and having made up her mind to an act of magnanimity, objected to being thwarted.

"Mamma wants to see you," she said. "Besides, you have not had any dinner, and you will not probably get any at home, unless you cook it yourself. Let Peters go in and attend to the stable. It is the only thing to do."

"Perhaps you are right," he said, irresolutely "Well, as you are so kind, I will go home, and lock a few of the doors, and return in a moment."

As he drove off, Missy heard him say a word or two to the coachman, which convinced her he was not afraid of men servants, whatever he might be of maid servants. Ann was sent to call Peters. Gabby, who was really ill from over-eating and over-fatigue, was sent to bed in care of Goneril. Jay, who pleaded to stay up to tea, was allowed to lie on the sofa beside the fire, and get warmed after his long exposure to the night air. Missy covered him with an afghan, and kneeling down beside him, had just seen his eyes close in unconquerable sleep, when Mr. Andrews came in. He was half way across the room before her mother's "Missy!" started her to her feet. "Oh, I beg your pardon; I did not hear you. Mamma, let me present Mr. Andrews."

Mrs. Varian half rose from her sofa, and Mr. Andrews thought her lovely and gracious, as every one else did. He bowed to Miss Varian; and, no doubt, he thought they were all angels, as indeed he was excusable for thinking, coming from the dark and hopeless tangle of his own house. The cheer of the fire and the lamp, the odor of the flowers, the grace of the woman who had arisen to welcome him, the kindness of the one who had been kneeling beside his little outcast, the air of order, luxury, peace, all filled him with a sense that he had been living in another world, on the other side of the arbor-vitæ hedge. He was, as has been said, a silent man, and one of those straightforward men who never seem to think that they need to speak when they have nothing to say. He was not silent from shyness, but from simplicity of motive, from a native honesty; consequently, his silence was not oppressive, but natural. To-night, however, there was much to say. There were the details of the broken-up camp at Eel Creek, the various stages of hilarity and depression among the servants, the danger of the children, the probabilities of a slow march, the ludicrous side of the coming midnight court-martial. When they were ready to go in to tea, Missy stayed behind for an instant to tuck Jay's afghan about him and put a chair beside him, and to feel whether his pulse was quick. "Bless him," she whispered, giving him a kiss, "better days are coming."

The tea table was as graceful and pretty as possible; the things to eat rarely good, and Mr. Andrews, poor man, had been fasting all day. He despised lunch, and he hadn't had any chance to get a dinner; so no wonder he appreciated the tea that was set before him. Miss Varian was in a good humor, and quite sharp and witty, and whatever Mrs. Varian said, was always gracious and delightful. Miss Rothermel had enough to do to pour out the tea, and she was quite satisfied with the march of events, including Mr. Andrews' appetite, and the complexion of the waffles. She thought of the soupless dinner he had mentioned, and of the alms-house provision of boiled rice and raisins, and she felt for a moment, what bliss to keep house for a man with such an appetite and no ascetic tendencies. St. John was a continual trial to her. But then she checked herself sharply, and thought how deceitful appearances were, and how cruel had been the lot of the woman who had kept house for him, till alas, a month ago exactly. It was a bitter commentary on her fate, that he was able to enjoy broiled oysters so unblushingly within thirty days of his bereavement. Happily, behind the tea-kettle, Missy's dark frown was hidden; but she soon threw it off; she had made up her mind to be amiable for this one evening, and she would not break her resolution.