Missy: A Novel

by Miriam Coles Harris

As the stage moved on, and the viragoes leaned back and shook their fists at the little carriage, and the two men roared back their imprecations at it, he had not the heart to move on, and let the pony out into the road. He knew how the little beast would dash away out of sight down the hill, under Miss Rothermel's whip; they would be out of hearing in a second. No, he couldn't do a thing like that. It wasn't in him to spoil a fight. He laughed, and threw himself astride of the trunk, but didn't touch the reins, and didn't stir a step aside from blocking up the road. So it was that Missy got the full force of the parting maledictions; so it was that she got the full tide of Irish, mixed with the finer-grained shafts of French invective; so it was that she knew that Alphonsine had read the little note that she had sent in that morning to the relenting master, and that she was assured that she had made an enemy for life.

"We'll be aven wid ye yet!" cried Bridget.

"Mademoiselle shall hear from the 'worst of them all' again," sneered Alphonsine, darting a malignant look at her, from under her dark brows.

Then, and not till then, did the young driver of the luggage-wagon "gee-up" to his horses and move on, puffing the smoke from his villainous cigar into the faces of the pony-carriage party, as he passed them, and looking infinitely content as he jolted on. He was not aware that he had done anything insolent or malicious. He did not know that the smell of his cigar, and the keen amusement of his look, had been the last, and perhaps most cutting, of the insults she had received. These wretches who had just disappeared from her presence were strangers and foreigners, so to speak; but this low boy represented her home, her village, her place of influence. Poor Missy! that was a bitter hour. Her vaudeville was ending in a horrid rout and rabble; she was sore and sick with the recollection of it. She had been dragged through the mud on the field where she had felt sure of triumph. What was the triumph, compared to the mud? She had succeeded in having them sent away; but they had humiliated her, oh! most unspeakably. The degradation of having to listen to such words, and to sit, impotent and silent before them, while they raged and reviled her!

The pony dashed down the hill. They were out of sight of the place of their defeat in a moment of time; but she felt as if never, never could she get out of sight of their leering faces, out of hearing of their horrid words.

When they were at the bottom of the hill and had turned into the main road, Jay began to recover from the shock and fright, and to tremble and cry. Gabrielle never took her eyes off Missy's face; she was full of speculation, but such experiences were not as new to her as to Missy. She, however, remembered, almost as well as Missy did, all those insolent words, and, though not understanding them fully, kept them in mind, and interpreted them in the light of events.

"Don't cry, Jay," Missy said mechanically. But she was so shaken she could scarcely speak. She wanted to get home and think it over; to get out of day-light, to get breath and recover her voice again, and her self-respect, her power of feeling herself a lady.

Jay's continued crying tortured her; Gabby's eyes on her face angered her. She was trembling all over. She had not made up her mind about anything, only that everything was horrid and degrading, and that she wished she had never seen or heard of any of the name of Andrews—even little Jay.

As they approached the gate she saw that Mr. Andrews was walking slowly up and down before his house, evidently watching for them. She tried to drive quickly and pass him with a bow, but he came up beside them as they passed through the gate, and she had to pull up the pony and go slowly. He walked beside the carriage and took Jay's hand, which was stretched out to him.

"Well, I've got them all off," he said, with a sigh of relief.