MISSY
_A Novel_
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE"
"THE SUTHERLANDS," "LOUIE'S LAST TERM AT ST. MARY'S," "FRANK
WARRINGTON," "RICHARD VANDERMARCK," "ST. PHILIP'S,"
"A PERFECT ADONIS," ETC., ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
Copyright, 1880,
BY G. W. CARLETON & CO.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Yellowcoats 9
II. St. John 26
III. The First Sermon 45
IV. The People next Door 49
V. Gabby and Jay 66
VI. A Passing Soul 74
VII. Misrule 94
VIII. A Tea-Table Truce 109
IX. The Sweets of Victory 118
X. Per Aspera ad Astra 156
XI. My Duty to my Neighbor 175
XII. Fire and Sword 190
XIII. Mine Host 211
XIV. Yellowcoats Calls to Inquire 227
XV. A Misogynist 240
XVI. Alphonsine 262
XVII. Enter Miss Varian 293
XVIII. At the Beach Gate 301
XIX. Five Candles 305
XX. The Honeyed Cousins 320
XXI. Mrs. Hazard Smatter 332
XXII. A Garden Party 344
XXIII. P. P. C. 351
XXIV. Shut and Barred 363
XXV. Amice, ascende superius 366
XXVI. The Brook in the Way 379
XXVII. Sanctuary 383
XXVIII. Vespers 387
XXIX. Surrender 397
MISSY.
CHAPTER I.
YELLOWCOATS.
"I felt sure the train would be late," said Missy, sitting down on the
ottoman beside the fire. "It is so disagreeable to have to wait for what
you dread."
"But I think you have begun to be impatient too soon," said her mother,
glancing up. "That clock is several minutes fast, and Peters always
drives slower after dusk. Besides, you know he has the heavy carriage. I
think it would be foolish to begin to look for them for twenty minutes
yet."
"I believe you are right," said the daughter, with a sigh. "I wish it
were over."
"That is natural, but we can't hurry it. We shall have twenty minutes of
quiet. Come and sit down, I have hardly seen you to-day."
For the truth was, Missy had been very busy all day, getting ready for a
most unwelcome guest. The pale invalid mother, to whom the guest was as
unwelcome, had been obliged to lie on her sofa, without the solace of
occupation.
"I hope she will like it," said Missy, irrelevantly, getting up and
pushing her ottoman over to her mother's sofa, then, before sitting
down, going to the table and putting a leaf of geranium in a different
attitude, then stepping back and looking at it. An India bowl was filled
with scarlet geranium, and the light of a low lamp fell upon it and made
a beautiful patch of color.
"I might as well light the candles," she said, "and then I will sit down
quietly and wait." She took a lighter, and stooping to the fire, set it
ablaze, and went to some candles on the low book shelves and lighted
them. "I begrudge my pretty candles," she said, turning her head to look
at the effect.
"Why do you light them then?" said her mother, with a faint sigh. "Come
and sit down."
"In a moment," answered Missy. "I wonder if the hall is light enough."
She had looked at the hall lamps half a dozen times, but in fact she was
too restless to sit down. She pulled the bell impatiently, and a tidy
maid in spotless cap and apron came. She had perceived an imperfection
in the adjustment of a rug, and like a wise housekeeper, she did not
readjust it herself. Then she scanned the maid's costume, all with the
eyes of the unwelcome guest.
"I thought that you understood me that I did not want those aprons worn
again. Put on one of the new set that I gave you."
Mrs. Varian sighed; she could never at any period of life have dared to
do the like, but Missy was a little dragon, and kept the servants in
good order, aprons and all. The servant retired to correct her costume,
and Missy began to look about for something else to correct. But the
room was all in perfect order, glowing with warmth and color, delicious
with the scent of flowers, there was nothing for her to do. She walked
up and down before the fire, with the air of a person who objects to
sitting down and having a quiet talk, at least so her mother thought.
Missy was small; her figure was perfect in its proportions; her hands
and feet quite worth noticing for their beauty. She was not plump,
rather slight than plump, and yet well rounded. Her head was well set on
her shoulders, and she moved it deliberately, not rapidly, and while all
her movements showed energy, she was not bustling. She was so _petite_
she was not severe: that was all that saved her. Her face was not
pretty, her complexion was colorless, her eyes very light, her nose
_retroussé_. Her hair was soft and fine and waving, and of a pretty
color, though not light enough to be flaxen, and not bright enough to be
golden. It had the fortunate attribute of looking picturesque and
pleasant, whether arranged or disarranged. Missy had her own way of
dressing herself, of course. Such an energetic young woman could not be
indifferent to a subject of such moment. She dressed in the best and
latest fashion, with her own modification as to color and style. Her
dresses were almost always gray, or white, or black, and as little
trimmed as possible, and she never wore ornaments. Whether this were
matter of principle or taste, she had not yet announced. Certainly if
the former, virtue was its own reward; for no ornaments could have
brought color to her face, or added any grace to its irregular outline,
and her arms and hands would have been spoiled by rings and bracelets:
every link would have hid a beauty. To-night she wore a soft gray silk,
with crêpe lisse ruffles at the throat and elbows, and grey silk
stockings and pretty low shoes with high heels. Putting one hand on the
mantel above her, she stretched out her foot to the blaze, and resting
her toe on the andiron, looked down at it attentively, though probably
absently.
"I hope she will like it," she repeated.
"What, your gray stocking or your new shoe? They are both lovely," said
Mrs. Varian, trying to be gay.
"No," said Missy, indignantly, withdrawing the pretty foot. "No--but
it--all--the house--the place. Oh, mamma," and she went across to the
sofa and threw herself in a low chair by it, "it _is_ a trial, isn't
it?"
"Yes, my child," said Mrs. Varian, with a gentle caress of the hand put
out to her. "But if you do not want to alienate your brother, do not let
him guess it." Missy gave an impatient movement.
"Must I try to enter into his fool's paradise? I can't be sympathetic,
I'm afraid, even to retain my present modest place in his affections."
"But be reasonable, Missy. You knew he would sometime marry."
"Sometime, yes, mamma. But I cannot think of such a boy as going to be
married. It really is not decorous."
"O my dear Missy. Think again. St. John is nearly twenty. It only seems
absurd to us my dear, because--because--"
"Because we are so old, mamma. I know it. Yes; don't mind speaking of
it. I know it very well. I am--twenty-seven." And Missy looked into the
fire with a sort of dreamy wonder; but her voice showed the fact had no
sting for her. Her life had been such that she did not mind it that she
was no longer young. She had never been like other girls, nor had their
ambitions. She had known she was not pretty; she had not expected to
marry. Her life had been very full of occupation and of duty, and of
things that gave her pleasure. She also had had an important position,
owing to her mother's invalid condition. She was lady of the house, she
was an important person; a good deal of money passed through her hands,
a good many persons looked up to her. As for her heart, it was not
hungry. She had a passionate love for her mother, who, since the death
of her stepfather, had depended much upon her; and towards her young
stepbrother, now on this October night, bringing home an unwelcome
fiancée, she had felt a sort of tigerish mother love. There were seven
years between them. She had always felt she owned him--and though
bitterly jealous of the fond and blind devotion of her mother to him (as
she saw it), she felt as if her life were inseparable from his. How
_could_ he live and love and have an existence in what she had no part?
But it was even so. The boy had outgrown her, and had no longer any need
of her. She had, indeed, need of all her strength and courage to-night,
and the mother saw it, putting aside her own needs, which were not
likely to be less. For this boy, St. John, and this daughter were all
she had left her of a past not always very bright, even to remember. But
with patient sweetness she sought to comfort Missy, smarting with the
first knowledge that she was not necessary to some one whom she loved.
"You know we should have been prepared for it," she said. "It really is
not strange--twenty is not young."
"I suppose not. But that is the very least of it. Mamma, you know this is
throwing himself away. You know this is a bitter disappointment to you.
You know she is the last person you would have chosen for him. You know
you feel as I do, now confess it." Missy had a way of speaking
vehemently, and her words tripped over each other in this speech.
"Well," said Mrs. Varian, with calm motherly justice, upholding the
cause of the absent offender, while she soothed the wrath of the present
offended, "I will confess, I am sorry. I am even disappointed in St.
John--but that may be my fault, and not his failure. Perhaps I was
unreasonable to expect more of him than of others."
"More of him? Why pray, do theological students, as a rule, engage
themselves to actresses before they are half through their studies?"
"My dear Missy, I must beg of you--this is unwarrantable. You have no
right to call her an actress. Not the smallest right."
"Excuse me, mamma, I think I have a right. A person who gives readings,
a person whose one ambition is to be before the public, who is only
detained from the stage by want of ability to be successful on it, who
is an adventuress, neither more nor less, who has neither social
position nor private principle, who has beauty and who means to use
it--may be called an actress, without any injustice to herself, but
only to the class to which she does no credit."
The words tripped over each other vehemently now.
"You are very wrong, very unwise to speak and feel so, Missy. I must beg
you to control yourself, even in speaking to me. It simply is not
right."
"You do not like the truth, mamma, you do not like the English language.
I have spoken the truth, I have used plain language. What have I said
wrong? I cannot make things according to your wishes by being silent. I
can only keep them out of your sight. Is it not true that she has given
readings? Not in absolute public, but as near it as she could get. Do we
not know that she has made more than one effort to get on the stage? Are
not she and her mother poor, and living on their wits? Is she not
beautiful, and is not that all we know to her advantage? I think I have
spoken the truth after all, if you will please review it."
"Very bitter truth, and not much mixture of love in it. And I think,
considering that we have not seen her yet, we might suspend judgment a
little, and hope the best of her."
"Perhaps share in St. John's infatuation. Oh!" and Missy laughed
scornfully, while her mother's face quivered with pain as she turned it
away.
"I do not think there is much danger of your seeing her with St. John's
eyes, but I do think there is danger of you driving him from you, and
losing all influence over him."
"I do not want any influence over him," said Missy hotly. "I never will
stand between him and her. I have given him up to her; he has made his
choice. Mamma, mamma, why did we get talking this way? And they may be
here any minute. I made up my mind not to speak another word to you
about it, and here I have got myself worked up, and my cheeks burn so."
She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, and getting up
walked two or three times across the room.
"You will be worn out before they come," she said with late compunction,
noticing the tremor of her mother's hand, "and all the excitement after,
and what a dreadful night you'll have. I suppose you will not sleep at
all. Dear, dear, I am so sorry. And here comes Aunt Harriet. I had
forgotten she asked me to call her when you were ready to come down. I
suppose she will scold, and make everything wretched," and Missy moved
across to open the parlor door, as if she thought life a very trying
complication of worries and worse. To her relief, however, Miss Varian's
rather shrill voice had more question than reproach in it as she entered
the room, led by a servant.
"Do tell me if it is not time for the train?" she said. "I have been
listening for the whistle for the last ten minutes. Goneril has let my
clock run down, and as it is the only one in the house that can be
depended on, we are in a bad way."
"That is a favorite fiction of yours, I know," said Missy, arranging a
seat for her, into which Goneril backed her. "But as my watch has only
varied two minutes since last July, I feel you may be reassured about
the time. I can't pretend to hear a whistle four miles off, but I do
think I can be trusted to tell what o'clock it is--within two minutes."
"My footstool, Goneril," said Miss Varian sharply, "and you've dropped
my handkerchief."
Goneril, a good-looking woman of about forty, a superior American
servant who resented her position always, and went as far as she dared
to go in endangering it, stooped and picked up the handkerchief and
shook it out with suppressed vehemence, and thrust it into her mistress'
hand. "Is that all?" she asked, with a sort of sniff, going towards the
door.
"Yes, _all_," said Miss Varian, in a tone that spoke volumes. Goneril
indulged in another sniff, and went.
"That insufferable woman," muttered her employer, below her breath.
Missy smiled calmly, but said nothing. It always calmed her to see her
step-aunt in a temper with Goneril: it gave her a feeling of
superiority. She never would have endured the woman for a day, but she
was quite willing her elder should, if she chose. The poor lady's
blindness would have given every one a feeling of tenderness, if she had
not been too sharp and petulant to permit any one to feel tender long.
The position of her attendant was not one to be envied. Goneril was an
American farmer's daughter, who had made a bad marriage (and the man who
married her had not made altogether a good one). She had had high
ambitions, as became an American farmer's daughter, and she had come
down to living out at service, and what more cruel statement could be
made? No worse fate could have overtaken her she was sure, and she made
no secret of her estimate of domestic service for American farmer's
daughters. She quarrelled incessantly with the servants of humbler
nationality in the house, who did not mind it much, and who laughed a
little at her proud parentage. They did not see the difference
themselves. She was industrious, and capable, and vigorous, and was
indispensable to Miss Varian, out of whom she wrung ever-increasing
wages. Her father, the American farmer, had done handsomely by her in
the matter of a name; he had called her Regan Goneril. She had grown up
in the sanctity of home as Regan, but now that she was cast out into the
battle of life, she preferred to be called Goneril. She also hoped to be
shielded by this thin disguise from the pursuit of the discarded
husband. The belief in the Varian kitchen was, that there was no danger
of any such pursuit: in fact, that the husband would go very fast in the
opposite direction. But she liked to talk about it, and about her
goodness in putting up with Miss Varian's temper; she placed her service
rather in the light of missionary work. If she did not feel it to be her
duty to stay with the poor blind woman, she said, no money would induce
her to remain. (It took more and more money every year, however, to
stiffen and hold up her sense of duty.)
Missy took the brawls between Miss Varian and her maid, very calmly. "It
gives an interest to her life," she said from a height. On this evening,
occupied as she was by her own matters, she heard the story of her
aunt's wrongs more indifferently than ever. And even Miss Varian soon
forgot that there was anything more absorbing than the waited-for
arrival.
"It may be nine o'clock before they get here," she said; "that shows the
impropriety of letting a girl go off on journeys with a lover. Such
things weren't done in my time. I shouldn't have thought of doing such
a thing."
"You don't know; you might have thought of it, if you had ever been
engaged," said Missy, with malice.
"Well, my dear, we have neither of us been tempted," retorted her aunt,
urbanely. "Let us be charitable. I have no doubt we should, both of us,
have been able to take care of ourselves; but it may be different with
your sister elect. These very handsome women, you know, are not always
wise."
"That is true," said Missy, tapping her foot impatiently as she stood
before the fire. "Mamma, you don't think you'd like a cup of tea? You
may have to wait a good while."
"No, thank you," said Mrs. Varian meekly.
She always wore a pained expression when her sister-in-law was present;
but as the sister-in-law could not see it, it did no harm. She always
dreaded the next word. They had always been uncongenial; but it is one
thing to have an uncongenial sister-in-law that you can get away from,
or go to see only when you are braced up to the business, and another to
have her under your own roof, a prisoner, by reason of her misfortune
and your sense of duty--able to prey upon you whether you are well or
ill; as familiar and everyday as your dressing-gown and slippers; having
no respect for your engagements or your indigestions. When this
blindness threw Harriet Varian upon her hands, she felt as if her home
were invaded, desecrated, spoiled, but she had not a moment's hesitation
as to her duty. A frivolous youth and a worldly, pleasure-seeking
maturity, had ill prepared the poor woman for her dreary doom. She had
fitted herself to it with a bitter philosophy; for do we not all fit
ourselves to our lot, in one way or another. "_L'homme est en délire
s'il ose murmurer_," but it is to be hoped Heaven is not always critical
in the matter of resignation. Harriet Varian had submitted, but she was
in the primer of Christian principle, as it were; attaining with
difficulty in middle age the lesson that would have been easy to her, if
she had begun in childhood. When you have spent thirty-four years in
having your own way, and consulting your own pleasure quite exclusively,
it comes a trifle hard to do exactly as you do not wish to do, and to
find that pleasure is a term unknown in your vocabulary: when you are
old that another should gird you and lead you whither you would not.
But the healthy and Christian surroundings of the home to which she came
were not without their influence. Mrs. Varian's sweet endurance of her
life-long suffering, St. John's healthy goodness, and Missy's vigorous
duty-doing, helped her, against her will. St. John was her great object
of interest in life. All her money was to go to him, and she actually
felt compensated for her dull and restricted existence, sometimes, when
she reflected that it swelled, by so many thousand a year, the fortune
that would be his. She had not lost her interest in the world, since she
had him to connect her with it, and to give her an excuse for the
indulgence of ambition. Of course she had been bitterly set against all
the system upon which he had been educated, and would have thwarted it
if she had had the power. His entering the church had been a great trial
to her, but she openly said it was his mother's plan, and no wish of
his, and before he was ordained he would be old enough to see the folly
of it, and to get clear of it. Then came his engagement, and at this she
was wroth indeed, but as it furnished her with liberal weapons against
his disappointed mother, she found her own comfort in it. Now she hoped
Dorla would see the folly of her course; now she could understand what
other people had known all along: simply that she was keeping him in a
false and unhealthy state of religious feeling, that she had forced upon
him duties and aspirations all her own and none of his; that there had
come a reaction, that there was a flat failure when he came to see even
a corner of the world from which she had debarred him. Here he was,
carried away by his infatuation for a woman whom he would have been too
wise to choose if his mother had not tried to make a monk of him, and to
keep him as guileless and ignorant as a girl. Here he was bound to a
woman who would ruin his career, spoil his life for him, spend his
money, disgrace his name; and it was "all the work of his mother." These
were some of the amenities of the family life at Yellowcoats. These were
the certain truths that were spoken of and to Mrs. Varian by her candid
and unprejudiced sister-in-law.
And there was too much fact in them to be borne as Harriet's criticisms
were generally borne by Mrs. Varian. Perhaps it was all true, she said
to herself in the morning watches, as the stars grew pale; but of all
the failures of her life this was the bitterest. How many hopes, and how
high, were centered in her boy! She had dreamed for him, she had schemed
for him, she had seen her life retrieved in him. A career, in which
earthly ambition had no part, she had planned for him, and into its
beginning she had led him. He had been so easily guided, he was so good,
he loved her so; had it all been a mistake? could it be all delusion? If
he had been headstrong, a willful, rebellious boy, it never could have
been. But to have bound him with his own lovingness, to have slain him
with his own sweetness, this was a cruel thought. Why had no voice
called to her from heaven to warn her of it; why was she left to think
she was doing the very best for him, when she was truly acting as the
enemy who sought his life? She had led him up such a steep and giddy
path, that the first glance downward of his young, untutored eyes, sent
him reeling to the bottom. Why had God suffered this? God, who loved him
and her. She had thought that she had, long ago, accepted God's will in
all and for all, and owned it sweetest and best. But this opened her
eyes sadly to her self-deception. She could not abandon herself to a
will that seemed to have put a sword into her hand, by which she had
wounded her child unwittingly, thinking that she did God service. She
could have borne mistake and misconception for herself, but that her boy
should bear the penalty seemed, even to her humbled will, a bitter
punishment. The future was all too plain, even without her
sister-in-law's interpretation. Yes, St. John's career was spoiled. If
he entered the church at all, having made such a connection, it would be
but to lead a half-way, feeble life, and to bring discredit on his
faith. If he gave it up, there was nothing before him but a life of ease
with a large fortune and a natural tendency to indolence. It was not in
him to think of another profession and to make an interest and an aim
to himself other than the one that he had had from childhood. His mother
knew him too well to believe that possible. Humanly speaking, St. John
Varian had lost his best chance of distinction when he gave his fate
into the keeping of this beautiful adventuress. He might have been what
he was brought up to be; he would never be anything else.
"Think of it," said Miss Varian, tapping her fan sharply on the arm of
her chair, as she talked, "think of it. I suppose that woman isn't
coming with her daughter, because she hasn't clothes to come in. I
suppose every cent has been expended on the girl, and the summer's
campaign has run them deep in debt. No doubt that poor boy will have to
pay for the powder and balls that shot him, by and bye. Not post-obit,
but post-matrimonium. Ha, ha! I don't know which is worse. To think of
his being such a fool. Why, at his age his father was a man of the
world. He could have been trusted not to be caught by the first woman
that angled for him. But then, mamma was always resolute with him and
made him understand something of life, and rely upon himself. He was
never coddled. I don't think I ever remember Felix when he couldn't take
care of himself."
Missy had not loved her stepfather, and this comparison enraged her
(though not by its novelty). Naturally, she could not look for sympathy
to her mother, who had been devoted to her husband. So she had to bite
her lips and keep time with her foot upon the tiles, to Miss Varian's
fan upon the arm chair.
"There!" exclaimed the latter at this exasperating juncture. "There, I
hear the whistle." No one else heard it of course, but no one ventured
to dispute the correctness of the blind woman's wonderful hearing.
"Half an hour at least to wait," exclaimed Missy, almost crying as she
flung herself into a chair. "And Peters will drive his slowest, and the
tea will all be ruined. What can have kept the train so late." Mrs.
Varian pressed her hand before her eyes. It seemed to her that another
half hour of this fret and suspense would be worse than a calamity. But
she had gone further in her matter than the vehement souls who bemoaned
themselves beside her--she could be silent.
"I shall go and walk up and down on the piazza," said Missy, starting
up, "I long for the fresh air."
Mrs. Varian looked appealing towards her, but she did not see it; and
throwing a cloak over her shoulders, she went out on the piazza. It was
a cool, clear October night; there was no moon, but there were hosts of
stars, which she could dimly see through the great trees not yet bare of
foliage, though the lawn was strewn with leaves. The air cooled and
rested her; but her thoughts were still a trifle bloodthirsty.
"Poor mamma," she said to herself, glancing through the window, as she
walked quickly to and fro, "poor mamma. If she could only come out and
walk, and feel the fresh air on her face, and get away from Aunt
Harriet. I believe I was contemptible to come away and leave her. I can
see Aunt Harriet is saying something dreadful, from mamma's expression.
I wish I could kill her." Missy allowed herself to think in highly
colored language. She had so often said to herself that she would like
to strangle Aunt Harriet, to drown her with her own hands, to hang her,
that she had omitted to perceive that it wasn't altogether right. She
stood at the window looking in, holding her cloak together with one
hand, and with the other holding up her dress from the floor of the
piazza, which was wet with dew. So she had no hand left to clench as she
looked at her; but she set her teeth together vindictively and knit her
brow.
"If ever there was a wicked woman!" she exclaimed below her breath. She
certainly wasn't a handsome woman, as Missy looked at her, sitting in
rather a stiff chair by the fire-place, with her feet on a stool. She
was heavily built, and her clothes were put on awkwardly, as if they did
not belong to her, or had not been put on by her. She was nodding her
head in a peremptory way as she said the thing that Missy was sure was
distressing her mother. Then Missy watched while her mother, with a look
of more open suffering than was usual with her, leaned her head back
upon the pillows, and pressed her hands silently together. "How pretty
she is, poor mamma," she thought. "Every one admires her, though she is
so faded and suffering. Beauty is a great gift," and then she began
slowly to walk up and down, gazing in at the windows as she passed them,
and looking at the picture framed by the hangings within. The light of
the fire and the light of the lamp both fell on the reclining figure of
her mother. Her face had resumed its ordinary quiet, and her graceful
white hands were lying unclasped on the rich shawl spread over her. Her
face was still beautiful in outline; her hair was brown and soft; there
was something pathetic in her eyes. She was graceful, refined and
elegant, the sort of woman that men always serve with alacrity and a
shade of chivalry, even when she is faded and no longer young. She was
dependent and not particularly practical; but there were always plenty
to take care of her, and to do the part of life for which she was
unfitted. If a woman can't take care of herself, there are generally
enough ready to do it for her.