ST. JOHN.
"There is the carriage!" exclaimed Missy, as she caught the sound of
wheels in the distance. She darted into the house, her heart beating
with violence. "Mamma, I believe they are coming," she said with forced
calmness, as she went into the parlor, shaking out the fringe of the
shawl across her mother's lap, and straightening the foot-stool. "Aunt
Harriet, do let me move your chair a little back. Goneril's one idea
seems to be to put it always as much in the way as possible."
"Don't scold," said Miss Varian, tartly. "Your new sister may take a
prejudice against you."
Missy disdained to answer, but occupied herself with putting on the fire
some choice pine knots which she had been reserving for this moment.
They blazed up with effusion; the room was beautiful. The carriage
wheels drew nearer; they were before the house. Missy threw open the
parlor door and advanced into the hall, with a very firm step, but with
a very weak heart. She knew her hands were cold and that they trembled.
How could she keep this from the knowledge of her guest; it was all very
well to walk forward under the crystal lamps, as if she were a queen.
But queens arrange to keep their hands from shaking, and to command
their voices.
The maid had already gone out to the steps to bring in the shawls and
bags. Everything seemed to swim before Missy as she stood in the hall
door. The light went out in a flood across the piazza, but there seemed
to be darkness beyond, about the carriage. There was no murmur of
voices. Missy in bewilderment saw her brother, and then the maid coming
up the steps after him and carrying nothing. In her agitation she hardly
looked at him, as, at the door, he stooped down and kissed her, passing
on. But the touch of his hand was light and cold.
"You have no wraps, or bags, or anything," she said confusedly,
following him.
"No," he said, in a forced voice, throwing his hat on a table as he
passed it, and going towards the stairs. "Is mamma in her room?"
"No, in the parlor waiting for you."
A contraction passed across his face as he turned toward the open parlor
door, from which such a light came. He went in, however, quickly, and
hurried to his mother's sofa. She had half raised herself from it, and
with an agitated face looked up at him.
"You are--alone--St. John?"
"I am alone, mamma," he said in a strained, unnatural voice, stooping to
embrace her.
Miss Varian had caught the scent of trouble and was standing up beside
her chair.
"Aunt Harriet," he said, as if he had forgotten her, going over to her
and kissing her.
"You are late," she said, as he turned away.
"Am I?" he said, looking at his watch, but very much as if he did not
see it. "Yes, I suppose so. There was an accident or something on the
road. The days are growing short. I am afraid I have kept you waiting."
Then he walked restlessly up and down the room, and took up and laid
down a book upon the table, and spoke to a dog that came whisking about
his feet, but in a way that showed that the book and the dog had not
either entered into his mind.
"I will go and see about tea," said Missy, faintly, glad to get away.
St. John's face frightened her. He looked ten years older. He was
pallid. There was a most affecting look of suffering about his mouth.
His eyes were strange to her; they were absolutely unlike her brother's
eyes. What could it all mean? What had befallen him? She felt as if they
were all in a dream. She hurried into the dining-room, where the
waitress was whispering with gesticulation to the cook and laundress,
whose faces appeared in the further door full of curiosity. Her presence
put them to flight; the waitress, much humbled, bestirred herself to
obey Missy's orders and remove the unneeded plate and chair, and to make
the table look as if it were not intended for more than would sit down
to it. How large it looked; Missy was so sorry that extra leaf had been
put in. And all the best china, and the silver that was not used every
day. What a glare and glitter they made; she hated the sight of them;
she knew they would give St. John a stab. She would have taken some off
the table, but that she felt the demure waitress would make a note of
it. She had patiently to see her lighting the candles in the sconces.
Poor St. John's eyes would ache at so much light. But there was no help
for it now.
"Put tea upon the table at once," said Missy, sharply. There was no
relief for her but scolding the innocent maid, and no one could have the
heart to deny her that, if it would do her any good.
In a few moments the tea was served, and Missy went to announce it
herself. Things were not altered in the parlor. St. John and his aunt
were trying to talk in a way that would not convict the one of a broken
heart, and the other of a consuming curiosity. Mrs. Varian, very pale,
was leaning her head back on the pillows, and not speaking or looking at
them.
"Mamma, tea is ready," said Missy, coming in. "St. John, take Aunt
Harriet. Mamma will come with me."
"I think you may send me in a cup of tea," said Mrs. Varian. "I am
almost too tired to go into the dining-room."
"Very well; that will be best. I will send Anne to wait upon you."
So the party of three went into the brilliantly-lighted dining-room, and
sat down at the table that had been laid for five. Perhaps St. John
didn't see anything but the light; that hurt his eyes, for he put his
hand up once or twice to shield them. It was a ghastly feast. Aunt
Harriet talked fast and much. St. John could not follow her enough to
answer her with any show of sense. Missy blundered about the sugar in
the two cups of tea she made, and tried to speak in her ordinary tone,
but in vain. St. John sent oysters twice to his aunt, and not at all to
Missy, and when the servant brought him her plate he said, what? and put
it down before himself, and went on pouring cream into his tea, though
he had done it twice before.
"No matter," said Missy sharply, to the girl, who could not make him
understand, and who looked inclined to titter. She did not want the
oysters, but she longed to see the poor fellow eat something himself,
and she watched him furtively from behind the urn. He took everything
upon his plate that was brought to him, but the physical effort of
eating seemed impossible to him. He could not even drink the tea, which
Missy had quietly renewed since the deluge of cream.
The excitement had even affected Miss Varian's appetite; she found fault
with the rolls. This was a comfort to Missy, and restored to her the
feeling that the world was on its time-honored route, notwithstanding
her brother's troubles. At last it was impossible to watch it any
longer. He was sitting unevenly at the head of the table, with his
profile almost turned to her--as if he were ready to go away, ah, too
ready!--if he could get away. His untouched plate was pushed back.
"St. John," said Missy, "do you want to take this cup of tea in to
mamma, or shall Rosa go with it?"
"I will take it," he said, with an eager movement, getting up. The tears
rushed into Missy's eyes as she watched him going out of the door with
the cup of tea in his unsteady hand. Then she heard the parlor door
shut, as Anne came out and left the mother and son together. Missy could
fancy the eager, tender words, the outburst of wretchedness. Her own
heart ached unutterably. "As one whom his mother comforteth." Oh, that
he might be comforted, even though she was shut out, and could not help
him, and her help was not thought of. It was her first approach to great
trouble since she had been old enough to feel it intelligibly. How happy
we have been, she thought, as people always think; how smooth and sweet
our life has flowed; and now it is turned all out of its course, and
will never be the same again. It was a life-and-death matter, even
though no one wore a shroud, and no sod was broken; the smooth, happy
boy's face was gone. She would never look on it again, and she had loved
it so. She thought of him as he had been, only two months ago, when he
went away, easy, frank, happy, good. Everybody loved him. It was the
fashion to be fond of him, and it did not seem to hurt him. Missy
thought of his beauty, his fine proportions, his look of perfect health.
"Like as a moth fretting a garment," this trouble had already begun. His
harassed features, his sallow tint--why, it was like a dream. Poor St.
John! the only thing his sister had had to reproach him with had been
his boyishness, and that was over and done. He had not the regularity of
feature that had made his father remarkable for beauty, but he had the
same warm coloring, the deep blue eye, the fair yellow hair. He was
larger, too, than his father--a broad-shouldered, six-foot fellow, who
had been grown on the sunny side of the wall. About his brain power
there was a difference of opinion, as there will be about undeveloped
resources. His mother's judgment did not count; his aunt thought him
unusually clever for his age. Missy looked upon him as doubtfully
average. His masters loved him, and thought there might be a good deal
in him, if it could be waked up (but it hadn't been); his comrades
thought him a good fellow, but were sure he wouldn't set the sea on
fire. The men about the village, oyster men and stable boys, sailors of
sloops and tillers of soil, were all ready, to a man, to bet upon him,
whatever he might undertake. And here he was, not twenty yet, a boy whom
fortune had seemed to agree should be left to ripen to utmost slow
perfection, suddenly shaken with a blast of ice and fire, and called
upon to show cause why more time should be given him to develop the
powers within him, and to meet the inherent cruelty of life. It was
precipitate and cruel; and the sister's heart cried out against it.
What was the mother's heart crying out? Missy yearned to know. But here
was, no one knew how much time to pass before she could see her mother.
Her duty now was to keep Aunt Harriet away from them, and to hold her in
check. And this was not easy. Freed from the restraint of St. John's
presence, Miss Varian's anxiety showed itself in irritability. She found
fault with everything, and soon brought her tea to an end. Then she
called for Goneril to take her to the parlor. While Rosa went for
Goneril, Missy said, firmly:
"Wait a few minutes, Aunt Harriet. I am sure St. John wants to see mamma
alone a little while."
Then Miss Varian gave way to a very bad fit of temper, only stopped by
the re-entrance of the servant. It was gall to her to think that his
mother could only comfort him, and that she had no place. But she
respected the decencies of life enough not to betray herself before the
servants. So while Missy busied herself in putting away the cake, and
locking up the tea caddy, she sat silent, listening eagerly for any
sound or movement in the parlor.
"If I had the evening paper, I would read it to you," said Missy, having
come to the end of her invented business. "Rosa, go and look in the hall
for it."
"It is on the parlor table, miss."
"Well, no matter then; tell the cook to come here. I want to read her a
receipt for soup to-morrow."
The receipt book was the only bit of literature in the dining-room, so
the cook came, and Missy read her the receipt for the new soup, and then
another receipt that had fallen into desuetude, and might be revived
with benefit to the ménage. And then she gave her orders for breakfast,
and charged the cook with a message for the clam man and the scallop
man, and the man who brought fish. For at Yellowcoats every man brings
the captive of his own bow and spear (or drag and net), and the man who
wooes oysters never vends fish; and the man who digs clams, digs clams
and never potatoes; and scallops are a distinct calling.
All this time Missy was listening, with intent ear, for some movement in
the parlor, Miss Varian listening no less intently. The tea-table was
cleared--the cook could be detained no longer with any show of reason;
the waitress waited to know if there was anything she could bring Miss
Rothermel. It was so very unusual for any one to sit in the dining-room
after tea; there were no books in it, nor any easy chairs, nor anything
to do. The waitress, being a creature of habit, was quite disturbed to
see them stay, but she knew very well what it meant.
At last! There was a movement across the hall--the parlor door opened,
and they heard St. John and his mother come out and go slowly up the
stairs. When they were on the first landing, Miss Varian said, sharply,
"Well, I suppose we can be released now."
"Yes, I think it will be as pleasant in the parlor," said Missy, giving
her arm to Miss Varian, and going forward with a firm step. She
installed her companion in an easy chair, seated herself, and read aloud
the evening paper. Politics, fashions, marriages, and deaths, what a
senseless jumble they made in her mind. She was often called sharply to
account for betraying the jumble in her tone, for Miss Varian had
recovered herself enough to feel an interest in the paper, while she
felt sure she should have no tidings of St. John's trouble that night.
It was easy to see nothing would be told her till it was officially
discussed, with Missy in council, and till it was decided how much and
what she was to hear. So she resolved to revenge herself by keeping
Missy out of it as long as she could. The paper, to the last personal,
had to be read. And then she found it necessary to have two or three
notes written. Goneril was no scribe, so Missy was always expected to
write her notes for her, which she always did, filled with a proud
consciousness of being pretty good to do it, for somebody who wasn't her
aunt, and who was her enemy. Aunt Harriet had always a good many notes
to write; she never could get over the habit of wanting things her own
way, and to have your own way, even about the covering of a footstool,
requires sometimes the writing of a good many little notes; the looking
up of a good many addresses, the putting on of a good many stamps, the
sending a good many times to the post-office. All these things Missy
generally did with outward precision and perfection. But to-night her
hand shook, her mind wandered, she made mighty errors, and blotted and
crossed out and misdirected like an ordinary mortal in a state of
agitation. It was not lost upon Miss Varian, who heard the pen
scratching through a dozen words at a time.
"Anything but an erasure in writing to such a person as Mrs. Olor, and
particularly about a matter such as this. If you can't put your mind on
it to-night, I'd rather you'd leave it till to-morrow."
"I haven't found any difficulty in putting my mind on it," said Missy.
"If you could give me a lucid sentence, I think I could write it out. I
believe I have done it before." So she tore up the letter, her cheeks
burning, and began a fresh one.
All this time she listened for the sounds overhead. Sometimes it would
be silent, of course they could not hear the sound of voices--sometimes
for five minutes together there would be the sound of St. John's tread
as he walked backward and forward the length of the room. Eleven o'clock
came.
"I am going to bed," said Missy, pushing away the writing things. "I
will finish your business in the morning. Shall I ring for Goneril?"
While Goneril was coming, Missy put out the lamp, and gathered up her
books. When she had gone up and shut herself into her room, she began to
cry. The two hours' strain upon her nerves, in keeping up before Miss
Varian, had been great; then the suspense and pity for St. John; and not
least, the feeling that she was forgotten and outside of all he
suffered, and her mother knew. Mamma could have called me, even if St.
John had not remembered, she thought bitterly. By and bye she heard her
mother's door open and her brother's step cross the hall, and stealing
out she looked after him down the stairs. He walked once or twice up and
down the lower hall, then taking up his hat, went out, and she heard his
step on the gravel walk that led down to the beach gate. Then she felt a
great longing to go into her mother's room, and hear all. But an
obstinate jealous pride kept her back. She lingered near the open door
of her room till Anne the maid went into her mother's room, and after a
few moments came out.
"Did mamma ask for me?" she said, as the woman passed her door.
"No, miss. She told me she did not want anything, that I was to leave
the light, and that all were to go to bed."
Then Missy shut her door, and dried her tears, or rather they dried away
before the hot fire of her hurt feelings. St. John's trouble, whatever
it was, began to grow less to her. At least he had his mother, if he
had lost his love; and mother to her had always been more than any love.
And then, he had had the fulness of life, he had had an experience; he
had lived more than she had, though he was but twenty, and she was
twenty-seven. She was angry, humbled, wounded. Poor Missy; and then she
hated herself for it, and knew that she ought to be crying for St. John,
instead of envying him his mother's heart. It is detestable to find
yourself falling below the occasion, and Missy knew that was just what
she was doing. She was thinking about herself and her own wounds and
wants, and she should have been filled with the sorrow of her brother.
Well, so she would have been if he had asked her. She was sure she would
have given him her whole heart, if he had wanted it. This was destined
to be a night of suspenses. Missy undressed herself, and put on a
wrapper, and said her very tumultuous and fragmentary evening prayers,
and read a chapter in one or two good books, without the least
understanding, and then put her light behind a screen in the corner, and
went to the window, and began to wonder why St. John did not come back.
The night was clear and starlight, but there was no moon, and it looked
dark as she gazed out. She could see a light or two twinkling out on the
bay, at the mast of some sloop or yacht. An hour passed. She walked
about her room, in growing uneasiness, and opened her door softly,
wondering if her mother shared her watch, and with what feelings.
Another half hour, and it truly seemed to her, unused to such
excitements, that she could bear it no longer. Where could he be, what
could it mean? All the jealousy was over before this time, and she
would have gone quickly enough to her mother, but that the silence in
her room, made her fear to disturb her, and to give her a sleepless
night. At last, just as the hands of her little watch reached two, she
heard a movement of the latch of the beach gate, and her brother's step
coming up the path. She flew down to the door of the summer parlor and
opened it for him. There was only a faint light coming from the hall. He
did not speak, and she followed him across the parlor, into the hall.
"Where have you been?" she said humbly, "I have been so worried."
But when she got into the hall under the light, she uttered a little
scream, "St. John! You are all wet, look at your feet."
The polished floor was marked with every step.
"It is nothing," he said hoarsely, going towards the stairs.
"Is mamma's light burning?"
"You are not going to mamma's room," said Missy, earnestly, "at this
hour of the night? You might make her very ill. I think you are very
inconsiderate."
There came into his eyes for a moment a hungry, evil look. He looked at
Missy as if he could have killed her.
"Then tell her why I didn't come," he said in an unnatural voice, taking
a candle from her hand, and going up the stairs, shut himself into his
own room.
Poor Missy was frightened. She wished she had let him go to his mother;
as the light of the lamp fell on his face, it was dreadful. His clear
blue eyes, with their dark lashes, had always looked at her with
feelings that she could interpret. She had seen him angry--a
short-lived, sudden anger, that had melted while you looked, but never
malicious; but this was malice, despair. The habitual expression of his
eye was soft, happy, bright; a good nature looking out. She did not
think he had lost his mind; she only thought he might be losing his
soul. His eyes were bloodshot, his face of such a dreadful color.
"This is trouble," she said to herself, as with trembling hands she put
out the light, and went up the dark staircase. At her mother's door she
paused and listened, and a voice within called her. How gladly she heard
it! She went in, longing to throw herself into her mother's arms and cry
what is it? But she controlled herself, and went softly to the sofa
where her mother lay, still undressed, the lamp burning on the table
beside her, her eyes shining with an unusual lustre.
"I didn't know you were awake," said Missy, sitting down on an ottoman
by the fire. "Your room is cold," and she pulled together the embers,
and put on a stick or two of wood, her teeth chattering. She knew quite
well it wasn't the cold that made them chatter.
"Where is St. John?" said her mother.
"He has just come in," returned Missy, looking furtively at her--"and
has gone to bed."
"Why didn't he come in to me?" asked Mrs. Varian, anxiously.
"Because I thought that it--it was so late--you ought not to be kept
awake so long."
"Did you tell him not to come?"
"Well, yes."
Mrs. Varian sighed. "It would have been better not," she said.
Missy turned her face to the fire, which was beginning to blaze, and
stretched out her hands to it. "Well, mamma," she said a little
querulously, after several moments of silence, "I suppose you don't
think that I care anything about St. John's trouble. I should think you
might tell me without being asked to."
"O my child!" exclaimed her mother. "Forgive me. I have been so absorbed
in him."
"O, I know that," retorted Missy, crying a little. "That isn't what I
want to know."
"It won't take long to tell you. The girl to whom he was engaged, has
fled from him and from her mother, and last night was married privately
to a man for whom, it seems, she has long had a passion."
"Then why did she ever engage herself to St. John?" cried Missy, turning
her pale and excited face towards her mother.
"I suppose it was the mother's work. The mother must be unscrupulous and
daring. No doubt she worked hard for such a prize as St. John, and she
found him easy prey, poor boy. Easier to manage than her daughter, whose
passions are strong, and whose will is undisciplined. The girl could not
conquer the thought of the old lover, though she had dissembled cruelly.
I think she is but little to be preferred to her mother, inasmuch as her
intention was the same; she meant to sacrifice St. John, and to satisfy
her ambition. Only at the last moment, her passion conquered, and she
broke faith both with her mother and him. O Missy, what wicked, wicked
lives! Does it seem possible that there can be such women living?"
"I thank them from the bottom of my heart," said Missy, from between her
set teeth.
"Yes," said her mother with a sigh. "It is right to feel that, I know.
But oh, my boy; it is so hard to see him suffer. To have loved so, and
been so duped. And he cannot, in his disgust and revulsion, conquer his
great love for her. He is writhing in such pangs of jealousy. Think,
last night this time he was dreaming happy dreams about her, as foolish
and as fond as boy could be. To-night, she is in the arms of
another--separated from him forever--leaving him with mockery and
coldness, without a word of penitence or supplication. She flung him off
as if she had disdained and loathed him."
"How did it come out--how did he hear it first?"
"This morning, he went for her to drive. They were to have had a very
happy day. St. John, you know, is so nice and thoughtful about planning
pleasures and expeditions. I think he must have had an insight into
their characters, though he was so blinded. First, they were to go to
see some pictures, then to the Park for an hour or two, then to
Delmonico's for an early dinner; then to do some shopping before coming
to the cars. The shopping meant letting her choose all sorts of
expensive things to wear, to which she was unaccustomed, while he paid
the bills. Poor boy, think of that not opening his eyes. I asked if she
never remonstrated, 'Yes, a little perhaps, at first.' Well, they were
to have had this perfect day; and St. John mounted the stairs to their
apartment without a misgiving.
"The moment the door was opened he felt what was coming. The room was in
confusion; the mother, wild and dishevelled, turned from him with a
shriek. It took but a moment, but it was a horrible moment, to persuade
her to tell him the truth.
"'Yes,' she cried, with a sudden impulse--perhaps it was the first
honest word she had ever spoken to the poor boy--'Yes, you shall know
everything. You shall know all that I know. There is no good in keeping
things back now. She has gone; she is a deceitful, bad girl. She has
left me to poverty and you to misery. She has gone off with a wicked
man, a man who destroyed her sister, and left her, but whom she has
always loved. She has broken her promise to me--she has deceived me, she
has ruined me. What shall I do! how shall I pay her bills! I shall have
to hide myself; and I thought I had got through with being poor! She
promised me, she promised me to bear with you and to carry this out.
Everything hung upon it, every one was waiting--the landlord, the grocer
even knew that she was going to make a fine match, and they were
waiting. I had to explain it all to them. You can't think how like
heaven it seemed to have a prospect of easy times. I have had a hard
life, a hard life, ever since I can remember. How I have worked for that
girl, and for her sister before her--what sacrifices I have made! You
can't think, a man can't know. I really enjoy telling the truth; it's
such a long time since I've done it. Making the best of things--making
out that things were one way with us when they were another--telling
lies to every body--almost to each other! Oh, what shall I do without
her! I don't know where to go or which way to turn! She is a wicked girl
to have served me such a trick. She will be come up with yet. She will
hate that man--hate him worse than she hated you. Nobody could say you
were not sweet and nice to every one, even if you were too young. And
he--he is an evil, deep, bad man. He will break her heart for her, as he
broke her sister's. And he hasn't got a penny. And she, oh! she has a
fury of a temper, and she must have her own way if she dies for it.
Well, she's got it, and I almost hope she will be punished. I'd like to
see her poor as poverty, and come begging to the door.'
"And so on, Missy, in her wretched, selfish moan of disappointed greed,
while the poor boy stood stunned and almost stupefied. It did not seem
to him at all real or true; he felt as if he must wake up from it; for
the girl had been a good actress; and the mother, though he had always
felt a little uncomfortable with her, had simulated the manners of a
lady, and his refined tastes never had been shocked; at least never with
force enough to break the spell of the daughter's influence. Fancy what
this revelation was to him; the woman, in her transport of anger, and in
her despair of further help from him, tearing away their flimsy
hypocrisies, and revealing their disgusting meanness. It all seemed
hideous raving to St. John, till she thrust into his hand the letter
that the girl had left. Then the sight of the handwriting that had
always given him such emotions, and the cruel words, made an end of his
dream, and he was quite awake."
"What did she write?" asked Missy.
"That he has not told me. He cannot seem to bring himself to speak the
words. But I gather from him, it was a vehement protestation of what she
felt for her old lover, and the contempt in which she held the poor boy,
and perhaps some rude defiance of her mother. St. John, I think, could
hardly have spoken many words during the interview. He emptied his
pockets, poor boy, and left the wretched woman silent with amazement.
She may well have repented of her reckless speech--how much she might
have got out of him, if she had still played the hypocrite. He came down
the stairs which half an hour before he had mounted, weak, like a person
after months of illness. When he got into the carriage, his eyes fell on
some lovely flowers which he had brought for her, and the sight and
scent of them seemed to make clear the horrible reality. I think he
really cannot tell what he did with the rest of the day. He told the man
to drive to the Park, and there he wandered about, no doubt, for hours.
I am sure he has not tasted food since morning. It must result in a
terrible illness. How did he look, Missy, when he came in from the
beach?"
Missy evaded; and her heart smote her that she had not brought the poor
boy to his mother, instead of turning him away from the only chance of
comfort. "Shall I go and see?" she said. And going softly into the hall,
she stood outside the door of his room and listened. "It is all quiet,"
she said, coming back. "Perhaps he has fallen asleep. He looked utterly
worn out when he came in." Then she crept up beside her mother, and
pulling a shawl about her, they sat talking, hand in hand, till the
stars grew pale, and the chilly dawn broke.