MISRULE.
Mrs. Andrews died late in August. Late in September, one afternoon,
Missy walked up and down at the foot of the lawn, and pondered deeply on
the state of things. That anything could go on worse than things went on
in the house next door, she felt to be improbable. That any children
could be more neglected, more fretted, more injudiciously treated, she
knew to be impossible. She did not mind it much that the servants
plundered their master, and that waste and extravagance went on most
merrily. But that her poor Jay should be reduced indeed to the level of
a rat terrier, by the alternate coaxing and thwarting of the low
creatures who had him in charge, was matter of different moment. It was
very bad for Gabrielle, of course. But Gabrielle was not Jay, and that
made all the difference. Still, even to save Gabrielle, Missy would have
made a good fight, if she had known what way to go to work. The children
were with her as much as ever; at least Jay was. Gabrielle was a little
more restless under restraint, and a good deal more unfathomable than a
month ago. She was intimate with one of the maids, and the Frenchman was
in love with this maid, and petted and joked with Gabrielle, who seemed
to carry messages between them, and to be much interested in their
affairs. She was more contented at home, and less often came to look
over Aunt Harriet's boxes of treasures and to be catechised by her as a
return.
As to Jay, he was passionate and stubborn, and Missy's heart was broken
by a fib he had just told her. The father came home at night, and
always, she believed, asked for the children, and when they could be
found, and made superficially respectable, they were brought to the
table for a little while. But Jay fell asleep sometimes, with his head
on the table-cloth, overcome with the long day's play. And Gabby, after
she had got a little money out of his pocket, and a little dessert off
his plate, preferred the society of the servants, and went away to them.
In the morning, they rarely breakfasted with him. They were some times
not up, and never dressed in time for that early meal. They took their
meals before or after the servants, as those dignitaries found most
convenient. Once, poor Jay wandered in hungry and cross at nine o'clock,
and told Missy he had had nothing to eat, and that Gabby was dancing for
the servants in the kitchen while they ate their breakfast. They made
such a noise, Jay said, they made his head ache, and he acknowledged to
kicking one of the women who wouldn't go and get him his breakfast, and
being put out from the festive scene in disgrace. He ate muffins and
omelette on Missy's lap, that morning, but it did not probably make the
other mornings any better. No one could advise anything. Mrs. Varian
could see no way out of it, and painful as it was, could suggest nothing
but patience. It was manifestly not their business to offer any
interference. St. John, his sister appealed to in vain. Except the
interview on the evening of the wife's death, and the few moments'
preceding the funeral services, there had been no communication between
them. St. John had called, but Mr. Andrews had been away from the house
at the moment. On Sundays, he did not go to church--on week days, he was
in the city. St. John told his sister, very truly, it would be
impertinence to force himself upon a person so nearly a stranger, and
she quite agreed with him. But Jay!
"Why isn't he my child, and why can't I snatch him up and run away with
him," she cried, tossing a handful of pebbles into the water and
wrapping her cloak closer around her as she walked away from the
beach-gate. She could not understand eloping with a man, but with her
tawny-haired mannikin she could have consented to fly, she felt.
It was a high September tide; the water was lapping against the wall,
the sky was blue, the wind was fresh. It was not yet sunset; she
suspected there were visitors in the house; a carriage had driven up to
the stable, from which she turned away her head, and which she resolved
not to recognize. Hastily following a path that led up to the little
wooded eminence that skirted the shore, she concealed her inhospitable
thoughts and was out of sight of the house. "I don't really know who
they were," she said to herself, when she was safe in the thicket. "So
many people have bay horses, and I did not see the coachman. And how
could I waste this glorious afternoon in the house? They will amuse Aunt
Harriet, and I could not be with mamma if I were entertaining them. I am
quite right in making my escape."
The little path was narrow and close; the thicket almost met above her
head. It was very still in there; the wind could not get in, and only
the sound of the waves, washing on the shore below, could.
"Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow--"
she sang in a low voice, as from a little child she had always sung, or
thought, as she passed along this tangled path. To be sure, it had the
disadvantage of being a low thicket of cedars, instead of a grove deep
and high. And the far billow was a near wave, and a small one at that.
But she had always had to translate her romance into the vernacular. She
had grown up in tame, pastoral green ways, in a home outwardly and
inwardly peaceful and unmarked; and her young enthusiasms had had to fit
themselves to her surroundings, or she should have been discontented
with them. A good deal of imagination helped her in this. She loved the
scenes for their own sakes, and for the sake of all the romance with
which they were interwoven. A sense of humor even did not interfere. She
laughed at herself as she grew older; but she loved the places just as
well, and went on calling them by their fictitious names.
Clouds of Michaelmas daisies bordered the path; purple asters crowded up
among the dead leaves and underbrush. She liked them all; and the dear
old path seemed sweeter and more sheltered to her than ever. Still, she
felt a care and an oppression unusual to her; she could not forget
little Jay, who was almost always at her side when she walked here. She
crossed the little bridge, that spanned what had been a "ravine" to her
in younger days; and climbing up the hill, stopped on the top of a sandy
cliff, crowned with a few cedars and much underbrush. Here was the blue
bay spread out before her; the neck of land and the island that closed
in the bay were all in bright autumn yellow and red. Sweet fern and
bayberry made the air odorous; the little purplish berries on the cedars
even gave out their faint tribute of smell in the clear, pure air. There
was a seat in the low branch of a cedar, just on the edge of the bank.
Here she sat down and tossed pebbles down the sandy steep, and thought
of the perplexing question--how to rescue Jay; and Gabby, too, in
parenthesis. Gabby was always in parenthesis, but she was not quite
forgotten.
Presently, on the still autumn atmosphere came the faint smell of a
cigar. At the same moment, the crashing of a man's tread among the dry
underbrush, in the opposite direction from whence she had herself come.
Before she had time to speculate on the subject, Mr. Andrews stood
before her, coming abruptly out of the thicket. He was as much
surprised as she, and perhaps no better pleased. It was impossible for
either to be unconscious of the last interview they had had just one
month ago. Mr. Andrews' complexion grew a little darker, which was an
indication that he was embarrassed, perhaps to find he was on the
Varian's land; perhaps that he was confronting a young woman who did not
approve of him; perhaps that he was confronting any young woman at all.
Who knows--these middle-aged men with thick skins may have sensibilities
of which no one dreams, and of which no one is desired to dream.
Miss Rothermel's ordinarily colorless cheeks were quite in a flame. She
half rose from her cedar seat, and then irresolutely sat down again. Mr.
Andrews threw away his cigar down the sand bank, and without looking
irresolute, possibly felt so, as he paused beside her. Her first word
sealed him in his resolution not to raise his hat and pass on, as he
would have done in an ordinary place. It was quite in character for her
to speak first.
"I didn't know you were in the country to-day," she said with
embarrassment. "You do not stay up very often, do you?"
Then she thought she couldn't possibly have chosen a remark more
personal and unwise. She did not like him to think she knew his habits,
and speculated about them. But here, she had told him the first thing.
"No," he said, "I do not stay up very often. I came home to-day in the
noon train to give the children a drive this afternoon; but I found when
I reached home, that they had gone off with the servants on a picnic.
Perhaps you knew about it? I own I was surprised."
"No," said Missy, flushing more deeply, "I did not know anything about
it, till they had gone away, and I disapproved it very much; not that I
have any right to approve or disapprove; but I am very fond of
Jay--and--and--oh, Mr. Andrews, I wonder if you would think it
unpardonable if I said something to you!"
Mr. Andrews may have doubted whether he should think what she had to say
very agreeable; but he was too gentlemanly to intimate it. She looked so
eager and interested, and it was all about his boy. So he said
indefinitely, that she was only too good to the children, and it was
impossible for him to think anything she said unpardonable.
Missy, with an underlying conviction that she was doing the precise
thing that she had made up her mind not to do--rushed on with a hurried
statement of the picnic facts; how Gabby had known the plan for two or
three days, and had closely guarded the secret; how provisions had been
put over night in the sail-boat, and the champagne carried down in the
early dawn; and how dear little Jay, carried away by the tide of
excitement, and tutored by the infamous maids, had actually told her a
falsehood, and explained to her the night before that she need not look
for him in the morning, for he should be in town all day with his papa,
who was going to take him to the dentist. Mr. Andrews uttered an
exclamation at this last statement, and ground his cane into the ground
at the root of the cedar-tree. "Poor little Jay," said Missy, looking
ready to cry. "Think what a course of evil he must have been put
through to have been induced to say that. Gabrielle I am not surprised
at. She isn't truthful. It doesn't seem to be her nature. I--I--didn't
mean to say that exactly."
"You needn't mind," said her companion, bitterly. "I am afraid it is the
truth."
"But Jay," said Missy, hurriedly, "is so sweet natured, and so clear and
honest, I can't think how they could have made him do it. It only shows
me how dreadful his temptations are, and how much he must go through
when he is at home."
"I don't see how it can be helped," said the father with a sort of
groan. "I can't be with them all the time; and if I were perhaps I
shouldn't mend the matter. I suppose they must take their chance like
others."
"Very well, if you are satisfied," she said stiffly.
"But I am not satisfied," he answered. "I should think I needn't assure
you of that. But I feel helpless, and I don't know what to do. I don't
want to part with the children just yet, you can understand that, no
doubt. And yet I don't see what arrangement I can make to improve their
condition at home. You must see it is perplexing."
"Will you let me tell you what to do," cried Missy, eagerly, twisting
her fingers together as she spoke.
"Gladly," he returned, looking down at her.
"Turn away every servant in your house." He looked blank and dismayed.
"They are as bad a lot as ever were brought together," she said. "They
are neither honest nor truthful, nor in any sense respectable. There is
not one of them that is worth trying to reform. I don't wonder you are
dismayed at the thought of change. Men do not know anything about such
things, naturally; take my word for it, you cannot keep them without
danger to your property, let alone your children."
"Are they worse than servants generally?" he said, helplessly. "I
thought they were always dishonest; mine have always been ever since I
have had a household."
"And we," said Missy, "have never had a dishonest servant in our house a
week."
"You have been very fortunate then."
"No," she said; "only we have had common prudence, and have looked after
them a little."
"Well," said Mr. Andrews, drawing a deep breath, "if I knew how to go to
work, I would get rid of them all. But I don't really know anything
about these matters."
"If it were in your business, you would know how to get rid of a
dishonest clerk, I suppose."
"Oh, yes, that is a different matter. I could easily deal with the men
in this case. But the women--well, really, you see it is uncomfortable.
And I don't know how to get rid of them, or where to get any better if I
do."
"Oh, that could be easily managed."
"Could it?" he said, earnestly. "Believe me, I would do anything
to--to--render the fate of my children less unfortunate."
There was a touch of feeling in his voice that softened Missy.
"I wish you would be resolute about this then, and make the change at
once. I could--mamma could tell you, perhaps, of good servants, and how
to manage. Believe me, it isn't so hard sending off servants and
getting new ones. I wish you were as angry with these as I am. You would
not find it hard."
Mr. Andrews smiled a little, but it was faintly, and he looked
perplexed.
"If I only knew what to do," he said again. "If you will tell me the
way, I will walk in it."
"Well, in the first place," said Missy, nothing loth, "I would take the
horses at once and drive over to Eel Creek, where I understand the
picnic party are, and capture the children--they may not get home till
midnight, for you see the wind is against them, and these men know
nothing about sailing. No doubt they meant to be home long before this
time, starting so early, but they are not in sight. I have been watching
for them. Then bring the children to our house; we will take care of
them till matters are settled. Then, you know, when the servants get
home, after being detected in such a scrape as this, they can expect
nothing but to be dismissed. I am sure they would be much surprised at
any other ending of the adventure, and they will take it very quietly."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of them, I believe," said Mr. Andrews, with a smile.
"Only I don't exactly know how to go about it. What have they done? What
shall I say to them? Is going on a picnic without permission sufficient
ground to dismiss them all at once?"
"The champagne is, and the claret--and the chickens--and the deceit--and
the children--and the sail-boat!" exclaimed Missy, rather incoherently.
"I suppose you are right," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh. "They may
well be glad to get off without any trouble."
"They may indeed. And if you call them together to-night, and speak
severely to them, and tell them to pack their trunks and leave by the
noon train to-morrow, they will think they have got off very easily."
"But what shall we do after they are gone?" asked Mr. Andrews,
despondently.
"Oh, that is easy enough!" cried Missy, starting up and taking the path
back to the house, her companion following her. "Mamma and I will take
care of the children for a few days, till you are all settled. And there
is an old servant of ours living in the village, who will go to you and
take charge of things till you get your servants. She is quite
capable--cooks well, and will do everything you need for a little while;
and it is easy enough to get a man to look after the horses for a day or
two, till you are suited with a coachman. One of the Rogers boys would
do very well; they are honest, good people, all of them, and need work
just now. They understand horses thoroughly; we had Tom ourselves for
awhile. You needn't be afraid of them."
"They couldn't possibly be worse than Michael. I am sure I don't know
how to thank you enough. The way really looks quite easy. But how about
the new women? where am I to look for them?"
"Well, it depends," said Missy, "on what sort of service you want. Now,
to be frank with you, Mr. Andrews, you have just twice as many servants
as you need. But maybe you like to have a great many; some people do. I
don't, you know. I can't bear to have a servant in the house who has no
_raison d'être_. Half your servants have no reasonable excuse for being
in your house, except that they want your money."
"I always wondered," said Mr. Andrews, humbly, "why we needed so many;
but there seemed no way of being comfortable with less."
"You see it is a small house," said Missy; "the work of keeping it in
order is not great. And in winter--but I don't suppose you mean to stay
in winter?"
"Yes, I mean to stay this winter. I think no place could be better for
the children, if I can get the proper people to take care of them."
"Well, then you want to get--first, a cook. I don't suppose you'll have
much company?"
"None, probably."
"Then you do not want a very pretentious one. A good plain cook--unless
you want a great many _entrées_ and great variety."
"Oh, as to that, I am thankful if I get three courses. The present cook
began bravely, but has been cutting me down steadily. Yesterday we had
no soup, and the day before, boiled rice and raisins for dessert."
"Oh," exclaimed Missy, indignantly, "that is an outrage, indeed! Well, I
think if you could be patient under that, you could get along with a
plain cook."
"Why must she be a plain cook?"
"Because," said Missy, artlessly, "if she is a plain cook and doesn't
understand _entrées_ and all that, she will help in the washing, and it
would be _such_ a blessing if you did not have to have a fourth woman in
the house."
Mr. Andrews looked bewildered, as he opened the gate for her to pass
out.
"You see," said Missy, apologetically, "it is such a silly thing to have
servants that you don't need. They are in each other's way in a small
house. You need a good plain cook, and a waitress, and let these two do
the washing and ironing. And then you need a nurse, or a nursery
governess, a quiet, nice person, who will do everything for the
children, including their mending. And then you need a coachman.
And--well, of course you'll know whether it will be comfortable or not
when you've tried it for a few weeks. But I am quite sure you will not
lack anything that you have now, except disorder."
"I am sure of it," said Mr. Andrews, submissively.
"The most important of all," said Missy, as they crossed the lawn, "is
the nurse--and I think I know the very person. I must ask mamma if she
does not think she would do very well. She lives a mile or two out of
the village; is a well brought up, well-educated girl, quite used to
work, and yet quite capable of teaching. She has such a quiet, steady
manner. I think her influence over the children would be so good. She
manages her own little brothers and sisters well, I have noticed.
Besides, she would probably come to you for very little more than the
wages of an ordinary servant."
Missy colored after she said this. It seemed quite absurd for her to be
economizing for her neighbor; but it was quite an involuntary action of
her thrifty mind.
"I beg your pardon," she said, confusedly. "It seems very officious, but
you know I can't help thinking it is a pity to spend money without
thought. Mamma laughs at me, but I can't help feeling annoyed at seeing
a great deal spent to save the trouble of a little thought. That is why
people go on multiplying servants, and paying whatever may be asked for
wages, because they do not want to give themselves the trouble of
thinking and planning about it."
"I think you are quite right," said Mr. Andrews. "And I beg you will not
imagine that my household extravagances are with intention. I have
always regretted that I could not have things managed differently, but I
could not find a way to do it."
This was dangerous ground, and Missy wished herself off it, particularly
as it was humbling to find herself on such familiar, counsel-giving
terms with this brutal husband; but, in truth, she had been quite
carried away by the near prospect of Having Her Own Way. She looked a
little confused, and was silent as they walked along. It did not seem to
be unnatural or uncomfortable to be silent with Mr. Andrews, who was
essentially a silent man. Just before they reached the house, she gave a
last look back towards the bay.
"I do not see them," she said, "they are not yet inside the harbor. I
should not wonder if you caught them before they start from Eel Creek.
Probably they were all day getting there."
"You are right, and I ought to hurry."
"You know the road to Eel Creek?"
"Well, yes, I think so; I am not quite sure, but probably I can find it.
I have a general idea."
"If there is any doubt, take one of our men with you."
"Thank you, that won't be necessary. I will inquire my way. Miss
Rothermel, you have been very good--I don't know how I can thank you
enough."
"Oh, as to that, don't thank me till you have got the other side of the
trouble. Only don't give out--"
"You are afraid of me," he said with a smile. "Well, I acknowledge I am
rather a coward, when it comes to the management of maid-servants. But I
will be firm."
They had now got to the steps that led into the summer parlor, and as
she turned to go up them, she gave a look at her companion, who was
lifting his hat and passing on. He looked so stalwart and so invincible,
that she believed he was anything but a coward, except where women were
concerned. Somewhere, however, there must be a loose scale in his armor.
He certainly was the sort of man tyrannized over easily by women.
"And yet," thought Missy, correcting the conviction, "in one case we
know he was a brutal tyrant. But no matter. Anything to rescue Jay." So
she gave him a pleasant smile, and told him they should wait tea for the
children, and went into the house, while he walked rapidly towards the
gate.