THE SWEETS OF VICTORY.
The next morning a little note came from Mr. Andrews. It was addressed
to Missy.
"Dear Miss Rothermel--
"The woman named Alphonsine is very penitent, and begs to stay. Do
you think I might allow her?
Very truly yours,
"JAMES ANDREWS."
Missy dashed off a reply on the other side of his sheet of paper in
pencil.
"Don't keep her on any account. She is the worst of them all.
A.R."
As Missy twisted this up and handed it to the messenger, Mrs. Varian
rather anxiously asked to see it. "Don't you even put it in an
envelope?" she said glancing over the meagre slip. "Your notes are
generally so nice; this doesn't look like you, and is hardly civil."
"Business is business," said Missy, twisting it up again, and going out
to give it to the messenger. "I don't think it is worth while to waste
monograms and London paper on such matters as these."
"What sudden thrift! Where are the children?"
"I am going to look for them," said Missy, drawing on her gloves. "I
want to get them out of the way, and keep them safe, till the hegira is
over. I haven't much faith in Mr. Andrews' having the nerve to do it;
but perhaps I don't do him justice. If they are not all got off by the
noon train to-day, I shall know it will never be done."
Missy carried the children out with her in the pony-wagon; she even took
Mr. Andrews' intentions to be so probable of execution, that she went
two or three miles inland to see the woman whom she had fixed upon in
her own mind, as the successor to Alphonsine in the care of the
children. She even stopped at the tin-man's, in the village, to get the
address of a good substantial cook, whom she knew to be out of place,
who had a settled reputation for bread-baking, and an honorable record
in the matter of soup. She did not say for whom she wanted her--she was
a little ashamed of taking it for granted, that her advice would be
acted upon. All the same, it was as well to be prepared. She even drove
to a house in one of the bye-streets of the village, to see if a certain
Ellen, whose black eyes and white aprons had always met her approval,
was still out of a situation. All these were at her command--cook,
waitress, and nurse. It was fascinating to have everything go so smooth.
How delightful to have your own way; how heavenly to make people carry
out your plans. Through it all there ran one little thread of doubt as
to the steadfastness of Mr. Andrews; this only gave the matter zest. She
felt as if it were quite a stirring little vaudeville; it wasn't worth
while to make tragedy out of it, and get angry if she were
disappointed--but altogether she liked it. She liked driving about with
her brisk little pony on a bright September morning like this, doing her
errands, giving her orders, having people come out smiling to their
gates to speak to her. She liked all this, even when it was only her own
errands she did, and her own ordinary housekeeping that she looked out
for. It was a pleasure to secure the best butter and the freshest eggs,
and to drive to pretty, cool-looking farm-houses for them; to go for
cornmeal and graham flour just ground, to a romantic-looking old mill by
the edge of the woods, where the drip of the water and the shade of the
trees made a perpetual cool. People who had things to sell were always
glad to see her, for she bought a great many things and paid a good
price for them. She was often called upon for favors and for advice, and
this pleased her. The sight of the pretty little carriage was a signal
for many an inhabitant of farm-house or village, to come out to the
roadside and have a consultation with the young lady who drove it. She
was a favorite, and it is pleasant to be important--and to have your own
way. She generally had hers, even about other people's matters, for it
was a very good way, and a good way presented in such a manner as was
convincing. Of course, she had her disappointments; the clam-man's
daughter did, on one occasion, marry the scallop-man's son, against her
advice--but they came to such speedy grief, that it more than consoled
her. The miller's wife was not willing, last Spring, to listen to reason
about her butter, and so had lost all market for it among the people who
paid high prices, and had to carry it, finally, to the "store," and take
what she could get for it. Missy lost the butter, but she had the
satisfaction of knowing, that the next year her advice would be promptly
taken. All these things were sweet to her, but how much sweeter it was
to be feeling that she was managing completely a household in which she
had no legitimate business to interfere; that she was putting to rout a
troop of worthless servants who had opposed her, and ill-treated her
darling Jay. Above all, that she was making a very weak-kneed master
stand firm. Oh, if she could be sure that he _would_ stand firm! It was
this doubt, that made her feel as if it were all genteel comedy, and
really quite exciting.
The children were pretty good that morning, notwithstanding the orgies
of the night before. Gabrielle was subdued and a little ashamed, and
Jay's memory was not burdened with any remorse, nor had he missed his
sleep, nor omitted to make a very good breakfast in his new quarters. He
was burly and jolly and good as ever. He liked the drive, and the stops,
and the fresh cool breeze, and the bright September sunshine, and the
holding the whip in his hand.
The roadside was bright with golden-rod and purple asters, the Virginia
creeper was turning red on the fences and over the trees where it had
flung itself; catbrier, shining and glossy, cedar dark and dusky, sumach
red and brown, all in mat and tangle of the luxuriant summer's growth,
clothed the banks that edged the road. Jay stretched out his hand to
catch the bright leaves when they passed near them; the bottom of the
carriage was filled with branches of red leaves, with bunches of
Michaelmas daisies and asters already withering in the sun.
Missy looked at her watch; it was just noon. Her heart beat high. They
were on the road that led to the station. If the servants were sent off
by the midday train, they must meet them in the course of a few
moments. She now began to doubt whether it had not all fallen through.
It was impossible to say how she despised Mr. Andrews when she thought
it might be that he had given in. Every rod of road they passed over
added to this conviction. She looked at her watch again. If they did not
meet them within five minutes there was no further hope.
"What's the matter, Missy; why do you pull the pony so?" said Jay,
looking up into her face. They were going down a hill, where the road
was narrow, deep and sandy. At this moment they heard the lumbering, and
caught sight of a heavy vehicle coming up the hill towards them.
"It's the stage!" cried Gabby, growing interested. "And there's Léon,
and there's Bridget, and there's Alphonsine, and all of 'em."
Jay at this news set up a great shout, and started to his feet.
"Sit down, Jay," cried Missy; "don't you see there isn't room for the
stage to pass. I tell you to be quiet." Missy had her hands full in
managing Jay, and getting the pony out of the road, with his head up
into the bushes. This was the only part of the narrow road where they
could pass, so she had to draw up on one side, and wait while the heavy
stage crawled up the hill. The information was soon telegraphed through
the gloomy ranks, which presented a sullen front. The stage was driven
by one Moses, who had always driven it since any one could remember. He
sat bent up like a bow, with years of long and lazy driving; his hat
pushed a little back on his head. He nodded indifferently to Missy. It
was all he did to any one, so no one could complain. Beside him sat
Léon, dark and scowling; behind them sat Michael, red and wrathful;
behind him again, the dismissed cook, laundress, nurse, and last of all,
Alphonsine. It was the wreck of a household, indeed. Missy felt a
momentary elation when she saw them all together. She had not realized
how many there were, before, and to what a complete rout she had put
them. It was rather awkward, drawing up by the roadside, and having them
all pass in review before her, as it were; but it could not be
helped--the condition of a Long Island road never can be helped. A heavy
wagon, driven by one of the sons of Moses, the stage-driver, filled with
the trunks of the departing servants, crawled on after the stage. The
boy was rather rakish-looking; he sat on one of the trunks and smoked a
very bad cigar, which he was not at the pains to remove from his mouth
when he approached the lady. She glanced quickly at the trunks, and a
wandering wish passed through her mind that she might see the inside of
them, and estimate roughly the degree to which the master had been
plundered. She cast her eyes down after this, or only allowed them to
rest on her pony, who did not like being crowded up into the bushes, and
did not stand quite still. It is very possible that all might have gone
well, if Jay could have behaved himself decently; but his old wrath
returned when he saw Michael, and saw him from a friend's side.
"Hurrah!" he shouted, getting on his feet on the seat. "Hurrah! You have
got sent away, and it was because you got drunk, and was bad yesterday,
and I am glad of it, I am."
Michael was too angry and too much the worse for the last night's
revel, to control himself. "You little devil," he cried, and shook his
fist at the boy.
Even then, if the boy could have been subdued, it is possible that the
habit of decent silence before their betters, would have kept them all
quiet till they were out of hearing of the party in the pony carriage.
They all knew or suspected that Missy was their enemy, but she was
dignified, and no word had ever broken their habit of respect to her.
She flushed up and tried to keep Jay quiet, and did not look towards the
stage, now floundering through the sand alongside. But she had also the
pony to keep under, and he required both hands. Jay did not like to be
called a little devil, and there was no one to stop him, except by
counsel, which he did not ever much regard; he made a dash with the
whip, and lurching forward, struck towards Michael with all his small
might. The end of the lash, fine and stinging, reached that person's
red, and sun-scorched cheek.
"I'll teach you to call me little devil," cried Jay, as he dealt the
blow.
A howl of rage escaped the man, though it must have hurt him very
little. He made a spring for Jay. The stage was going so slowly it was
not difficult for him to leap from it and land beside the little
carriage. Moses pulled up, much interested. Moses' son, behind, pulled
up, interested quite as much. Michael caught the boy with a fierce hand.
Missy leaned forward, exclaiming, "Don't touch the child. I forbid you.
Don't touch him, unless you want to get yourself in trouble!"
A chorus of indignation burst from the crew in the stage. Michael,
backed by this, shook the child fiercely in her very lap, boxed his
ears, with one brutal hand after the other, and then hurled him back
upon her, and swung himself into the stage again. A shower of coarse and
horrid words assailed poor Missy's ears, as she caught him in her
disengaged arm. It had never been her luck before to be assailed by an
Irish tongue, loosed from the decency of servitude. She had never had
"words" with any of her mother's servants. This was quite a new
experience. She was white to her fingers' ends. Jay did not cry. He was
white too. Not cowed, but overpowered by brute strength, and stunned by
the blows he had got. Missy never knew exactly what they said; some
horrid words always stuck in her memory, but it was all a confused
hideous jumble besides. The women's tongues were the worst, their voices
the shrillest, the things they said the ones that stuck in the memory
most. Moses was so interested he sat open-mouthed and gazed and
listened. His son, infinitely delighted, gazed and listened too. At
last, Missy found voice to say, above the general babel:
"Moses, will you drive on, and let me pass? You will lose the train if
you don't go at once."
This recalled to him the fact that he had the mail-bag at his feet, and
losing the train meant losing the patronage of the Government of the
United States.
"By Jingo, that's a fact!" said Moses, gathering up the reins, and
calling out "gee-up" to the lean horses, who had been very glad to rest.
The stage lumbered on, and left the pony-carriage free to move, after
the baggage-wagon should have passed. But the baggage-wagon was driven
by Moses' son, and he had no desire to shorten or renounce the fun. He
did not carry the United States mail. He was probably not unfamiliar
with Billingsgate, and was not shocked, only pleasantly excited, by the
language employed. He even hurrahed a little, and laughed, and struck
his hands upon his knees, as Jay was pitched back into the carriage,
white and silenced. He liked a fight exceedingly, he did--any kind of a
fight.
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.
"We saw 'em all," cried Gabby, always glad to impart information. "We
saw 'em all; and, oh, such a time as we have had!"
"Michael beat me, and beat me," burst out Jay, quite broken down at the
thought of being sympathized with.
"And, oh, the things they said to Missy!" exclaimed Gabby.
"And he called me a little devil, and I'll kill him!" cried Jay,
beginning to sob.
While these side-lights were being thrown upon the occurrence, Mr.
Andrews looked anxiously at Missy, who was growing red and white, and
trembling very visibly.
"Be silent, children," he said impatiently. "You have had some trouble,
Miss Rothermel, I am afraid."
By this time they had reached the house; Missy threw down the reins,
which Mr. Andrews caught.
"I hope nothing has happened to distress you," he said.
She did not wait to give Jay to his father, but getting out very
quickly, and not noticing the hand that he offered her, said, in a voice
not very steady, "I don't want to talk about it. It makes me ill to
think of it. Call Peters, won't you, to take away the pony," ran up the
steps and disappeared into the house. In another minute she would have
cried.
He took the children out and drove the pony up to the stable. The
children followed him, and he spent half an hour with them on the beach,
trying to extract from them the history of the morning. It was rather
difficult to get at the facts, but he got at enough to make him feel
much disturbed in mind. The servant soon came down to take the children
in to dinner, and to ask him to come in, too. But this he declined,
wisely judging that his presence would not be very welcome now. He went
back to his empty house, put the key in his pocket, and drove down to
the village inn to get something to eat.
Late in the afternoon he went back to Mrs. Varian's, to ask for the
counsel which had been before so freely offered him. He felt quite
helpless, and could not move a step in reconstructing his household till
he had been told what to do. The afternoon was quite clear, and since
the sun had set, the fire on the hearth in the library looked very
cheerful. The servant let him into that room. There he found the
children playing together a game of checkers, and Goneril watching them.
Ann went up-stairs to summon Miss Rothermel, but returned presently to
say that Miss Rothermel was lying down with a severe headache, and
begged that Mr. Andrews would excuse her. Miss Varian, who was in the
adjoining parlor, dozing in a big arm-chair, roused at the sound of
voices, and called to Goneril to come and lead her into the library. It
was always an amusement to have a visitor, and she asked Mr. Andrews to
sit down again, which he was very ready to do--his own house at present
being a very uncheerful place to sit down in. She chatted briskly with
him, and praised the children liberally. This surprised the children,
who stopped their game to listen. They were much more used to hearing
themselves scolded by Miss Varian. Then she came to the condition of his
household, and asked him many questions. He was obliged to be very
frank, and to tell her that he had sent the servants all away, according
to Miss Rothermel's advice, and that now he was waiting further orders.
"Well, it's too bad," cried Miss Varian, with a laugh. "Missy has got
you into this fix, and she's bound to help you out of it. I won't hear
to her going to bed, and leaving you to starve. Why, what a predicament
you're in! Where did you get your dinner?"
Mr. Andrews said he had had a very fair meal at the hotel, and seemed
anxious to make the best of his position. "But who milks the cows, and
takes care of things at the stable? Horses can't be locked up like
chairs and tables."
"Oh!" answered Mr. Andrews, "Peters has found a very decent man for me.
I feel quite satisfied about the horses and cows; and if it were not for
imposing these children upon you, I should not be in any trouble about
the house. It's more comfortable now than it has been for some time, I
assure you."
"All the same," said Miss Varian, "there is no sense in your being kept
in this unsettled state, just because Missy chooses to set up a
headache. It's a new thing for her; she isn't the kind of young woman
that goes to bed with a headache whenever she's put out. It's a wonder
to me what has happened to disturb her. She was well enough at
breakfast, but wouldn't come down to her dinner. I never knew her to
stay away from dinner for a headache, or any such nonsense before.
Goneril shall go up and see why she can't come down."
"I beg you won't take any trouble about it," said Mr. Andrews, much
disturbed. "I am sure she is ill, she looked very pale. I would not have
her annoyed for anything. If it is not asking too much of you all, to
bear with the children, I will try to get some kind of a household
together to-morrow. I have no doubt I could hear of some one in the
village, or I could go to the city in the morning and get some at an
office."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Miss Varian, fervently. "That would break Missy's
heart, for she has been longing to get these creatures away. And you
wouldn't be likely to get any better. You know men are always imposed
upon."
"That is true," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh.
"Missy went to see about a cook this morning," put in Gabrielle, who had
renounced her game and crept up to hear the talking. "And a waitress
too. She said she had heard of a place for them, but she didn't say
where. Maybe it was for you, papa."
"Maybe," said her father, absently.
"Alphonsine said in the stage this morning that she seemed to take a
great interest in your affairs, you know."
"Hush!" said her father, with emphasis.
"How's that? Who's Alphonsine? Your nurse? And what did she say?" asked
Miss Varian, with keen interest.
"Some impertinence of the servants after they were sent away, I
suppose," said Mr. Andrews, threatening Gabrielle with a look.
"Did Missy hear it?" asked Miss Varian, persisting.
"Papa says I mustn't tell," returned Gabrielle, hesitating.
"Oh," said Miss Varian, sharply. "It is always well to obey one's
father."
"Gabrielle makes a great deal out of a very little," said Mr. Andrews,
suppressing his annoyance. "She has had the misfortune to be a great
deal thrown upon the care of servants. I shall be glad to get her into
different ways."
"She ought to be sent to boarding-school," said Miss Varian.
"I am afraid you are right; I must look about for a school for her in
the course of the next few months."
Gabrielle gave Miss Varian a very bitter look, but Miss Varian was none
the worse for that. Mr. Andrews now arose to go, but Miss Varian
protested he should not go till Missy had sent down the addresses of the
persons she had recommended.
"I won't have you kept in such a state for anybody's caprice," she said,
sending Goneril up with a message. And then Mr. Andrews knew that Miss
Varian did not love her step-niece.
"Missy is very fond of managing," she said. "She must understand she
can't lay down the reins whenever she chooses. She must carry out what
she undertakes."
Goneril was gone a very long time, it seemed to Mr. Andrews; he really
thought he was having a great deal of petticoat government. If it were
not for the two children, he would have got clear of the whole sex, he
thought. He would have taken bachelor apartments, and had not even a
chamber-maid. He would have gone to a club for his meals, and not have
spoken to a woman from year's end to year's end. But there was poor
little Jay, with his tawny hair all unkempt, and his saucy sister with
her sash ends in a tangle; for their sakes he must be grateful to these
kind and dictatorial friends. Certainly he could not do without women
while he had those two to care for. He must get used to women, he
supposed; get to be half a woman himself; learn how to keep house; be a
perfect Betty. He groaned, patiently, while Miss Varian kept up a brisk
talk about his matters.
At last Goneril came back. Goneril was much interested in his matters
too. She was so much interested, and so zealous, that he was quite
abashed. He wondered how many more women would be needed to put his
affairs _en train_. Goneril was a very tall, well-built woman, with an
energetic tread. She had her own views on most matters, and was not
withheld from uttering them by any false delicacy about a menial
position. Wasn't she the daughter of an American farmer? So, when she
came down to deliver Miss Rothermel's message, she added many of her own
observations to the message, and quite bewildered Mr. Andrews. He did
not know which was the original text, and which the comment on it; and
Miss Varian's cross-fire did not render matters simpler.
"Here's the names of the persons Miss Rothermel was speaking of,"
Goneril said, giving him the paper; "and the places where you'll find
'em. But my opinion is, you'll have your trouble for your pains, if you
go hunting up Melinda Larkins. She'll never come to you. She won't
undertake to live in a family where there isn't anybody to look after
things. Things go wrong in every house, more or less; but where there's
only Help, the troubles are laid to the wrong door, and you never know
what you'll be accused of."
"That is," said Miss Varian, sharply, "bad as a mistress is, it's worse
without a mistress."
"I don't know anything about mistresses," retorted Goneril, with a toss
of the head. "People that you live with may call themselves anything
they like. That don't make 'em so. They might call themselves em-presses
and prin-cesses, but it wouldn't make 'em so."
"And servants might call themselves Help, but that wouldn't make them
so. As long as they draw their wages for the work they do, they are
servants, and nothing more nor less than servants."
Poor Mr. Andrews felt as if he had got into a very hot fire, and as if,
somehow, he were guilty of having lighted it.
"I ought to be going to see about these--persons--I suppose; if I can
get them to-night it will be all the better," he said, rising, while the
discussion about titles was still raging.
"Well, you won't get anybody on such short notice that's worth having,"
Goneril interrupted herself to say. "Melinda Larkins wouldn't think of
taking a place, without going over to the island to see her folks about
it. She has some self-respect, if she is obliged to live out."
"If she is obliged to go into service, you mean," said Miss Varian.
"There won't be much difficulty about your getting her, Mr. Andrews, I
am sure. All these people are very poor, and will do anything for
money."
"Money isn't everything," began Goneril; but Mr. Andrews had got to the
hall.
"I can but go and see about them," he said, as he made his bow.
He heard a rage of tongues as he closed the door. He felt as if the
flames were shooting out after him and scorching his very eyebrows.
He drew a long breath when he was out of hearing of the house, and under
the trees in the night air. What bliss a world without women would be.
Here he was embroiled with three, after his brave fight of the morning
too, which should have won him their applause. There was no pleasing
them, and their tongues--their tongues. Pleased or displeased, he asked
nothing better than to get away from them. He thought for a rash moment
that he would steal Jay and go away with him to some monastery, and
leave Gabby to her fate. But, poor little Gabby, he was sorry for her,
even if she did love to impart information and to make mischief. Yes, he
must stay by them, poor little mites, and try to help them out of their
dismal plight. So he went to the stable, and saddled his horse, and
threw a severe order or two to the decent man, of whom he was not
afraid.
Then he rode into the jaws of fate, to see Melinda Larkins, who couldn't
make up her mind in a minute; to see the one proposed as nursery maid,
who wasn't in; to see the waitress, who asked him a great many questions
that he couldn't answer. "What part of the wash would be hers? What
evening could she have? Who was to get tea Sunday when the cook was out?
Was there to be a regular dinner for the children in the middle of the
day, and a regular dinner again at night?"
To all these questions, and many more as puzzling, Mr. Andrews could
give no well considered answer. He felt the necessity of appearing to
know a little about the ordering of his household; his dealings with men
had taught him that ignorance is fatal to authority, and strangely and
sadly as the sexes differed, there must be some general points of
resemblance. It would not do to let this trim young creature, with her
black eyes and her white apron, respectful as yet, standing at the gate
in an attitude of attention, know that he had never known who did the
wash in his house, or whether there was a regular dinner in the middle
of the day, or whether the cook ever went out, or how many evenings
belonged to the waitress. He said rather lamely that he had only come to
see if she were disengaged; he had not time to talk these details over.
If she were at liberty, she might come the next morning at ten, and he
would make final arrangements with her.
She respectfully consented to this, but it is highly probable that she
saw through the maneuver, and knew that "time" was what her future
master wanted, and that there was a good deal in her catechism that was
new to him. He knew, or feared this knowledge on her part, and went
slowly away on his milk-white steed, much humbled and perplexed.
The decent man took his horse and cared for it, but he let himself into
the house with a feeling of his helplessness. He had matches, thanks to
being a smoker, but he did not know how to fill a lamp, and of course
all the lamps were empty. Every one knows that a candle does not give a
cheerful light in a wide room. So he tried two candles, but they blinked
at each other feebly, they were almost worse than one. It was almost
impossible to read the evening paper; he would conclude it was time to
go to bed. So he poured himself out a glass of wine, not having the
heart (or the chance) to eat a meal, and went up-stairs. His bed had not
been made; there was no water in the pitchers. The windows had been
closed, and the room was not fresh. He made up his mind that he could
not sleep there; he went into another room, entering into a calculation
how many nights the beds would last, and when he should have to take to
the sofas.
Another day dawned on this anarchy. He had no hot water for his shaving;
he did not know where fresh towels were, the keys of the closets being
all at the bottom of the cistern. (A parting shot of malice from
Alphonsine, though he did not know it.) After a wretched bath, with
towels in which he had no confidence, he went out into the damp morning,
and getting on his horse, went down to the village barber, and then to
the village inn for breakfast.
"This thing must not go on any longer," he said with firmness--but what
use was there in being firm? He was helpless. What part of the wash
_did_ the waitress do? And what would bring Melinda Larkins to decision?
And what questions would the nursery-maid elect be likely to ask him? He
ground his teeth. A plague upon them all. He had made a fortune and lost
it with less rack of brain than this business had occasioned him. If
Miss Rothermel only would get over her little temper and come forward to
the rescue. He couldn't blame her for being so indignant, but she
needn't have vented it on him, who was not in the least to blame. There
was the waitress coming at ten, and he had no answers to give her to her
questions. He had not the face to go to the Varians' house again,
indeed, he had not the courage, for Miss Varian and her iron maid were
more likely to confront him than Missy was, who mightn't yet be through
with her headache.
He rode slowly back from the village after breakfast, reflecting deeply.
As he turned into the stable, he saw the welcome sight of Missy, in her
shade-hat, going into the greenhouse, with a basket and some scissors.
If he could only get her to talk to him for five minutes, all might be
got into right shape. But what sort of a humor was she in? She had not
the children with her--that was a bad sign. The dampness of the early
morning had passed away, and the sun had come out bright, though the
dew was thick on the grass. He hurried across the lawn and entered the
garden. Missy was busy at the door of the greenhouse, with a vine that
seemed not to meet her approbation. Her basket stood at her feet,
half-full of the late blooming flowers that she had picked in the garden
as she came along.
"Good morning, Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, rather irresolutely,
pausing behind her. She had not heard his approach, and started. He felt
that it was unwarrantable, his coming in this way into the garden; but
starvation and perplexity and want of shaving-water will drive a man to
almost anything. If he had gone to the house she would have refused to
see him. If she refused to speak to him now, he should simply hang
himself. She looked quite haughty as she faced him; but he looked so
troubled and so humbled, it was impossible to be haughty long.
"I hope you'll excuse my coming to bother you again," he said; "but upon
my word, I don't know how I am going to get my matters straight without
some help from you. I know it is quite unjustifiable, and you have quite
a right to tell me so."
"No," said Missy, with rigid honesty, "I offered you my advice. I
remember that quite well. I have only myself to blame if you give me any
trouble."
"And I am sure I needn't tell you how very sorry I am about the
occurrence of yesterday. I would have done anything to have saved you
that annoyance."
But Mr. Andrews saw that he'd better have left the subject alone. All
the softening vanished from her expression.
"No one was to blame for that," she said. "It need never be thought of
again." But it was evident the recollection of it had put her back into
her armor.
Mr. Andrews felt a momentary indignation at her injustice; but his
straits were too sore for him to cherish indignation. "If it were not
for the children," he said, "I would close the house at once, and go
away. Gabrielle would be better off perhaps at boarding-school; but Jay
is such a baby. Still, I suppose that might not be a difficulty."
"He does seem rather young to send among strangers," she replied coldly,
snipping down a fading branch of the climbing rose, and throwing it
aside.
"But on some accounts, as I was saying to you the other day, I would
much prefer keeping them together, and having them with me for the
present."
"It would be pleasanter, perhaps," said Miss Rothermel, with distant but
faint interest.
"What I want to ask you," he went on desperately, "is whether you think
a household could be kept together, with any comfort or profit to the
children, without any greater knowledge and experience on my part. I
mean," he said confusedly, "could they get on without a governess, or a
housekeeper, or some one to be at the head of affairs? Could three or
four women get on, that is, without some one in authority over them?"
"Why, what is to prevent you from being in authority over them?" said
Missy, almost contemptuously. "That is, if you are willing to take the
trouble of thinking about things."
"I am very willing to think about things, but I am sorry to say I am so
ignorant that my thoughts are not likely to be profitable."
"Knowledge is power," said Missy, clipping another dry leaf off.
"That is very true, Miss Rothermel," he said, with a smile. "I am sure
you feel yours. But be good enough to help me. Tell me, to begin with,
what I am to say to the waitress, who is to come to see me in half an
hour. She asks me questions that I don't know how to answer."
"Well, what are some of them, pray?"
"Why, as we are not to keep a laundress, what part of the washing she
must do?"
"The fine clothes, of course."
"I don't believe we have any fine clothes in the house. I think
everything is very plain."
"Oh, that is a technical expression. It means the starched clothes. Say
that to her and she'll understand. The cook is to do the coarse
washing."
"Ah, yes; I see. Well, she wants to know about dinner--am I to have a
regular dinner, and are the children to have a regular dinner in the
middle of the day? Now, what does a regular dinner mean when a waitress
talks about it? and what ought the children to have for their dinner?"
"Why, it means," said Missy, "are the children to have scraps and a
jumbled-up lunch, all on the table together--or, are they to have soup,
and a nice steak, and some vegetables, and a pudding, and fare like
Christians. I _hope_ you settled that question for her."
"I will settle it, now that I know what she means. Thank you. And what
wages is she to have? And who is to serve tea on Sunday nights? And how
often must she go out; and when she goes out who is to do her work?"
"Tell her she is to go out every other Sunday, and the cook is to serve
tea in her place on that night. And one evening in the week she can go
out. And as the nurse will go out on one evening also, she must arrange
with her what that evening shall be. And on the nurse's evening out, she
must sit up stairs and look after the children."
"Thank you. That looks plainer. I believe it was all she asked me. If I
see the woman you thought might do for nurse, what questions will she be
likely to ask me?"
"Why, I don't know; but you must be prepared to say, she is to do all
the mending, and take the entire charge of the children, and of their
clothes. And besides must teach them their letters and spelling every
day for an hour, and must assist in waiting on them at their meals, for
Jay needs some one every moment. But she is a sensible girl, and I am
sure you will have no trouble with her. She won't be likely to ask you
many questions."
"I am glad of that," said Mr. Andrews, growing lighter-hearted. "There
is one thing more. You feel certain, Miss Rothermel, that three women
can do the work? You know there have hitherto been five--"
Miss Rothermel looked contemptuous again. "That depends," she said,
"entirely upon your wishes. Three women are all you need. You might have
eight, but I don't think they'd add to your comfort."
"I am sure you are right," he said, apologetically. "All I mean is, will
they be coming to me every day or two and saying they have too much to
do, and excusing themselves in that manner for neglecting their work?"
"That depends, again, upon what you say to them, if they do come. If you
never give in to any demands for more wages, and make them fully
understand that you mean to keep three servants in the house and no
more, you will not have any trouble. It will be an easy place; they will
be very glad to stay. These three that I have told you of, are all good
servants. I don't see any reason that Jay--that you all--I
mean--shouldn't be quite comfortable."
Mr. Andrews knew very well that all her solicitude was for Jay. He did
not care, however. He was willing to get comfort, even over his son's
shoulder.
"I can't tell you how much obliged to you I am," he said. "Your aunt's
maid has rather frightened me about my cook elect. Do you think there
will be any difficulty in getting her to consent to come?"
"I don't know why there should be."
"Perhaps, if you would say a word to her, she might be influenced."
Missy grew lofty at once. She had evidently washed her hands of the
matter.
"I don't know anything to say to her to induce her to come if she is not
induced by the prospect of a good home and good wages. She will probably
come."
"And the nurse; is she not a sort of protegée of yours? Perhaps if you
would kindly give her some idea of her duties it might help her."
This Mr. Andrews said maliciously, for he had a man's contempt for
caprice, and he could see nothing but caprice in Miss Rothermel's
washing her hands of his affairs. Two days ago she had advised him,
urged him, made up his cabinet for him. And now she only tolerated an
allusion to the subject. It was not his fault that the servants she had
made him send away had been saucy to her. He was not inclined to submit
to such airs (now that he had got his questions answered and there was a
reasonable prospect of hot water and clean towels).
"She is not a protegée of mine at all," returned Missy. "All I know
about her, however, is in her favor. She will, I think, take good care
of the children. She will take her instructions best from you, and she
has intelligence enough to fill up details of which you are ignorant
necessarily."
Mr. Andrews bowed, and Missy filled up the gap in the conversation by
snipping off some more dead leaves. There seemed really nothing for him
to do but to go away, and he was just preparing to do this when the
children rushed upon the scene. Jay pounced upon Missy, and nearly threw
her down; she looked slight and small, stretching up her arm to a high
branch of the vine, and the little ruffian probably felt his superiority
and used it.
"You are a naughty boy," she said, picking up her hat and the scissors
which he had thrown to the ground, but she did not say it very severely.
"Why did you go away without me?" he said, kicking at her glove, which
lay upon the gravel walk.
"Because I didn't want you," she returned.
Gabrielle had crept up to her father, and was eying Missy and Jay with
sidelong observation. "Jay said something very bad this morning," she
said, including her father in her circuitous glance. Her father
naturally felt suspicious of Gabrielle's information; it was generally
of a nature far from pleasing. He therefore passed over her remark
without notice, and putting out his hand to Jay, said, "Well, you
haven't spoken to me this morning. I think you have forgotten that you
haven't seen me."
"Holloa! how are you?" cried Jay, catching at his father's hand with
both his, and trying to climb up his leg. His hat fell off in the
exertion, and his yellow hair, fresh from Goneril's brushing, blew about
in the breeze.
"He said he didn't want to go home to you, papa," persisted Gabrielle.
"He didn't! there's affection for you," said the father, carelessly,
with both hands now holding the boy, who chose to walk up him.
"He said--" and now Missy began to tremble. "He said he wouldn't go away
from Missy."
"Thank you, Jay," said Missy, looking at the boy with a bright smile,
and some relief. "They'd better let you stay with me if that's the way
you feel."
"O no," cried the little viper, "we couldn't spare Jay. You could do
like Alphonsine said you wanted to do, come to our house and live with
us, and have things all your own way. You know she said that was what
you were working for. Don't you remember, Missy? Just before Moses
started up the horses."
Jay had made the ascent of his father and stood in triumph on his
shoulder. Mr. Andrews with a rapid movement put him on the ground, made
a step forward and brought his hand with force on Gabrielle's cheek, a
hard stinging blow that made the child scream with pain and amazement,
for he had never struck her before.
"Never repeat to me the words of servants," he said, in a voice terrible
to her, and severe enough in the ears of others, especially little Jay,
who looked awe-struck. There was a seat outside the greenhouse door, and
on this Missy had sunk down, trembling all over. She opened her lips and
tried to speak, but literally she could not, the sudden agitation had
taken away her voice. Meanwhile Gabrielle had found hers, and was crying
passionately, very angry at the blow, and very sure too, that crying was
the way to get the better of her father. But this time she was mistaken.
He took her hand almost roughly.
"Come with me," he said. "I have something more to teach you."
His voice was rather unsteady from anger, his face flushed, and his eye
stern. No wonder Gabrielle's cry sank into a frightened whimper, as she
followed, or was half dragged away by her father. Jay ran up to Missy,
and tried to climb into her lap. With an impulse that the poor little
fellow could not understand, of course, she pushed him away. It was the
first repulse he had ever had from her: though he was still in
petticoats, his pride and wounded affection were strong; he would not
wait for a second rebuff. He started down the path, crying, Papa. Missy
saw him overtake his father as he crossed the lawn, and cling to his
hand, hardly able to keep up with his rapid walk. And so, with a child
in each hand, he passed out of the gate and disappeared from Missy's
sight.
She sat still for a few minutes, and tried to collect her thoughts. She
felt as if some one had given her a blow on _her_ ear, and sent all the
blood tingling to her brain. Finally she got up, picked up Jay's hat,
which he had left on the field, and the scissors, and the basket, which
had been overturned in the mêlée. She put the flowers back into it,
angry and ashamed to see how her hand shook, and shutting the greenhouse
door, slowly went out of the garden. Where should she go to get away
from every one, and be by herself for a little while? If she went to the
beach, hither the children might come in a few moments. If to the lawn,
she was a fair mark for visitors and servants, and the walk through the
cedars would bring all back--the interview there three days ago, whence
all her troubles dated. Her own room was the best place for her.
She put down the flowers in the hall, and went up stairs under a running
fire from Goneril, Aunt Harriet and her mother, dispersed about the
lower rooms and hall.
It is astonishing how much unnecessary talking is done in a house, how
many useless questions asked, how many senseless observations made. Just
be very unhappy, overstrained or anxious, and you will find out how many
idle words are spoken in an hour, if you happen to be bearing your
burden among happy, unstrained, and careless people.
It seemed to Missy, calling out her answers in as brave a voice as she
could, going through the house, that never were questions so useless,
observations so senseless.
"Where are you going?" was among the last of her mother's.
"To my room; and don't let me be disturbed, please. I want to be quiet
for awhile."
"Another headache?" cried Aunt Harriet from the hall below. "Really,
this is becoming serious. I never knew you were capable of headaches."
"Thank you," said Missy, shutting her door and sliding the bolt. She sat
down in a chair by the window and gazed out; but she did not see the
soft velvet of the lawn, nor the blue dimples of the bay against which
the great trunks of the trees stood out.
There were some sails flitting about in the fresh wind, but she did not
see them. She was trying to collect her thoughts and get over that blow
on the ear that she felt as if she had had. It was new to her not to go
to her mother and confide her trouble; but this was a sort of
humiliation she could not bring herself to talk about. She excused
herself by saying it would only distress mamma. It would have distressed
mamma's daughter so much to have given words to it that she never even
allowed to herself that it might be a duty. It was all a punishment, she
said to herself, for having received on terms of kindness a man who had
behaved so to his wife; that was a breach of friendship. It was
something to bear in silence, to be hushed up, and forgotten, if it
could be, even by herself. She wished that she might go away.
She got up and walked across the room--impulsively. Then sat down again,
with the bitter reflection that it was only men who could go away. Women
have to sit down and bear their disappointments, their mortifications,
their defeats; to sit down in the sight of them and forget them if they
can. Men can pack their tender sensibilities into their valises, and go
off and see that the world is wide, and contains other subjects of
thought and interest than the ones they have been brooding over.
Go away! No indeed; she laughed bitterly when she thought of the
commotion that would result from the mentioning such a plan. St. John
might walk in any day, and say he was going on a journey. No one would
question his right to go, or his right to decline giving any reasons for
so going. He was seven years younger than she was, but he was free. She
must account for all her goings, her doings; even the people in the
village would sit in judgment on her, if she did anything that was not
clearly explained to them and proved expedient. No--she was tied, bound
to Yellowcoats. All their plans were laid to remain at home for the
winter.
Since St. John had come to the parish, they had decided it was
unnecessary to make their annual change; Missy had not cared for the
winter in town, Mrs. Varian had been glad to be let off from it, Aunt
Harriet had submitted to give it up. So here she was to stay, and here
it was possible the Andrews' would stay, and here she must daily see the
children and pass the house, and be reminded that she had been insulted,
and had been a fool. It would be the village talk. All her past dignity
and her grand disdain of lovers would pass for nothing. She had never
entered the lists with other young women; she had prided herself on her
determination not to marry. "I am not in commission," she would say
loftily to the younger girls, making the most of her age.
The few suitors who, so far, had come to her, had been detestable to
her. She did not deserve much credit for rejecting them, but she took a
good deal to herself, feeling sure that she would, in the same way, have
discarded princes. Of course, she had had her dreams about true love,
but she had early decided that that was not to come to her, and that
she had a different sort of life to live. Being very fond of plans and
arrangements of all kinds, it was a great satisfaction to her to feel
she was building up the sort of life that she was intended for, that she
was daily adding to its usefulness and symmetry. My will be done, she
was saying, unconsciously, in her daily thought, if not in her morning
and evening prayer. Yes, it was a very beautiful, a very noble life she
was constructing, very devoid of self, she thought. She was living for
others; was not that fine? She was quite above the petty ambitions and
humiliations of her sex. She did not mean to marry, in deference to the
world's opinion, or in terror of its scorn. All the same, she knew very
well people held her very high, and were not ignorant that she could
have married well if she had chosen. She did not think that this was of
any importance to her, till she found what pain it gave her to think
that people would now be of a different mind. Had it come to this, that
it could be said she was only too ready to fall into the arms of a
month-old widower, stout and elderly! Yes, that was what the people in
the village--the gentlemen going down in the cars, the ladies in their
morning drives--would say. The scene with the stage load of servants
would be in possession of all these by to-morrow, if it were not so
to-day. She knew the ability of Yellowcoats to absorb news, as a sponge
absorbs water;--it would look very fair and dry, but touch it, squeeze
it, ah, bah. Yellowcoats could take in anything, from the smallest
detail to the most exaggerated improbability. She had spent her life in
Yellowcoats, and she knew it. From highest to lowest it craved a
sensation, and would sacrifice its best and choicest to fill up the
gaping vacancy. She knew how good the story was, she knew how much
foundation it seemed to have. What could she ever do to contradict it?
Nothing. No word of it would ever reach her ears. She would be treated
with the old deference, but she would know the laugh that underlaid it.
She had no chance of contradicting what no one would say to her. And in
action, what could she do? If she refused ever to see the children
again, declined abruptly all intercourse with their neighbors, it would
only be said, with more emphasis than ever, that she had met with sudden
discouragement; that the gentleman had become alarmed at her ardent
interest in his household matters, and had withdrawn abruptly from even
ordinary civilities. If she still went on as before, appearing daily
with the children in the carriage, taking them to church with her, it
would be said she was still pursuing the chase, was still cherishing
hopes of promotion. Whatever she did, it was all one. She couldn't
publish a card in the paper, she couldn't go about and tell people they
had been misinformed, when they didn't acknowledge to any information at
all. The only thing she could do was to marry some one else out of hand,
and that she felt she was almost prepared to do, if any one else were to
be had on a moment's notice. But all her few men were dead men, and
there was not a new one to be had for the wishing.
It was surely a very trying situation, and Missy shed bitter tears about
it, and felt she hated, hated, hated this strange widower, whom she
persisted in calling stout and elderly, as if that were the worst thing
that a man could be. She knew him so slightly, she hated him so deeply.
What business had he to humiliate her so? Though, to do him justice, it
had not been his fault; he had only been the instrument of her
chastisement. These tantalizing thoughts were interrupted, in the course
of an hour, by Ann, bringing her a letter. Missy sat down to read it,
knowing it was from Mr. Andrews.
"It seems fated," he wrote, "that you are to suffer for your
kindness to my children. It is needless for me to tell you how much
mortification I feel on account of my little girl's misconduct. I
am sure your kind heart has already made many excuses for her, and
has divined how great my chagrin is at finding her capable of such
wrong dispositions. I have to remind myself very often that her
life has been what it has, through no fault of hers, else I might
feel harshly towards her. I know very well that you will agree with
me that it is best that the children should trespass no more on
your hospitality, after the return that they have made. I have put
them into the nursery. The servant who has to come to see me this
morning, has engaged to return to me in an hour's time. I have no
doubt she will be capable of taking care of them till I can secure
the nurse and cook. At any rate, it is but just that you should be
free from them, and I beg you will have no further thought about
the matter, except to believe that I am deeply sorry for the
annoyance that your generosity has brought upon you.
"Always faithfully yours,
"JAMES ANDREWS."
Missy's first feeling after reading this was, that he had at least
behaved well about it, and had put things in the best shape for her. It
was the better way surely, for the children to stay away altogether now.
She felt she could not bear the sight of Gabrielle, and the chance of
having to meet Mr. Andrews himself was insupportable. Yes, it was the
best way, and she hoped that they might never, never cross each other's
paths again.
Perhaps he would close the house and go away. She hoped her precious
protegées would not give him satisfaction, and then he would have to go
away. But then came second thoughts, soberer and less hopeful. Was it
best for the children to stay at home to-day? How explain to the
household, beginning with her mother, this sudden change of base? What
would Goneril say, the glib-tongued Ann, and all the rest? It looked
like a quarrel, a breach, a sensation. Gabrielle would be questioned
over the hedge; the whole story would get out. No; this would never do.
The children's clothes were in the drawers of the spare room, their
playthings all about the house. The packing these and sending them back
so abruptly, would be like a rocket shot into the sky, a signal of
sensation to all Yellowcoats.
And then, proving how real her affection for Jay was, there came a
feeling of solicitude for him, shut up in that damp nursery. It always
had been damp, and she had disapproved it; the worst room in the house,
with trees close up to the window, and no sun in it.
The house had been shut up for several days, and in September, that does
not do for country houses by the water. The Varians had fire morning and
evening, and Jay had been dressed every day since she had had the
charge of him, by a bright little blaze of pine and hickory. It would be
an hour before the woman came, and what would she get together for their
dinner. Some poor baker's bread, perhaps, and some sweetmeats. Jay, poor
little man, would be hungry before this time, she was sure. How he was
fretting and crying now, no doubt; kicking his little bare legs against
the chair.
Missy yearned over him, and she thought, with a pang, how she had pushed
him away when he came climbing into her lap. If he were left there, with
no one to take proper care of him for two or three days, she knew
perfectly well he would be ill. His hands had been a little hot that
morning, with all the care that she had given him. To-day was Saturday.
It was not likely that the new women could be got into the house before
Monday. No, she could not put poor little Jay into all this danger, to
save her pride. So, after a good cry, the result of this softened
feeling, she wrote the following little note to Mr. Andrews:
"I think you would do better to let the children come back and stay here
till Monday. By that time you will no doubt have the servants in the
house. When you are ready for them, please send me a few lines and I
will send Goneril in with them."
She hoped she had made it plain that _he_ was to keep out of the way,
and as he had not merited stupid in addition to stout and elderly, she
felt quite confident he would understand. She began several sentences
which were meant to imply, from a pinnacle, that she did not blame him
for the stings of his little viper, and that no more need be said about
it. But none of them satisfied her, and she put the note into the
envelope without anything but the bare statement of facts recorded
above. Then she took Jay's hat, which she had brought in with her from
the garden, and calling Ann, told her to take the note and the hat in to
Mr. Andrews.
"The children are there, I think," she added carelessly, in explanation.
"Jay ran off without his hat."
She had bathed her eyes before she rang the bell, that Ann might not see
she had been crying. By and by Jay came in, accompanied by the new
waitress, who explained from her master that Miss Gabrielle was under
punishment and was not to have any dinner. She would come back at
bedside. Jay looked a little doubtfully at Missy. He had not forgotten
his repulse. When the woman had gone out of the door, she said,
"Come Jay, I think we'd better be friends, old fellow," and taking him
in her arms, kissed him a dozen times. Jay felt as if a great cloud had
lifted off the landscape. Why had everybody been so horrid? There must
have been something the matter with people. He gave a great sigh as he
sank back in Missy's embrace, but only said, "I want some dinner."