MINE HOST.
Of this she was very glad the next morning: conventionality is best by
daylight. She woke with a feeling that it was exceedingly awkward to be
in Mr. Andrews' house, and to have no house of her own to go to. When
she came down-stairs, Eliza was just putting Mr. Andrews' breakfast on a
tray. She said he had had no sleep, and seemed to be uncomfortable. The
breakfast-tray did not look very inviting, so Missy reconstructed it
and sent it in, brightened with some white grapes that the gardener had
just brought to the door, and three or four soft-looking roses, with the
dew upon them.
"Tell Mr. Andrews I hope he will let us know if there is anything we can
do for him," she said, half ashamed, as Eliza went up-stairs with the
tray.
By this time Miss Varian had come down-stairs, and Goneril, very tired
and cross, twitched some chairs and a footstool about for her; and Anne,
looking oddly out of place, came in to know if she should carry Mrs.
Varian's breakfast up to her. It was all very strange and uncomfortable.
The servants had evidently spent much of their time in talking over the
incidents of the fire, and Melinda was late with her breakfast. Missy
couldn't imagine where they had all slept; but here they all were--two
cooks in the kitchen, two waitresses in the dining-room, two maids in
the parlor, and no breakfast ready. Miss Varian felt very irritable; the
children had waked her by five o'clock with their noise, and she could
not go to sleep again. The absence of her usual toilet luxuries
exasperated her, and all the philosophy which she had displayed the
night before forsook her. She scolded everybody, including Mr. Andrews,
who was to blame for having such a hard bed in his spare room, and the
cook, who was so late in getting breakfast ready. Missy disdained to
answer her, but she felt as cross, in her way. The children, who had
been sent out of doors to allow Miss Varian to go to sleep again, now
came bursting in, and made matters worse by their noise. They were full
of news about the fire, and, to judge by their smutty hands and aprons,
had been cruising round the forbidden spot.
"Jay, if you love me," said Missy, putting her hands to her ears, "be
quiet and don't talk any more about the fire. Let me eat my breakfast,
and forget my miseries."
But Gabrielle could not be silenced, though Jay, when the hominy came,
gave himself to that. She always had information to impart, and this
occasion was too great to be lost. She told Missy everything she didn't
want to hear, from the destruction of the flowerbeds by the crowd, to
the remarks of the boys at the stable, about her father's broken arm.
"They said he was a fool, to work so hard for nothing; they expected to
be paid, but he didn't. Then Peters said 'maybe he expects to be paid as
well as you,' and then they all laughed. What did they all laugh for,
Missy, and do you suppose my father does expect to be paid?"
"I suppose you were where you had no business to be," said Missy,
shortly. "Now, if you will eat your breakfast, and be silent, we shall
thank you."
Then Gabby retired into the hominy and there was a silence if not a
peace. It was a dull morning--much fog, and little life in the air.
Missy hadn't even looked out of the window. She dreaded the thought of
what she was to see on the other side of the hedge. If it had been
possible, she would have delayed the work that lay before her; but she
was goaded on now by the thought that if she did not hurry, they must
spend another night here, and eat another breakfast to the accompaniment
of Gabby's information and observation. It was ten o'clock before she
could get away, leaving directions to the servants to follow her.
It was a dismal scene; the faultless lawn trampled and torn up, the
vines torn from the piazza and lying stretched and straggling on the
ground. The windows were curtainless, the piazza steps broken, the
piazza piled with ladders and steps and buckets; the front door had a
black eye. There was at this side of the house not much evidence of the
fire, but at the rear it was much worse. The summer parlor was badly
damaged, the sashes quite burnt black, the ceiling all defaced. The
flames had reached the room above, Missy's own room, and here had been
stayed. The windows were broken out, a good deal of the woodwork
charred, and the walls much damaged with water. These two rooms were all
that were seriously injured. It was quite wonderful that the damage had
gone no further; there had been no wind, and Mr. Andrews had been on the
spot; if they had not had these two things in their favor, the house
must have gone. Peters had shown himself a respectable donkey, and none
of the women but Goneril proved to have any head in such an emergency.
Missy tried to be comforted by the smallness of the material injury. But
the desolation and disorder of the pretty rooms! In her own, Missy
fairly cried. She felt completely _dépaysée_. A few hundred dollars and
a few weeks would put it all in order again, but Missy was not in a
philosophic mood. She felt herself an outcast and a wanderer, and
turning bitterly from the scorched spot, vowed never to love anything
again.
By this time the clumsy Peters and the headless maids had come up to be
set to work. So turning the keys on the damaged rooms, she followed them
out and began to try roughly to get the furniture back into the rooms
to which it belonged. Her ambition, at present, was to get her mother's
and her aunt's rooms in order to have them return that night, and the
kitchen so far reconstructed that the servants might do their work. But
at night-fall, the prospect was so dismal, the hall so encumbered with
unbestowed goods, the workmen so tardy, the progress so small, that
Missy reluctantly acknowledged she would be cruel to her mother, if she
insisted on bringing her back to such a scene of desolation. She must be
contented to accept Mr. Andrews' considerate hospitality. He had sent
over Eliza with a message at lunch time, in which he took it for granted
that they were to stay there for the present, and covered all the ground
of an invitation, and was less offensive. It was understood and
inevitable, and so she tried to take it.
The rain came down heavily at six o'clock; as she locked herself out of
the front door, and wrapping her waterproof around her, went down the
wet steps, and out on the soaking ground, feeling tired and heartsick,
she could not but contrast the scene with that of last evening, when,
under the smiling rosy sunset, she had come down the steps on her way
out to her stolen row upon the bay. It seemed a year ago, instead of a
day. Ann followed close behind her, with various articles for the
comfort of her mother. At the door of the Andrews' house Ann took off
her mistress' waterproof and overshoes.
"I am almost too tired to speak, Ann," she said. "I shall go up-stairs
and lie down, and you may bring me a cup of tea. I don't want any
dinner."
But once up-stairs, Missy found she must change her plans, and forget
her weariness. Her mother was quite unable to go down to dinner; indeed,
was only waiting for her tea, to try to quiet herself with a view to
getting a tolerable night. Miss Varian had a violent attack of
neuralgia; the whole house had been laid under tribute to alleviate her
sufferings. She was to have her dinner in bed, and had ordered the house
to be kept perfectly quiet after she had partaken of that meal. Eliza,
the waitress, no less than Goneril, had been actively running up and
down stairs, to take her orders to the kitchen. Melinda had received
directions from Mr. Andrews to cook an unusually elaborate dinner, to do
honor to the guests. Ann had confided this to Mrs. Varian in the
afternoon. She thought it such a pity, for she knew nobody would eat it.
And now, when Missy told her mother, as she took off her hat, that she
was going to lie down and have a cup of tea, Mrs. Varian made an
exclamation of regret.
"The meals that have gone up and down stairs to-day in this house!" she
said. "Mr. Andrews, poor man, doesn't eat much, but it has to be carried
to him. And your aunt has had her lunch in many varieties, and now her
dinner. And I, alas! And now, if you can't go down, my dear, and the
fine dinner has to go off the table without any one even to look at it,
it will be unfortunate. You don't think you could go down just for the
form of it, and try to eat something? Eliza has had to get out some of
the silver that has been packed away, and I have heard much consultation
outside about table-cloths. It does seem very awkward. Three guests, and
all demanding to be served with dinner in their own rooms. Poor Missy,
it always comes on you. There now, don't mind a word of what I've said,
but stay here and rest, I know you need it."
For Missy had thrown herself down into a chair, and looked just ready to
cry. She was quite overstrained, and if ever any woman needed a cup of
tea and the luxury of being let alone, that woman was Missy.
"Of course I can go down," said Missy, with something between sobbing
and spitting fire. "I can do anything in the world--but hold my tongue,"
she added, as she saw her mother look distressed. "Oh, of course I'll go
down, I don't really mind it. I shan't have even to smooth my hair. For
as there will be no critics but the children and the waitress, I may be
saved that effort. I suppose I must praise the dinner liberally, to make
Melinda happy. Oh, I _am_ so tired. My hands feel as if they were full
of splinters and nails, and I can't go across the room to wash them. I
wonder if the waitress would care if I didn't wash them. I'm sure I
shouldn't. By the way, I must ring for Ann and tell her I am going down
to dinner, or the best table-cloth will be taken off before I see it."
Ann took down the message in time to stay the spoliation of the table,
and when dinner was served, came up to say so to her mistress. She was
too tired to do more than wash her hands; she did not even look in the
glass. She felt hysterical as well as weary, and said to herself, if
Gabrielle says anything hateful, I shall certainly make a scene. The
lights hurt her eyes as she went into the dining-room. Jay laid hold of
her hand, and kissed it with fervor, and then pulled a bow off the side
of her dress, to make up for the caress.
"So we are to have dinner together, are we, you and I and Gabby," she
said, sinking into her chair, and pointing Jay to his.
"And papa," said Gabby, with a keenly interested look. "Didn't you know
he was coming down to dinner?"
"No," said Missy, feeling herself grow red. "I thought he wasn't well
enough."
At this moment, the door opened, and Mr. Andrews came in.
"I did not think you were able to come down," Missy said, rather
awkwardly, rising. "You must excuse me--for--for taking my seat before
you came."
"It was so tiresome staying up stairs," said Mr. Andrews simply, and
they took their places silently.
The two children's seats had been placed opposite to Missy. But Jay
refused to submit to this arrangement, and kicked against the table legs
and cried till he was carried around to sit by Missy. He certainly
behaved very badly, and made them all uncomfortable. Then, when they had
got partly over this, and were trying to talk a little, Gabby took
occasion to say, when there was a pause in the rather forced
conversation, critically looking across at Missy:
"If you had known papa was coming down, would you have brushed your
hair, do you think, Missy?"
The waitress, Missy was sure, suppressed a sudden giggle. Missy was so
angry, and so agitated, she grew pale instead of red.
"I am sure I should," she said, deliberately, looking at her. "And
perhaps, have put another cravat on, for this one, I am afraid, is
rather dusty."
"Why didn't you put it on any way," said Jay.
"Why, because little children are not supposed to know or care; but for
grown people, we have to try to be polite."
These brave words over, Missy felt she had done all that was possible in
self-defense, and began to feel as if she should cry at the next
assault. Poor Mr. Andrews looked bitterly annoyed. He was so pale and
ill-looking, and had made such an effort to come down and be hospitable,
that Missy's heart was softened. She resolved to make it easy for him,
so she began to talk about the condition of the house and to ask
questions and get advice. But the poor man was too ill, and too
straightforward to talk about anything he wasn't thinking about. The
presence of Gabrielle made him nervous as a woman; every time she opened
her mouth, if only to ask for a glass of water, he was sure she was
going to say something terrible. Such a dinner. Melinda's nice dishes
went away almost untouched, almost unseen. At last Gabrielle, reassured
by the subjection in which she found her elders, ventured upon that
which lay nearest her heart, namely, the topic of discussion in the
stable that morning.
"Papa," she said, in a very insinuating voice, and with a glance around,
"_do_ you expect to be paid for--"
But Missy was too quick for her. She started to her feet, the color
flaming to her face.
"Gabrielle, I forbid you to speak another word while I am in the room.
Mr. Andrews, you must excuse me--I am very sorry to make you so
uncomfortable, but I cannot--stand it--any longer," and with an
hysterical choke she sprang to the door.
When she was gone, I wouldn't have been in Gabby's place for a good
deal. Fortunately the waitress was out of the room when the fracas
occurred, and when she came back, she was at liberty to suppose that the
furious punishment bestowed upon Gabrielle was in consequence of an
overturned glass of wine which was bedewing the best table-cloth. Some
gentlemen are so particular about their table linen. She had not seen
this side of Mr. Andrews' character before, but then, to be sure, they
had never used the best linen since she had been in the family.
When Missy, panting and hysterical, reached the top of the stairs, she
didn't know exactly what to do. She knew very well if she took refuge in
her mother's room (which was her own, too), she destroyed all chance of
sleep for her mother that night. She couldn't go into the nursery, where
Gabby would probably be sent for punishment. She couldn't seek the sweet
shelter of Miss Harriet Varian's sympathy, and it wasn't dignified to
sit on the stairs. What was she to do? Just at this moment, Goneril came
softly out of her mistress' room.
"Is Miss Varian asleep?" asked Missy, in a low tone.
"Heaven be praised, SHE IS!" returned Goneril, with great fervor.
"Then I will go and sit by her till you get your dinner," she said,
going past her into the room. Here was refuge and darkness, and she sat
down in an easy chair near the door. How little consolation there was in
being quiet, though, and thinking. She was so enraged--so humiliated.
She had fought clear of the embarrassment and disgrace of last autumn,
and had flattered herself she had conquered both herself and gossip;
and now it was all to be done over again. She had no heart to begin
again. She was going away. She would go away. There was no reason she
should not have her way, sometimes. There was a good excuse for a
summer's absence. They would leave the carpenters and painters in the
house--she didn't care for the house now, and what they did to it--and
they would go to the mountains till she had got over this miserable
sensitiveness, and till the Andrews' had got tired of Yellowcoats. Oh,
that that might be soon! She never wanted to see one of the name again,
not even Jay. (She had had these reflections before, and had thought
better of them, at least as concerned Jay.) By and by, while she was
still solacing herself with plans for flight, she heard the children
come up-stairs, Jay fretting, as if he felt the discomfort in the air.
Gabrielle was very silent. Eliza was rather hurried; she was human,
though a good nurse, and there was a large and cheerful circle sitting
down around the kitchen table to an unusually good dinner. It was rather
hard lines to be putting the children to bed, when they ought to have
stayed up, as they always did, until she had had her dinner. Now
everything seemed out of joint for some reason, and the children as
troublesome as possible. Eliza, excellent servant though she was, was
but a servant, and to sit pat-patting Jay, while the festive circle
down-stairs were getting through the choicest bits of pastry and of
gossip, required more patience than she had. The children were hustled
into their night-clothes rather hastily. Gabrielle, sulky and white,
offered only slight petulant resistance, but Jay cried and grew
worse-tempered every minute. At last Eliza got them both into bed and
turned down the lamp.
"Now go to sleep, like a good boy," she said, tucking in the clothes of
Jay's crib; but there was restlessness in her very tone, and though she
sat down, she did not convey the idea of permanence, and Jay grew wider
awake every moment, watching lest she should go away. At length,
starting up impatiently, she cried:
"There's reason in all things. You're big enough to go to sleep by
yourself. I must have my dinner."
And without a look behind, she hurried from the room. This had never
happened before. She had always occupied herself in putting away the
children's clothes, and in moving softly about the room, and singing in
a low voice; and so Jay, without being absolutely coddled, had always
fallen asleep with a sense of protection and companionship. But to-night
everything was going wrong. Here was papa in such an awful way, and
Missy running away from the table crying, and Gabby scared to death and
punished--and now his nurse getting cross, and going down and leaving
him all alone in the dark. There had been vague and terrible stories of
what came in the dark, during the reign of Alphonsine and Bridget, which
had not been quite obliterated.
Jay lay mute with amazement for a moment; and then, sitting up in bed,
and looking into the dimness surrounding him, began to cry piteously,
and to call upon Eliza to come back. But Eliza was out of reach of his
cries now, and Gabby, stubborn and wicked, would not open her lips. He
cried and sobbed till his throat felt sore and his head burning.
"Missy, Missy! I want you, Missy!"
Missy had listened, with vexation at Eliza, but with no intention of
taking up her duties, till that plaintive cry smote her heart and melted
it. The poor little lonely child, with no love but the unsteady love of
hirelings! She started up and stole into the nursery. The cry with which
Jay flung himself into her arms made him dearer to her than ever before.
He clung to her, all trembling and beating, his wet little face buried
in her neck.
"You won't go away and leave me, you won't, promise me, Missy, you won't
go."
"No, Jay, my own little man, I won't. Lie down; I promise you, I'll
stay."
Every one else had failed him, but he still believed in Missy. So he was
pacified and reassured, and after awhile lay down, holding both her
hands. She let down the side of his crib, and sitting beside him, laid
her head on his pillow; he put one hand on her throat, and held the
other tight in one of hers, and so, after awhile, he fell asleep. But a
ground-swell of sobs still heaved his breast after such a heavy storm.
Missy held the little warm hand tight, and kissed him in his sleep. She
had promised not to go, and she dared not move his hand from her neck,
nor stir her head from the pillow for fear of waking him.
The room was still and dim, and she was very tired, by and by the
troubles of the day melted into dreams, and she slept. How long, she
could not tell. A light gleaming in her face aroused her; she started up
in sudden consternation, for Mr. Andrews stood looking at her, in, it
must be said, equal consternation. He had moved the screen from the
nursery lamp, and coming up to the bed to look at his boy, had seen the
not unpretty, but very unexpected picture of the two sleeping in this
close embrace.
Missy's first feeling was one of anger; but surely Mr. Andrews had a
right in his own nursery, and, as usual, she was in the wrong--she was
where she had no business to be; her bitter vexation showed itself on
her face.
"I beg your pardon," he said, stepping back, "I--I didn't know you were
here."
"Jay cried so, I came in to pacify him," she said, "and he would not let
me go."
"You are very kind to him," said the father earnestly.
"Not particularly," she returned, fastening up the side of the crib, and
laying him softly further over on his pillow. "One doesn't like to see a
child imposed upon, and Eliza was very wrong to leave him."
"Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, still earnestly, and Miss Rothermel
prepared herself for something she did not want to hear, "I have no
words to express to you the annoyance that I feel about Gabrielle."
Missy waved her hand impatiently.
"But I have words to express a resolution that I have formed this
evening, and that is, that it shall be the last time that you shall
suffer from her. I shall send her away to boarding-school as soon as I
can make the necessary arrangements; and that I hope will be within a
week, at furthest."
It was now Missy's turn to be in earnest.
"I hope you won't do anything of the kind, Mr. Andrews, on my account at
least. I can only assure you, it would be far more annoying than
anything she has ever done. I should never forgive myself for having
caused you to do what I am quite sure would be the worst thing for her.
She is very well situated now. You have good servants, she has the free
country life she needs, and no bad companions. If she can't improve now,
I'm afraid she never will."
"I'm afraid she never will, wherever she may be," answered Mr. Andrews,
with almost a groan. "I could tell you something of her, if--if--"
"I am sure of one thing," rushed on Missy, not heeding what she might
have heard if she had listened; "I am sure of one thing, I should never
have a moment's peace, if I felt I had been in any way the cause of
sending from her home such a desolate little child. I cannot forget that
I had a friendship for her mother, and I should be always followed by
the thought of her reproach."
Mr. Andrews' face changed; he bent his head slightly. The change was not
lost on Missy.
"Besides that feeling," she said, with a touch of bitterness, "which, I
have no doubt, you look upon as a weak piece of sentiment, I don't see
what difference her going or staying can make to me. It would be a pity
to do her an injury which would do no one any good. I shall not
necessarily see her half-a-dozen times, before we go away, which, I
hope, we shall do for the summer, very shortly. And when we come back
Jay will have forgotten me, or you will all, perhaps, have left the
place. It is really too much said already on a subject which is very
insignificant, though it has proved sufficiently disagreeable." And she
moved as if to go away.
"I quite agree with you that it has been very disagreeable; but I don't
entirely see that what you have said alters my duty in the matter. I
think she has deserved to be sent away; I am not sure that the
discipline of a school would not be the best thing for her. I am quite
sure that it is not my duty to destroy my own peace, or deprive my
little boy of friends or kindness, by keeping her at home."
"Not your duty, Mr. Andrews!" cried Missy. "Well, of course we look at
things from such different points, it's no use discussing--"
"We will waive the discussion of my duty," said Mr. Andrews, not
urbanely; "but I should be very glad to know why you think it would hurt
Gabrielle to send her to a good school?"
Like all home-bred girls, she had a great horror of boarding-schools,
and with vivacity gave a dozen reasons for her horror, winding up
with--"I believe it would make her a hundred times more deceitful than
she is now. It would establish her thirst for intrigue; it would
estrange her from you; it would deprive her of the little healthy love
that she has for out-door life and innocent amusement. If you want to
ruin Gabrielle, Mr. Andrews, _pray_ send her to a boarding-school!"
"I don't want to ruin Gabrielle, but I want to have a little peace
myself, and to let my neighbors have some, too."
"Your neighbors' peace needn't be considered, after--after we go away
from the house; and I am sure you have frightened her enough to-night to
make her behave better while we are obliged to stay with you."
As soon as the words were out, Missy shivered at their sound. She did
not mean to be so rude.
"I beg your pardon," she said, not with successful penitence; "but you
know we did not impose our selves upon you from choice."
"I know you would not have come if you could have helped it, certainly.
I am not to blame for that, however."
"Well, I'm sure I didn't mean to blame any one. You must excuse me; I am
very tired to-night. Only let Gabrielle's matter be considered settled,
won't you? I shall thank you very much, if you will promise me she
shan't be sent away."
The father glanced at the small white bed, where Gabrielle lay
motionless, with her eyes shut and her face turned from them, presumably
asleep.
"I won't take any step about sending her away, if you feel so about
it--for a little while, at least."
"Very well; thank you! Then it is settled. Good night." And Missy went
away, not exactly, it must be owned, as if she had received a favor, but
as if hardly-wrung justice had been obtained for Gabrielle and
Gabrielle's dead mother. That, at least, was how she felt--and Mr.
Andrews wasn't altogether stupid. He sighed as he bent over Jay's crib,
and smoothed the hair back on his pillow, screening the light from his
eyes, and turning down the lamp; but he did not go near the bed of the
offending Gabrielle, and left the room without another glance in her
direction.