Читать книгу Missy - Miriam Coles Harris - Страница 7

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It was a lovely July afternoon, and at five o'clock Missy had taken her work and a book down to the beach-gate, and sat there rather idly reading, while the tide, which was only a few feet away from her, was breaking on the pebbles with a sound that is dead against serious mental application. There was a drowsy hum of insects in the air, a faint whispering in the trees overhead. She took off the light hat that shaded her face, and threw it on the grass, and leaning back in the high-backed cane chair, thought what a comfort not to be in a hurry about anything. She was delicately and coolly dressed, just fresh from a bath and a sleep. Life seemed luxurious at that moment. She watched a sail-boat, almost as idle as she was herself, lolling across the bay, the faint west wind coming in light puffs that gave it but little impetus. Presently the plash of oars aroused her, and turning her head she saw St. John pulling up to the beach.

"Ah, that's nice!" she cried. "You've come to tea."

"Well, yes, but it is not tea time yet."

"Not for an hour and a half. This is very self-indulgent, coming home to tea twice in one week. I am afraid Bridget hasn't got the receipt for muffins quite through her head yet."

"Yes, Bridget does very well. I wish every one did as well as Bridget. Myself, for instance."

"Oh, nonsense; now you're moping again."

"No, I am not. Nothing as excusable as that. But I'm lazy. How can any one keep from getting that in this place, I should like to know?"

"I don't know why this place must bear the blame of all one's moods," said Missy, much annoyed. "I don't get lazy here."

"But you see I do."

"Maybe you'd do that anywhere."

"I'll put myself where I sha'n't have any more chance to be lazy than a car horse; where it won't be a question of whether I want to go or not. I gave you fair warning, Missy; I told you this wasn't the life for me."

"Well, if you want to make me perfectly wretched—" said Missy, throwing down her book.

St. John had come up from the beach, and had thrown himself on the grass, with his hands clasped under his head, his hat lying beside him.

"I won't talk of it if it makes you wretched. Only you mustn't be surprised when I decide upon anything you don't like."

"I'd rather be surprised once than worried out of my life all the time."

"Very well, it's agreed." And St. John was silent, which Missy did not mean him to be. She wanted to argue with him about his restlessness.

"Such a good work as you are doing," she said. "Think what every one says about you."

"I don't want to think about it, if you please."

"Think of all those Rogers children being baptised, and of old Hillyard coming into the church. I should as soon have thought of Ship Point Rock melting as his hard heart. Nobody ever heard of anything more wonderful. And the repairs of the church; how the people are giving. Think what it will be to see a recess chancel, and stalls, and a real altar."

"Yes," said her brother, with a sigh, "that will be very nice. But it will come on now anyway. Anybody can do it."

"Oh, St. John, you dishearten me. Already you want to do 'some great thing.' Isn't that a bad sign, for so young a man?"

He was silent.

"I wish," she said, with a shade of impatience, "I wish you'd tell me, if you don't mind, what sort of work you want to do? What sort of people, pray, do you want to have the charge of?"

"I like wicked people," he said, very quietly.

"You—St. John! Fie. What do you know about wickedness?"

"More than you think, perhaps," he said uneasily, getting up, and turning his back upon the blue water. "Come, we won't talk about this any more. What have you been doing since Tuesday, and how is mamma?"

"Mamma is as usual; we haven't done anything of interest. Oh, yes. I went to call on the new people next door; and we are much interested in making out what and who they are. I was not admitted. Madame is an invalid, I believe, and rarely sees any one. The children are queer little things, the girl a beauty. I see them often peeping through the hedge."

"How about the gentleman? have you seen him?"

"No; the Olors know him slightly and say he's nice. The wife seems to be a mystery. No one knows anything about her. I am quite curious. They have lived several years abroad, and do not seem to have many ties here. At least no one seems to know much of them, in the city."

"I hope they're church people?"

"I don't know, indeed. I should not think it likely. The children have an elfish, untamed look, and there is such a troop of foreign-looking servants. What they need of all those people to keep such a plain, small house going, I can't imagine. I have no doubt they will demoralize our women. Two nurses do nothing but sit on the beach all day, and look at the two children who dig in the sand. The coachman never seems to do anything but smoke his pipe from the time of taking his master to the cars in the morning till the time of going for him in the evening. They have a man-waiter. I cannot think what for. He and the cook and the maid all seem to be French, and spend much of their morning in the boat-house. We have the 'Fille de Mme. Angot,' and odors of cheap cigars across the hedge. It isn't pleasant."

"How you do long to reconstruct that household!"

"In self-defense. I shouldn't wonder if we had to change every servant in our house before the summer is over. Even Goneril does nothing but furtively watch them from the upper windows and make reflections upon the easy times they have."

At this moment there was a splash in the water, and a cry. They had been sitting with their backs to the shell which St. John had left below on the beach, and a boy of five, the new neighbors' boy, had climbed into it, and, quite naturally, tumbled out of it. St. John vaulted over the fence, took two or three strides into the water, and picked him out.

"Heigho, young man, what would you have done if I hadn't been here?" he said, landing him dripping on the beach.

"Let me alone, will you!" cried the sturdy fellow, showing his gratitude and his shocked nerves by kicking at his benefactor. He did not cry, but he swelled with his efforts to keep from it.

"Of course I will," said his preserver mildly, looking down at him. "But I'd like to know what's become of your nurse. Where is she?"

"None of you's business," returned this sweet child, putting down his head. He was a dear little fellow, sturdy and well built, with stout bare legs, and tawny hair, banged on the forehead, and long and wavy behind. He had clear blue eyes, and a very tanned skin and very irregular features. He spoke with an accent of mixed Irish and French.

"I'm very sorry about it," said St. John, gently, "but I'm afraid you'll get cold. Better tell me where to find the nurse."

"None of you's business," returned the boy.

"There she is," said Missy in a low voice, "ever so far beyond the steamboat landing, with the waiter. See if you can make them hear."

St. John put his hand to his mouth and called. But alas! they were too deeply engrossed for such a sound to reach them.

"The child will get a horrid cold," said Missy, "it won't do to wait. I'll take him up to the house, and send one of the servants home with him."

But Missy reckoned without her host; this latter declined to go to "her house," and planted his feet firmly in the sand.

"You'll have to carry him," she intimated sotto voce to her brother. Then he hit from the shoulder, and it was well seen that was not a thing that could be done. The shock to his nerves and the bath had already resulted in making his lips blue. The water was dripping from his hair to his neck, and it was fair to suppose he felt a little chilly, as the breeze was increasing a trifle.

"I'll tell you," said Missy, cheerfully. "You shall take me to your house, if you won't go to mine. I don't know the way, but I suppose you do. Through the boat-house?"

The boy lifted his eyes doubtfully to see if she were in good faith, glowered at St. John, and after a moment made a step towards the boat-house.

"What a nice boat-house you've got," said Missy, walking on in front of him. "I wish we had as big a one."

"Got my things in it," said the child, and then, frightened at his own part in the conversation, put down his head and was silent.

"Do you keep your toys here? Why, how nice!" exclaimed Missy, pausing at the door. "Why, what a nice room, and here's a baby-house. Pray whose is that?"

"That's Gabby's, and that's mine—and this is my wheelbarrow—and that's her hoop—" And so on, through a catalogue of playthings that would have set up a juvenile asylum.

"I never saw so many playthings," said Missy, getting hold of his hand in a moment of enthusiasm over a new velocipede. "Have you got any more up at the house?"

"Lots," said the boy, succinctly.

"Won't you take me to see them?" And so, hand in hand, they set off, St. John watching them from the door of the boat-house with amusement.

Before they reached the house, Missy began to have some misgivings about the proceeding. She did not enjoy the idea of taking the enemy in the rear. What sort of people were they, and how would they like the liberty of having her enter from the beach? Some people do not like to be indebted to their neighbors for saving their children's lives. It's all a matter of temperament, education—and they might not like the precedent. She wished she might find a servant to whose care to commit him, and herself steal out the way she had come in. But, though there had seemed to be nothing but servants visible every time she had passed the house, or looked over at it from the upper windows, there were none to be found to-day. The place was as silent as if no one lived in it. She paused at the kitchen door, and called faintly, and told the boy to call, which he did with a good courage. But no response. Then they went around to the front piazza, and the boy, Jay, he said his name was, strutted up and down it, and declined to go in, or to go up stairs. He was getting bluer about the lips, and she knew he must not be left. So she rang the bell, several times, with proper intervals, but there was no answer. At last she went into the hall, and taking a shawl she found there, wrapped it around the child.

"Play you were a Highland Chief," she said, and he submitted.

She rang once more, and then followed the tugging of Jay's hand through the hall into the dining-room. There the table was laid, quite in state, for one. From the adjacent kitchen came an odor of soup, which was very good, but there was no living thing visible in it but a big dog, who thumped his tail hard on the floor. Then they went back into the hall, and over the stairs came a voice, rather querulous:

"Vell, vot is it—Vite? Vhere are all se servants?" Then, seeing a lady, the maid came down a few steps and apologized. Missy led up the child and explained the condition of affairs. Jay began to frown, and fret and pull away, as soon as she approached him. It was clear Alphonsine was not one of his affinities. She was a coffee-colored Frenchwoman, with a good accent and a bad temper, and had been asleep when the sixth ring of the bell had reached her. Missy began to be pretty sick of the whole business, and to wish to be out of it. So, rather peremptorily advising her to change the child's clothes and rub him well, she started to go away, boldly departing by the front gate, which was not a stone's throw from their own entrance. But she had barely reached the gate when the French woman came running after her, with a most voluble apology, and a message from Madame, that if it would not be asking too much of the young lady, would she kindly come back for a moment and allow Madame to express to her her thanks for her great goodness? The woman explained that her mistress was an invalid, and put the matter in such a light that there was no chance of refusing to go back, which was what Missy would very much have liked to do. The whole thing seemed awkward and uncomfortable, and she turned back feeling as little inclined to be gracious as possible.

The woman led the way up the stairs, at the head of which stood Jay, his teeth now chattering.

"Pray get his wet clothes off!" she said to the woman. "I'll find my way, if you'll point out the door."

The woman was not much pleased with this, and showed it by preceding her to the door, and watching her well into the room before she turned to push the unwilling Jay into the nursery, and with deliberation, not to say sullenness, take off his dripping clothes.

Missy found herself in a pretty room, rather warm, and rather dark, and rather close with foreign-smelling toilet odors. Before she had seen or spoken to the lady on the sofa, she had felt a strong inclination to push open the windows, and let in the glory of the sinking western sun, and the fresh breeze of evening. She felt a healthy revolt from the rich smells and the dim light. A soft voice spoke to her from the sofa, and then, as she came nearer, she saw the loveliest creature! Like all plain women, she had an enthusiasm for beauty in her own sex. She almost forgot to speak, she was so enchanted with the face before her. It was, indeed, beautiful; rare, dark eyes, perfect features, skin of a lovely tint. Missy was so dazzled by the sight she hardly knew whether she were attracted or not. The lady's voice was low and musical. Missy did not know whether she liked the voice or not. She could only listen and wonder. It was an experience—something new come into her life. She felt, in an odd sort of way, how small her knowledge of people was; how much existed from which she had been shut out.

"I've lived among people just like myself all my life; it's contemptible," she thought. "No wonder I am narrow. A woman lives such a stupid life at home."

She sat down and talked with Mrs. Andrews. Mrs. Andrews! What a prosaic name for this exotic plant; as if one called a Fritallaria Imperialis a potato. She began to wonder about Mr. Andrews. What was he? Why had no one told her these people were remarkable? She almost forgot to answer questions, and bear her part in the conversation. She did not yet know whether she admired or not. She only knew she was near a person who had lived a different life from hers; who had a history; who probably didn't think as she did on any one subject; who was entering from a side door, the existence of which she had not guessed, upon a scene which had seemed to belong to Missy and her sort alone. From what realms did she come? In what school had she been taught? She could not make her out, while she was being thanked for bringing Jay home. There was a languor about her manner of speaking of the little boy, which did not satisfy Missy, used to mammas who lived for their children, and considered it the pride and glory of life to know nothing beyond the nursery. This was the first mother who had ever dared to be languid about her children on Missy's small stage. She did not understand, and perhaps showed her perplexity, for her new acquaintance, with a faint sigh, said: "Poor little Jay; he is so strong and vehement, so alien. I believe he terrifies me. I think it must be because I am weak."

"I never liked a child so much; he is a little man," said Missy, warmly.

"Ah, yes! you are well and strong; you are in sympathy with him—but I—ah, well, I hope, Miss Rothermel, you will never have to feel yourself useless and a burden."

"I hope not, I am sure," said Missy honestly, feeling a little hurt on Jay's account, but still a great deal of pity for the soft voiced invalid. "Mamma could understand you better. She has been ill many years."

"Ah, the dear lady! I wish that I might know her. But with her it is different in a way. She perhaps is used to it, if ever one can be used to misery. But for me it is newer, I suppose, and, when young, one looks for pleasure, just a little."

Missy colored; she had forgotten that her mother could seem old to any one, and then she saw how very young her companion really was—younger than herself, no doubt.

"It is very hard," she said. "Can't you interest yourself in the children at all? They would be such a diversion if you could."

"My little Gabrielle, yes. But Jay is—so different, you know—so noisy; I believe he makes me ill every time he comes near me."

"Gabrielle looks like you," said Missy. "I have seen her on the beach sometimes."

Then the beautiful eyes lighted up, and Missy began to be enchanted. She did not know that she had produced the illumination, and that the beautiful creature was made happy by an opportunity to talk about herself. She gradually—sweetly slid into it, and Missy was wrapt in admiration. Her companion talked well about herself, con amore, but delicately and like a true artist. A beautiful picture was growing up before Missy. She would have been at a loss to say who painted it. She did not even think her egotistic, though she would have pardoned egotism in one who seemed so much better worth talking of than ordinary people. Her loneliness, her suffering, her youth, her exile from her own people, her uncongenial surroundings—how had Missy learned so much in one-half hour? And yet Mrs. Andrews had not seemed to talk about herself. It was sketchy; but Missy was imaginative, and when a carriage driving to the gate made her start up, she was surprised to find it was half an hour instead of half a life-time since she had come into the room.

"It is Mr. Andrews," she said, glancing from the window, "and I must go."

"Don't!" said the invalid, earnestly.

"O, it would be better," said Missy, "it is so awkward. I know husbands hate to find tiresome friends always in their wives' rooms when they come home."

"Yes, perhaps so, when they come to their wives' rooms when they get home."

There was a slight distension of the nostril and a slight compression of the lips when this was said. Missy flushed between embarrassment and indignation. Was it possible that Mr. Andrews was a brute, and was not at this moment on the stairs on his way to this lonely lovely sufferer?

Mrs. Andrews did not want her to go—she stayed at least ten minutes, standing ready to depart. As she went down the stairs, the servant passed through the hall, and she heard him announce dinner to his master, who promptly came in from the piazza, by which means, he and Missy were brought face to face in the hall near the dining-room door. Mr. Andrews probably felt, but did not express any astonishment at seeing a strange young lady in white muslin, without even the conventionality of a hat upon her head, walking about his temporary castle; he merely bowed, and, being very hungry, went into the dining-room to get his dinner. As for Missy, she felt it was very awkward, and she was also full of resentment. She inclined her head in the slightest manner, and only glanced at him to see whether he was remarkable-looking, and whether he had any right to be a tyrant and a brute. It takes a very handsome man to have any such right as that, and Mr. Andrews was by no means handsome. He was not tall—rather a short man, and almost a stout man. Not that exactly, but still not as slight as he ought to have been for his height. He was not young either—certainly forty possibly more. He had blue eyes, and hair and whiskers of light brown. The expression of his face was rather stern. He was evidently thinking of something that gave him no pleasure when he looked up and saw Missy, and there was perhaps nothing in the sight of her that induced him to cast the shadow from his brow. So she did not see that he had a good smile, and that his eyes were particularly intelligent and keen. She hurried past him with the settled belief that he was a monster of cruelty; the odor of the soup, which was particularly good, and the sound of the chair upon the floor as it was pushed up before the lonely table, and the clinking of a glass were added touches to the dark picture.

"I suppose he hasn't given her a thought," she said to herself, as the gate shut after her. "Dinner, imagine it, comes first. He looks like a gourmand; he is a gourmand, I am sure. That soup was perfectly delicious; I wish I had the receipt for it. But he is worse than a gourmand. Gourmands are often good-natured. He is a tyrant, and I hate him. Think of the misery of that poor young thing! How could she have married him? I would give worlds to know her history. He isn't capable of a history. I suppose she must have been very poor, and forced into the marriage by her parents. Nothing else can account for such a mésalliance."

When she entered the parlor, St. John was sitting by his mother's sofa. "How is our young friend?" he said. "Remember I saved his life; so don't put on any airs because you got him to go home."

"It was a great deal harder work," said Missy; "and you like hard work, you say. But, mamma, I have seen her, and she is the loveliest creature—Mrs. Andrews, I mean! She is confined to her room—never leaves it—a hopeless invalid. And he is a brute, an utter brute! I can hardly find words to describe him. He is short and stout, and has a most sinister expression. And now think of this—listen to what I say: He went in to dinner, without going up to her room at all! Can you think of anything more heartless?"

"Oh, yes," said St. John, commonplacely; "not sending her up any dinner would have been worse—not paying her bills—not taking her to the country."

Missy scorned to reply to him, but directed her conversation to her mother. "Her beauty is very remarkable, and she seems so young. The man is certainly forty. I really wish I could find out something about them. She is French, I think, though she speaks without an accent. She is so different from the people one sees every day; she gives you an idea of a different life from ours. And for my part, I am glad to see something of another stratum. Do you know, I think we are very narrow? All women, of course, are from necessity; but it seems to me I have led a smaller life than other women."

"I don't think you need regret it," said her brother, seriously; "it saves you a great deal."

"Pray don't say anything, you who like wicked people."

St. John was "hoist with his own petard."

"Then you think I might enjoy Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?" he said.

"Mr. Andrews would satisfy all your aspirations," returned Missy; "but not his wife, unless it is wicked to be unconventional."

"But how did you find out she was unhappy; I hope she didn't tell you so?" asked Mrs. Varian.

"No, of course she did not! I don't really know how I divined it; but it was most easy to see. And then he did not come up to see her! is not that enough?"

"Perhaps he was hungry—unusually hungry; or perhaps he is a victim to dyspepsia, and cannot go through any excitement upon an empty stomach. You know his doctors may have forbidden him."

"Really, St. John," said Missy, much annoyed, "it is not safe to find fault with a man in your presence. Your class feeling is so strong, I think you would defend him if he had two wives."

"Who knows but that may be the trouble?" he said. "He didn't know which to go to first, and he may have had to send two dinners up. No wonder that he has dyspepsia! That being the case—"

"You are rather illogical for a man. Who said he had dyspepsia? What does that stand upon? Mamma, I want to have the children in here often. Jay is a darling, and as to Gabby—"

"Gabby!" repeated her mother.

"Gabrielle," said Missy, blushing, and glancing anxiously at her brother, to see if he were laughing. "It was Jay called her Gabby—a horrid shortening, certainly. Gabrielle is a lovely name, I think. But what's the matter, St. John? What have I said now?"

"Nothing," said her brother, in a forced, changed voice, as he got up and walked about the room, every sparkle of merriment gone from his eyes.

"It is time for tea, is it not?" said Mrs. Varian.

"Yes, I suppose it is," returned Missy, wearily, getting up and crossing over to ring the bell, as if tea were one of the boundaries of her narrow sphere.