MISSY

A Novel

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE"

"THE SUTHERLANDS," "LOUIE'S LAST TERM AT ST. MARY'S," "FRANK WARRINGTON," "RICHARD VANDERMARCK," "ST. PHILIP'S," "A PERFECT ADONIS," ETC., ETC., ETC.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge

Copyright, 1880, By G. W. CARLETON & CO. [Pg vii]

CONTENTS.

[Pg 9]

MISSY.

CHAPTER I.

YELLOWCOATS.

"I felt sure the train would be late," said Missy, sitting down on the ottoman beside the fire. "It is so disagreeable to have to wait for what you dread."

"But I think you have begun to be impatient too soon," said her mother, glancing up. "That clock is several minutes fast, and Peters always drives slower after dusk. Besides, you know he has the heavy carriage. I think it would be foolish to begin to look for them for twenty minutes yet."

"I believe you are right," said the daughter, with a sigh. "I wish it were over."

"That is natural, but we can't hurry it. We shall have twenty minutes of quiet. Come and sit down, I have hardly seen you to-day."

For the truth was, Missy had been very busy all day, getting ready for a most unwelcome guest. The pale invalid mother, to whom the guest was as unwel[Pg 10]come, had been obliged to lie on her sofa, without the solace of occupation.

"I hope she will like it," said Missy, irrelevantly, getting up and pushing her ottoman over to her mother's sofa, then, before sitting down, going to the table and putting a leaf of geranium in a different attitude, then stepping back and looking at it. An India bowl was filled with scarlet geranium, and the light of a low lamp fell upon it and made a beautiful patch of color.

"I might as well light the candles," she said, "and then I will sit down quietly and wait." She took a lighter, and stooping to the fire, set it ablaze, and went to some candles on the low book shelves and lighted them. "I begrudge my pretty candles," she said, turning her head to look at the effect.

"Why do you light them then?" said her mother, with a faint sigh. "Come and sit down."

"In a moment," answered Missy. "I wonder if the hall is light enough." She had looked at the hall lamps half a dozen times, but in fact she was too restless to sit down. She pulled the bell impatiently, and a tidy maid in spotless cap and apron came. She had perceived an imperfection in the adjustment of a rug, and like a wise housekeeper, she did not readjust it herself. Then she scanned the maid's costume, all with the eyes of the unwelcome guest.

"I thought that you understood me that I did not want those aprons worn again. Put on one of the new set that I gave you."

Mrs. Varian sighed; she could never at any period of life have dared to do the like, but Missy was a little dragon, and kept the servants in good order, aprons[Pg 11] and all. The servant retired to correct her costume, and Missy began to look about for something else to correct. But the room was all in perfect order, glowing with warmth and color, delicious with the scent of flowers, there was nothing for her to do. She walked up and down before the fire, with the air of a person who objects to sitting down and having a quiet talk, at least so her mother thought.

Missy was small; her figure was perfect in its proportions; her hands and feet quite worth noticing for their beauty. She was not plump, rather slight than plump, and yet well rounded. Her head was well set on her shoulders, and she moved it deliberately, not rapidly, and while all her movements showed energy, she was not bustling. She was so petite she was not severe: that was all that saved her. Her face was not pretty, her complexion was colorless, her eyes very light, her nose retroussé. Her hair was soft and fine and waving, and of a pretty color, though not light enough to be flaxen, and not bright enough to be golden. It had the fortunate attribute of looking picturesque and pleasant, whether arranged or disarranged. Missy had her own way of dressing herself, of course. Such an energetic young woman could not be indifferent to a subject of such moment. She dressed in the best and latest fashion, with her own modification as to color and style. Her dresses were almost always gray, or white, or black, and as little trimmed as possible, and she never wore ornaments. Whether this

were matter of principle or taste, she had not yet announced. Certainly if the former, virtue was its own reward; for no ornaments could have brought color to her face, or added any grace to its irregular outline,[Pg 12] and her arms and hands would have been spoiled by rings and bracelets: every link would have hid a beauty. To-night she wore a soft gray silk, with crêpe lisse ruffles at the throat and elbows, and grey silk stockings and pretty low shoes with high heels. Putting one hand on the mantel above her, she stretched out her foot to the blaze, and resting her toe on the andiron, looked down at it attentively, though probably absently.

"I hope she will like it," she repeated.

"What, your gray stocking or your new shoe? They are both lovely," said Mrs. Varian, trying to be gay.

"No," said Missy, indignantly, withdrawing the pretty foot. "No—but it—all—the house—the place. Oh, mamma," and she went across to the sofa and threw herself in a low chair by it, "it is a trial, isn't it?"

"Yes, my child," said Mrs. Varian, with a gentle caress of the hand put out to her. "But if you do not want to alienate your brother, do not let him guess it." Missy gave an impatient movement.

"Must I try to enter into his fool's paradise? I can't be sympathetic, I'm afraid, even to retain my present modest place in his affections."

"But be reasonable, Missy. You knew he would sometime marry."

"Sometime, yes, mamma. But I cannot think of such a boy as going to be married. It really is not decorous."

"O my dear Missy. Think again. St. John is nearly twenty. It only seems absurd to us my dear, because—because—"

"Because we are so old, mamma. I know it.[Pg 13] Yes; don't mind speaking of it. I know it very well. I am—twenty-seven." And Missy looked into the fire with a sort of dreamy wonder; but her voice showed the fact had no sting for her. Her life had been such that she did not mind it that she was no longer young. She had never been like other girls, nor had their ambitions. She had known she was not pretty; she had not expected to marry. Her life had been very full of occupation and of duty, and of things that gave her pleasure. She also had had an important position, owing to her mother's invalid condition. She was lady of the house, she was an important person; a good deal of money passed through her hands, a good many persons looked up to her. As for her heart, it was not hungry. She had a passionate love for her mother, who, since the death of her stepfather, had depended much upon her; and towards her young stepbrother, now on this October night, bringing home an unwelcome fiancée, she had felt a sort of tigerish mother love. There were seven years between them. She

had always felt she owned him—and though bitterly jealous of the fond and blind devotion of her mother to him (as she saw it), she felt as if her life were inseparable from his. How could he live and love and have an existence in what she had no part? But it was even so. The boy had outgrown her, and had no longer any need of her. She had, indeed, need of all her strength and courage to-night, and the mother saw it, putting aside her own needs, which were not likely to be less. For this boy, St. John, and this daughter were all she had left her of a past not always very bright, even to remember. But with patient sweetness she sought to comfort Missy, smarting with the[Pg 14] first knowledge that she was not necessary to some one whom she loved.

"You know we should have been prepared for it," she said. "It really is not strange—twenty is not young."

"I suppose not. But that is the very least of it. Mamma, you know this is throwing himself away. You know this is a bitter disappointment to you. You know she is the last person you would have chosen for him. You know you feel as I do, now confess it." Missy had a way of speaking vehemently, and her words tripped over each other in this speech.

"Well," said Mrs. Varian, with calm motherly justice, upholding the cause of the absent offender, while she soothed the wrath of the present offended, "I will confess, I am sorry. I am even disappointed in St. John—but that may be my fault, and not his failure. Perhaps I was unreasonable to expect more of him than of others."

"More of him? Why pray, do theological students, as a rule, engage themselves to actresses before they are half through their studies?"

"My dear Missy, I must beg of you—this is unwarrantable. You have no right to call her an actress. Not the smallest right."

"Excuse me, mamma, I think I have a right. A person who gives readings, a person whose one ambition is to be before the public, who is only detained from the stage by want of ability to be successful on it, who is an adventuress, neither more nor less, who has neither social position nor private principle, who has beauty and who means to use it—may be called an[Pg 15] actress, without any injustice to herself, but only to the class to which she does no credit."

The words tripped over each other vehemently now.

"You are very wrong, very unwise to speak and feel so, Missy. I must beg you to control yourself, even in speaking to me. It simply is not right."

"You do not like the truth, mamma, you do not like the English language. I have spoken the truth, I have used plain language. What have I said wrong? I cannot make things according to your wishes by being silent. I can only keep them out of your sight. Is it not true that she has given readings? Not in absolute public, but as near it as she could get. Do we not know that she has made more than one effort to get on the stage? Are not she and her mother poor, and living on their wits? Is she not beautiful, and is not that all we know to her advantage? I think I have spoken the truth after all, if you will please review it."

"Very bitter truth, and not much mixture of love in it. And I think, considering that we have not seen her yet, we might suspend judgment a little, and hope the best of her."

"Perhaps share in St. John's infatuation. Oh!" and Missy laughed scornfully, while her mother's face quivered with pain as she turned it away.

"I do not think there is much danger of your seeing her with St. John's eyes, but I do think there is danger of you driving him from you, and losing all influence over him."

"I do not want any influence over him," said Missy hotly. "I never will stand between him and her. I have given him up to her; he has made his choice.[Pg 16] Mamma, mamma, why did we get talking this way? And they may be here any minute. I made up my mind not to speak another word to you about it, and here I have got myself worked up, and my cheeks burn so."

She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, and getting up walked two or three times across the room.

"You will be worn out before they come," she said with late compunction, noticing the tremor of her mother's hand, "and all the excitement after, and what a dreadful night you'll have. I suppose you will not sleep at all. Dear, dear, I am so sorry. And here comes Aunt Harriet. I had forgotten she asked me to call her when you were ready to come down. I suppose she will scold, and make everything wretched," and Missy moved across to open the parlor door, as if she thought life a very trying complication of worries and worse. To her relief, however, Miss Varian's rather shrill voice had more question than reproach in it as she entered the room, led by a servant.

"Do tell me if it is not time for the train?" she said. "I have been listening for the whistle for the last ten minutes. Goneril has let my clock run down, and as it is the only one in the house that can be depended on, we are in a bad way."

"That is a favorite fiction of yours, I know," said Missy, arranging a seat for her, into which Goneril backed her. "But as my watch has only varied two minutes since last July, I feel you may be reassured about the time. I can't pretend to hear a whistle four miles off, but I do think I can be trusted to tell what o'clock it is—within two minutes."[Pg 17]

"My footstool, Goneril," said Miss Varian sharply, "and you've dropped my handkerchief."

Goneril, a good-looking woman of about forty, a superior American servant who resented her position always, and went as far as she dared to go in endangering it, stooped and picked up the handkerchief and shook it out with suppressed vehemence, and thrust it into her mistress' hand. "Is that all?" she asked, with a sort of sniff, going towards the door.

"Yes, all," said Miss Varian, in a tone that spoke volumes. Goneril indulged in another sniff, and went.

"That insufferable woman," muttered her employer, below her breath.

Missy smiled calmly, but said nothing. It always calmed her to see her step-aunt in a temper with Goneril: it gave her a feeling of superiority. She never would have endured the woman for a day, but she was quite willing her elder should, if she chose. The poor lady's blindness would have given every one a feeling of tenderness, if she had not been too sharp and petulant to permit any one to feel tender long. The position of her attendant was not one to be envied. Goneril was an American farmer's daughter, who had made a bad marriage (and the man who married her had not made altogether a good one). She had had high ambitions, as became an American farmer's daughter, and she had come down to living out at service, and what more cruel statement could be made? No worse fate could have overtaken her she was sure, and she made no secret of her estimate of domestic service for American farmer's daughters. She quarrelled incessantly with the servants of humbler nationality in the house, who did not mind it[Pg 18] much, and who laughed a little at her proud parentage.

They did not see the difference themselves. She was industrious, and capable, and vigorous, and was indispensable to Miss Varian, out of whom she wrung ever-increasing wages. Her father, the American farmer, had done handsomely by her in the matter of a name; he had called her Regan Goneril. She had grown up in the sanctity of home as Regan, but now that she was cast out into the battle of life, she preferred to be called Goneril. She also hoped to be shielded by this thin disguise from the pursuit of the discarded husband. The belief in the Varian kitchen was, that there was no danger of any such pursuit: in fact, that the husband would go very fast in the opposite direction. But she liked to talk about it, and about her goodness in putting up with Miss Varian's temper; she placed her service rather in the light of missionary work. If she did not feel it to be her duty to stay with the poor blind woman, she said, no money would induce her to remain. (It took more and more money every year, however, to stiffen and hold up her sense of duty.)

Missy took the brawls between Miss Varian and her maid, very calmly. "It gives an interest to her life," she said from a height. On this evening, occupied as she was by her own matters, she heard the story of her aunt's wrongs more indifferently than ever. And even Miss Varian soon forgot that there was anything more absorbing than the waited-for arrival.

"It may be nine o'clock before they get here," she said; "that shows the impropriety of letting a girl go off on journeys with a lover. Such things weren't[Pg 19] done in my time. I shouldn't have thought of doing such a thing."

"You don't know; you might have thought of it, if you had ever been engaged," said Missy, with malice.

"Well, my dear, we have neither of us been tempted," retorted her aunt, urbanely. "Let us be charitable. I have no doubt we should, both of us, have been able to take care of ourselves; but it may be different with your sister elect. These very handsome women, you know, are not always wise."

"That is true," said Missy, tapping her foot impatiently as she stood before the fire. "Mamma, you don't think you'd like a cup of tea? You may have to wait a good while."

"No, thank you," said Mrs. Varian meekly.

She always wore a pained expression when her sister-in-law was present; but as the sister-in-law could not see it, it did no harm. She always dreaded the next word. They had always been uncongenial; but it is one thing to have an uncongenial sister-in-law that you can get away from, or go to see only when you are braced up to the business, and another to have her under your own roof, a prisoner, by reason of her misfortune and your sense of duty—able to prey upon you whether you are well or ill; as familiar and everyday as your dressing-gown and slippers; having no respect for your engagements or your indigestions. When this blindness threw Harriet Varian upon her hands, she felt as if her home were invaded, desecrated, spoiled, but she had not a moment's hesitation as to her duty. A frivolous youth and a worldly, pleasure-seeking maturity, had ill pre[Pg 20]pared the poor woman for her dreary doom. She had fitted herself to it with a bitter philosophy; for do we not all fit ourselves to our lot, in one way or another. "L'homme est en délire s'il ose murmurer,"

but it is to be hoped Heaven is not always critical in the matter of resignation. Harriet Varian had submitted, but she was in the primer of Christian principle, as it were; attaining with difficulty in middle age the lesson that would have been easy to her, if she had begun in childhood. When you have spent thirty-four years in having your own way, and consulting your own pleasure quite exclusively, it comes a trifle hard to do exactly as you do not wish to do, and to find that pleasure is a term unknown in your vocabulary: when you are old that another should gird you and lead you whither you would not.

But the healthy and Christian surroundings of the home to which she came were not without their influence. Mrs. Varian's sweet endurance of her life-long suffering, St. John's healthy goodness, and Missy's vigorous duty-doing, helped her, against her will. St. John was her great object of interest in life. All her money was to go to him, and she actually felt compensated for her dull and restricted existence, sometimes, when she reflected that it swelled, by so many thousand a year, the fortune that would be his. She had not lost her interest in the world, since she had him to connect her with it, and to give her an excuse for the indulgence of ambition. Of course she had been bitterly set against all the system upon which he had been educated, and would have thwarted it if she had had the power. His entering the church had been a great trial to her, but she openly said it was[Pg 21] his mother's plan, and no wish of his, and before he was ordained he would be old enough to see the folly of it, and to get clear of it. Then came his engagement,