Miriam Coles Harris

A PASSING SOUL.

It was six weeks after this; life had been going on with little change, when one morning Missy drew the reins of her brown horse before the Rectory gate, and hurriedly springing out, ran down the path, leaving the carriage at the roadside. She had a vail tied close across her face; but she had no gloves, and her manner showed haste and excitement. St. John was in his study. She ran in, exclaiming, as she opened the door: "I wish you could come with me immediately, St. John. Get ready; don't stop to ask questions. I will tell you while you're going."

"Mamma?" he asked, with a sudden contraction of the face, as he started up and went across the room to get his hat.

"No! oh, thank Heaven! no. But don't stop for anything. Come; it is more to me than you."

Then St. John knew that it was something that concerned the Andrews'; but generously made all the haste he could in following her. As he stepped into the carriage after her, and took the reins from her hand, he said:

"Well!" and turned to listen.

"It is Mrs. Andrews," she said, tremblingly. "She is dying; she may be dead. I knew nothing of it till this morning, though her life has been in danger through the night. Those cruel servants did not send for us, and she has been in too much suffering to ask for any one. Now, she scarcely knows me, but at first turned to me eagerly. She had something to say; I don't know what. But she will never say it. Oh, St. John! Death is so fearful—the silence. I can never hear that word, whatever it is, of great or little moment."

"Her husband is with her?"

"That is the dreadful part. He is not at home. There is no one to do anything. How they got the doctor is a wonder; except there is a brute instinct, even in such creatures, that runs for the doctor. It was ages before I could find the address of Mr. Andrews in town. Ages before I could get any one off with the telegram. I came for you myself, because I could trust no one else to get you quickly. Oh, St. John, do drive a little faster!"

"And what am I to do, now that you have got me?" said her brother, in a low tone, gazing before him at the horse, now almost on a gallop.

"Do? oh, St. John! save her! say a prayer for her! help her! What are such as you to do but that? I didn't think you'd ask me. Oh, it is so terrible to think of her poor soul. She is so unready; poor thing—unless her sufferings will stand instead. Don't you think they may? Don't you think God might accept them instead of—of spirituality and love for Him?"

"We're not set to judge, Missy," said her brother, soothingly. "Let us hope all we can, and pray all we can. I wish that she were conscious, if only for one moment."

"Well, pray for it," cried Missy, and then burst into tears. After a moment, she turned passionately to him, and said: "St. John, I am afraid it is partly for my own comfort I want her to speak and to be conscious for one moment. I want to feel that I have a right to hope for her eternal safety, and that I haven't been wasting all these weeks in talking of things that didn't concern that, when I might have been leading her to other thoughts. Oh, St. John, tell me, ought I to have been talking about her soul all this time, when it was so hard? She was—oh, I know you will understand me—she was so full of her sufferings, and—well, of herself, that I couldn't easily talk about what I knew in my heart she ought to be getting ready for. I didn't know it was so near. Ah, I wasted the hours, and now her blood may be upon my soul. St. John, there never was anybody so unready. It appalls me. I see it all now. Poor, beautiful thing. She seems to be only made for earth. Oh, the awe! St. John, if I had been a very good person, utterly holy, I might have saved her, might I not? I should not have thought of anything else, and by the force of my one purpose and desire, I could have wakened her."

"Maybe not, my sister. Don't reproach yourself; only pray."

Missy twisted her hands together in her lap, and was motionless, as they hurried on. In a moment more they were standing at the gate. As Missy sprang out, little Jay met her, fretting and crying.

"Oh, why haven't they taken the children over to mamma, as I ordered?" she cried; but there was no one to make excuse. "Go, go, my dear little Jay," she pleaded. But Jay was all unstrung and unreasonable, feeling the gloom and discomfort. "See," she cried, hurriedly kneeling down on the grass beside him, "go to Mrs. Varian, and tell her you are come to pay her a little visit; and tell her to let you go to my room, and on the table there you will find a little package, tied up in a white paper; and it is for you. I tied it up for you last night. Go see what it is; you haven't any idea. It is something you will like so much!" Jay was on his way before Missy got into the house.

It was a warm morning, close and obscure. One felt the oppression in every nerve—an August suffocation. Low banks of threatening clouds lay over the island that shut in the bay from the Sound, and over the West Harbor. They boded and brooded, but would lie there for the many hours of morning and midday that remained. Not a ripple moved the sullen water; not a leaf stirred on the trees; the sun seemed hidden deep in clouds of hot, still vapor. The house was all open, doors and windows, gasping for breath. In the hall one or two servants stood aimlessly about, listening at the foot of the stairs, or whispering together.

St. John followed his sister closely as she entered the house. The servants made way for her, and they went quickly up the stairs. At the door of the sick room they paused. Another woman, wringing her hands, and listening with keen curiosity, stood gazing in. The room was in the most confused state. The coffee-colored Alphonsine moved stolidly about, and occasionally put a piece of furniture in its place, or removed a garment thrown down in the haste and panic of the past night; but standing still, more often, to gaze back at the bed. She crossed herself often, in a mechanical manner, but looked more sullen than sympathetic. There was a bath in the middle of the room, cloths and towels strewn upon the floor beside it, mustard, a night-lamp flickering still in the face of day, a bowl of ice, some brandy. The windows were thrown wide open; the bed stood with its head near one—another one was opposite to it. The light fell full upon the ghastly face of the suffering woman. Beauty! had she ever been beautiful? "Like as a moth fretting a garment," so had her anguish made her beauty to consume away. A ghastly being—suffering, agonized, dying—wrestling with a destroying enemy! Such conflicts cannot last long; the end was near.

As St. John and his sister entered the room, the doctor, who stood at the head of the bed, was wiping the perspiration from his forehead and glancing out of the window. He was troubled and worn out with the night's work, and was watching eagerly for a brother physician who had been summoned to his aid. He knew the new-comer could do no good, but he could share the responsibility with him, and bring back the professional atmosphere out of which he had been carried by the swift and terrible progress of his patient's malady. Above all things, the doctor wished to be professional and cool; and he knew he was neither in the midst of this blundering crowd of servants, and in the sight of this fiercely dying woman. He could have wished it all to be done over again. He had lost his head, in a degree. He did not believe that anything could have arrested the flight of life; all the same he wished he had known a little more about the case; had taken the alarm quicker and sent for other aid. He looked harassed and helpless, and very hot and tired. All this St. John saw as he came in the room.

Missy looked questioningly at him, and then as he gave a gesture of assent, came quickly to the side of the bed. She half knelt beside it, and took the poor sufferer's hand in hers. The touch, perhaps, caused her to open her eyes, and her lips moved. Then her glance, roving and anguished, fell upon St. John. She lifted her hand with a sudden spasm of life.

"A priest?" she said, huskily.

"Yes," said St. John, coming to her quietly.

"Then all of you go away—quick—I want to speak to him."

"There is no time to spare," said the doctor, as he passed St. John. Missy followed him, and the servants followed her. She closed the door and waited outside.

The servants seemed to be consoled by the presence of a priest; things were taking the conventional death-bed turn. Even the doctor felt as if the professional atmosphere were being restored in a degree. St. John, indeed, had looked as if he knew what he was about, and had been calm in the midst of the agitated and uncertain group, occupied himself, perhaps, by but one thought. Young as he was, his sister and the doctor and the servants shut him into the room with a feeling of much relief. The servants nodded, and went their ways with apparent satisfaction. The doctor threw himself into a chair in an adjoining room, and signified to Miss Rothermel that he would rest till he was called. And she herself knelt down beside an open window just outside the door, and waited, and probably devoutly prayed for the passing soul making her tardy count within.

She could not but speculate upon the interview. Now that the awful sense of responsibility was lifted off her and shifted upon her brother's shoulders, she felt more naturally and more humanly. She began to wonder whether it had been to ask her for a priest that the dying woman had struggled when she first saw her that morning. She was almost sure it was, for she had clutched at St. John with such eagerness. It was probable she did not know him and did not associate him with Missy. His marked dress had been his passport. And Missy really did not know what her friend's creed was. It seemed probable she had been a Roman Catholic, but had dropped her form of faith in holiday times of youth and possible wrong doing, and had never had grace to resume that, or any other in the weary days of illness—unprofitable so long as they did not threaten death. But now death was at the door, and she had clutched at the hem of a priest's garment. So, thought Missy, it is real when it comes to facts; for what fact so real as death? Everything else seemed phantom-dim when she thought of that face upon the pillow, with the wide-open window shedding all the gray morning's light upon it.

The moments passed; the still, dull, heavy air crept in at the window upon which Missy bowed her head; the leaves scarcely stirred upon the trees that stood up close beside it; a languid bird or two twittered an occasional smothered note. There were few household sounds. The servants, though released from their futile watching, did not resume their household work. Missy smelt the evil odor of the Frenchman's cigar, and was ashamed to find it vexed her, even at such a moment as this; she braced herself to endure the "Fille de Mme. Angot," if that should follow in a low whistle from under the trees. But it did not. The Frenchman had that much respect for what was going on within.

At last! There was a stir—a moan, audible even through the door, and Missy started to her feet, and signalled the doctor, who had heard it, too. Her brother opened the door and admitted them. But what a ghastly face was his; Missy started.

He turned back to the bed, and kneeling, read the commendatory prayer.

Ah, God help her; it is over. He has brought to pass His act, His strange act, and only death lies there, senseless, dull death, corruptible, animal, earthy, where but a moment before a soul of parts and passions, had been chained.

Missy, new to death-beds, got up from her knees at last, weeping and awed, and, laying her hand on her brother's, said, "Come away, St. John, you look so ill."

St. John arose and followed her, going to the room and sinking into the chair lately occupied by the doctor. He looked ill indeed, but his sister could offer him no comfort; quiet, and to be left alone was all he asked of her. At this moment the doctor summoned in consultation appeared; both the professional men went professionally into the chamber of death, and Missy, clasping the inert hand of Gabrielle, who, whimpering, had refused to go up stairs, went sorrowfully home with the child, feeling that she had no more to do in the house of death that day.

St. John came home in an hour or two. Mr. Andrews had not yet arrived. Everything that could be done without him had, under the direction of St. John and the doctor, been done. The house was quiet and in order, he said. It was almost certain that Mr. Andrews would arrive in the next train; the carriage was waiting at the depot for him, though no telegram had come. St. John threw himself on the sofa, and seemed again to want quiet, so his sister left him, and took the children to her own room. It was so close in the house, and they were so restless, that after a while she took them out upon the lawn. There was no sun, and just a cool air, though no breeze, creeping in from the water. It was comparatively easy to amuse them there, or rather, to let them amuse themselves. Gabrielle was inquisitive and fretful, but little Jay seemed to feel languid and tired by the morning's heat, and crept upon her lap at last and went to sleep.

Missy, sitting in the deep shade of the trees near the beech gate, soothed by the quiet, and worn with the morning's excitement, almost slept herself. She had gone over many times in imagination the arrival of the husband, and his first moment at the bedside of his dead wife. She felt sure all this had now taken place, though she was too far from the house to hear the arrival of the carriage from the depot. She wondered whether he would send in for the children at once, or whether he would be glad they were away; or whether he would think of them at all. She was glad to remember she had no duty in the matter, and that she did not have to see him, and it was rather a comfort to her to feel she did not know the exact moment at which he was going through the terrible scene, and feeling the first anguish of remorse. She kissed Jay's tawny head, and with her arms around him, finally slept, leaning back in the great chair. Gabrielle at first played at her feet idly, then went down to the beach, and amused herself in the sand, but it was hot, and she came back to the shade, and, lying on the rug at Missy's feet, slept too.

A small steam yacht, meanwhile, had come into the harbor, had put off a small boat, which was even now landing a gentleman near the boat-house of the Andrews' place. The boat returned to the yacht; the gentleman set down his bag on the steps of the boat-house, and looked around. All was quiet; no one seemed moving at either of the two houses. Certainly it was not a day to move if you could help it. The only hope was that those dark clouds in the west would move, and make some change in the stagnant state of things. The gentleman took off his straw hat and fanned himself and walked slowly forward, then, catching sight of the group under the trees, with something like a smile, turned back and approached them. He stood looking down upon them, before any of them moved. Certainly, a pretty enough group. Gabrielle was sleeping, face forward, on her arms, a graceful figure, on the dark rug. Missy, with her soft, pretty hair tumbled, and a flush on her cheek, lay nearly at full length in the stretched-out sleepy chair, her light dress swept upon the grass, and exposing one small and perfect foot with a gossamer stocking and a darling high-heeled low-cut shoe. And Jay, flushed and hot, with his tawny curls against her breast, and one brown hand in hers, lay across her lap; her other hand, very white by contrast, holding the brown bare legs in a protecting way; some picture-books, and a broad hat or two lay upon the grass beside them. There was something in the sight that seemed to move more than the spectator's admiration; but whatever emotion it was, was quickly dispelled, and commonplace greeting and pleasure came back into his face, as Gabrielle, aroused, got up with a cry of:

"Why, papa! where did you come from? I—I guess I was asleep."

Missy, with a start, sat up, bewildered. She had been dreaming, perhaps, of the scene in the upper room in the house next door, which haunted her imagination. And here she was, face to face with the man over whose remorse she rather gloated, and it would be difficult to say how any one could look less remorseful than he looked now. Certainly, more genial and pleasant than she had ever seen him look before. She felt that she must have been dreaming all the occurrences of the morning. Jay fretted and refused to wake. Her dress was wet where his hot little head had been lying; he threw his arm up over her neck and nestled back.

"I—we—what train—have you just come?" she stammered, trying to know what she was talking of, and to believe that there was no dead face on the pillow up-stairs.

"I did not come on a train, but in a yacht," he answered, putting his arms around Gabby's shoulders, and holding her little hands in his. "We started last night. Some friends of mine are on a cruise, and persuaded me to let them bring me here. But an accident to the machinery kept us over-night at our moorings, and interminable arrangements for the cruise put us back this morning. We have had a hot day of it on the Sound, and are just arrived. See, Gabrielle, there goes the yacht out of the mouth of the harbor. It is a pity we can't run up a flag from the boat-house; but it is too hot for exertion, and I suppose all the servants are asleep."

"Then you haven't—" faltered Missy, "you—that is—you have not been to the house—"

"No," said Mr. Andrews, looking at her as if he did not mean to be surprised at anything she might say or do. "No, I am just on shore, and unexpected at home. I hope you are quite well, Miss Rothermel;" for Missy was turning very pale. "I am afraid that boy is too heavy for you; let me take him."

Missy was struggling to get up, and Jay was fighting to keep his place, and not to be disturbed.

"Let me take him. Jay, be quiet. What do you mean by this, my boy? Come to me at once."

"No, oh no!" said Missy, regaining her feet, and holding the boy in her arms. He put his damp curls down on her shoulder, and both arms around her neck, and with sleepy, half-shut, obstinate eyes, looked down upon the ground, and up upon his father.

Gabrielle, seeing the situation, said, amazed: "Don't you know, papa?" and then stopped suddenly, and looked frightened.

"Hush, Gabrielle," cried Missy, trembling. For Gabby's heartlessness would be a cruel medium through which to communicate the news.

"There is some trouble?" said Mr. Andrews, quietly, looking from one to the other. "Do not be afraid to tell me."

"Let us go up to the house," said Missy, hurriedly, taking a few steps forward with her heavy burden. Mr. Andrews walked silently beside her, looking upon the ground, with an expression not very different from the one he wore habitually, though very different from the one he had just been wearing. Gabby hung behind, looking askance at the two before her, with mingled curiosity and apprehension in her face.

"You need not be afraid to tell me," he said, as they walked on. "Has anything happened? I am quite unprepared, but I would rather know. I suppose I have been telegraphed, if I was needed—"

"I sent the telegrams to your office," said Missy; "the first one at nine this morning. My brother sent the last one. The carriage has been at every train all day."

"It was a strange mischance. They did not know at the office that I was going home in the yacht."

"The servants were so heedless, and they did not even send for us."

"You forget, I do not know," said Mr. Andrews, in a controlled voice, as she paused, in walking as well as in speaking. For her agitation, and the weight of the sleeping child together, made her tremble so that she stopped, and leaned against a linden tree on the lawn, which they were passing.

"Oh, it is hard that it should come upon me," cried Missy desperately, as she looked at him with a strange pair of eyes, leaning against the tree, very white and trembling, and holding the boy to her breast.

"Yes; it is hard," said her companion, "for I know it must be something very painful to move you so. I will go to my house and learn about it there. Come, Gabrielle; will you come with me, child?"

"Oh, stay," cried Missy, as he stretched out his hand to the little girl, and was going away without her, as she began to cry and hang back, taking hold of Missy's dress. "It will be hard to hear it there—from servants. It is the worst news any one could hear. How can I tell you? The poor little children, they are left—alone—to you."

And, bursting into tears, she sunk down beside Gabrielle on the grass, and held her and Jay in one embrace. There was a silence but for the sobs of Gabrielle, for Missy's tears were silent after the first burst; they were raining now on Jay's head, and she kissed his forehead again and again. "I have told you very badly," she said brokenly, after a moment. "I hoped you would not hear it all at once; but it was not my fault."

There was no answer, and she went on. "The illness was so sudden and terrible, and there was no hope, after we knew of it. I feel so dazed and tired I hardly know what to tell you of it. It is several hours since—since all was over. I don't suppose anything could have been done to make it different; but it must be so dreadful to you to think you were not here. Oh, I don't know at all how you can bear it."

She looked up at him as she said this. He stood perfectly still and upright before her, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, hard and rigid. But whether he was hearing what she said, and weighing it critically, or whether he did not hear or comprehend, she could not tell. There was no change of expression, no emotion in eye or mouth to enlighten her. She had, in her pity for him, and her agitation at being the one to communicate the evil tidings, forgotten the rancor that she bore him, and the remorse that she had wished he might endure. These feelings began sharply to awaken, as she glanced at him. She felt her tears burn her cheeks, looking at his unmoistened eyes. She put down Jay upon his feet, and disengaging herself from Gabrielle, stood up, keeping Jay's hand in hers.

"My brother will tell you all the rest," she said, slowly moving on, leading the children. Mr. Andrews mechanically followed her, looking upon the ground. Missy's heart beat fast; she held the children tight by the hand; it seemed to her that this was worse than all the rest. She was not much used to tragedy, and had never had to tell a man the wife was dead, whom he was expecting to meet within five minutes.

The men and women she had known had loved each other, and lived happily together, in a measure. She was new to this sort of experience. She was thrilling with the indignation that very young persons feel when their ideal anything is overthrown. She was, practically, in the matter of ideals, a very young person, though she was twenty-eight.

They were very near the house now. A few more steps and they would be at the side door that led into the summer parlor. There was a total silence, broken by Jay's whimpering, "I don't want to go home with papa; I want to stay with you to-night."

Gabby, who didn't have any more cheerful recollection of home to-day than he, chimed in a petition to stay. She thought she would rather look over aunt Harriet's boxes, and be a little scolded, than go home to the ejaculations and whisperings of the servants, and have to pass That Room. This was about the depth of her grief; but she whimpered and wanted to stay. When they reached the steps that led up to the door, Missy paused and turned to Mr. Andrews, who was just behind her.

"Shall I keep the children?" she said, facing him, her cheeks flushed, a child grasping each hand.

"Yes—if you will—if you will be so kind," he said. She had hoped his voice would be shaken, would show agitation. But it did not. It was rather low, but perfectly controlled, and he knew what he was saying. He "remembered his manners." He was collected enough to be polite; "if you will be so kind."

"Come then, children," she said, trembling all over, voice included, as she went up the steps. He walked away without any further speech. Leaving the children in the summer-parlor, she ran through the house to one of the front windows, and pushing open a little the blind, sat down palpitating and watched him going down to the gate. He walked slowly, but his step was steady. He followed the road, and did not walk across the grass, like a man who does not think what he is doing. When he reached the gate, he did not turn to the right towards his own house, to the gate of which a few steps more would have brought him, but he walked up the road, with his head down, as if pondering something. Presently, however, he turned and came back, passed the Varians' gate, and went on into his own. And then Missy lost sight of him among the trees that stood between the two houses. She threw herself upon a sofa, and pressed her hands before her eyes, as she thought of that broken, pain-strained figure, rigid on the bed up-stairs. And if he did not cry for his coldness and cruelty, she did, till her head and her eyes ached.

That night, after Missy had put the children to bed in her own room, as she went down stairs, she heard St. John sending a servant in to ask Mr. Andrews if he would see him for a few moments.

"St. John," she exclaimed, in a low voice, joining him. "Why do you send in? It is his place to send for you. I would not do it, really. I—I hate the man. I told him you would tell him everything, and he has been here four hours at least, and has never sent for you. I don't believe he wants to hear anything. I have no doubt he has had a good dinner and is reading the paper. May be he will ask you to join him with a cigar."

"Don't be uncharitable, Missy," said her brother, walking up and down the room.

"But why do you send?" persisted his sister. "He doesn't want to see you, or he would have sent."

"But I want to see him. So, Missy, don't let us talk about it any more."

It was evident to his sister that St. John did not anticipate the meeting with much pleasure. He was a little restless, for him, till the servant came back with a message, to the effect that Mr. Andrews would be very glad to see Mr. Varian at once, if he were at liberty to come. St. John looked rather pale as he kissed his sister good-night (for he was not coming back, but going directly home to the rectory), and she felt that his hand was cold.

"He is young for such experiences," she said to her mother, as she sat down beside her sofa in the summer twilight.

"He doesn't seem young to me any longer," returned her mother.

"A few days such as this would make us all old," said Missy, with a sigh, leaning her face down on her mother's arm. "Mamma, I am sure this interview is very painful to St. John. I am sure he has been charged with something to say to her husband, by that poor soul. How I wish it weren't wrong to ask him what it was. But,"—with a sigh—"I suppose we shall never know."

"Never, Missy. But we can be charitable. And when you are my age, my child, you will be afraid to judge any one, and will distrust the sight of your own eyes."

At this moment Miss Varian came lumbering into the room, leaning on the arm of Goneril.

"I suppose," she said, not hearing the low voices, "that Missy is at her nursery duties yet. Are you here, Dorla? I should think she might remember that you might sometimes be a little lonely, while she is busy in her new vocation."

Missy scorned to answer, but her mother said pleasantly: "Oh, she is here; her babies have been asleep some time."

"I'm not surprised. I don't believe Gabby's grief has kept her awake. That child has a heart like a pebble, small and hard. As to little Jay, he has the constitution and the endowments of a rat terrier, nothing beyond. I don't believe he ever will amount to anything more than a good, sturdy little animal."

"He will amount to a big animal, I suppose, if he lives long enough," said Missy, with a sharp intonation of contempt.

"Well, not very, if he copies his father. Gabby has all the cleverness. I should call Jay a dull child, as far as I can judge; dull of intellect, but so strong and well that it gives him a certain force."

"Aunt Harriet!" cried Missy, impatiently, "can't you leave even children alone? What have those poor little morsels done to you, that you should defame them so?"

"Done? Oh, nothing, but waked me up from my nap this afternoon. And, you know, deprived me and your mother of much of your soothing society for the past two months."

"I haven't begrudged Missy to them," said her mother, affectionately, drawing Missy's hand around her neck in the dimness. "I think the poor little things have needed a friend for a long while, and, alas, they need one now."

"It's my impression they're no worse off to-day than they were yesterday. There is such a thing as gaining by a loss."

Mrs. Varian put her hand over Missy's mouth; Miss Varian, annoyed by not being answered, went on with added sharpness:

"Goneril says the servants tell her all sorts of stories about the state of things between master and mistress in the house next door. I am afraid the poor man isn't to blame for snubbing her as he has done. They say she—"

"Oh, my dear Harriet," said Mrs. Varian, keeping her hand on Missy's lips, "don't you think it is a pity to be influenced by servants. It is difficult enough to tell the truth ourselves, and keep it intact when it goes through many hands; and I don't think that the ill-educated and often unprincipled people who serve us, are able at all to judge of character, and to convey facts correctly; do you? I don't doubt two-thirds of the gossip among our servants is without foundation. Imagine Goneril describing an interview between us; to begin with, she would scarcely understand what we said, if we talked of anything but the most commonplace things. She would think we quarreled, if we differed about the characters in a novel."

"Goneril! She would not only misunderstand, but she would misstate with premeditation and malice. That woman—" And on that perennial grievance, the lady's wrath was turned, as her sister-in-law meant it should be, and Missy's feelings were spared. She kissed her mother's hand secretly, and whispered "thank you."