Miriam Coles Harris

A TEA TABLE TRUCE.

Two hours later, Mr. Andrews drove up to the door, in the darkness, with a pair of sleepy children, and a pair of restless horses, and a coachman feeling deeply the surreptitious claret and champagne. Missy, hearing the turbulent voice of Jay, ran to the door, accompanied by Ann. The bright light from the hall came flooding on the piazza as the door opened, and Missy, reaching out her arms to take the sleepy boy from his father, looked like a good angel, to his eyes. Gabby was following up the steps and whimpering audibly.

"You will have your hands full, Miss Rothermel, I am afraid," he said gloomily. "The children are very cross. But I am thankful that I took your advice. The carouse was not nearly over. I believe the children would have been drowned, if I had not gone for them. The creatures were just embarking for the return voyage, all as drunk as lords. Heaven knows what might have happened if they had got off. I ordered them on shore, and put the sail-boat in charge of the man who lives near the beach, and the wretches are to come home on foot. The walk may sober them a little."

"Poor little Jay," cried Missy, hugging him. He slapped her, and then began to roar with remorse and headache combined, and to throw himself back and try to fall out of her arms. They were now in the hall. His father, horrified, began to reprove him.

"Oh, don't," cried Missy, "poor little man. He is not responsible. To-morrow morning he'll be all right. Come, Gabby, take off your hat, child."

"I don't know what I should have done with them, if I had not had this refuge," said Mr. Andrews, looking careworn indeed.

"Oh, that is nothing," said Missy cheerily; "we are so glad to have them. And you, Mr. Andrews, mamma begs you will come in to tea."

"That will be impossible, I'm afraid; thank you very much," he said, looking anxiously back towards the door, whence came the sound of stamping horses, and an occasional mumbled ejaculation and a frequently snapped whip. "I have to look after the horses, and this man."

"Let Peters do that," said Missy, bent on her own way. She had determined to bury the hatchet and to have Mr. Andrews stay to tea. She felt it was a gracious thing to do, though rather hard, and having made up her mind to an act of magnanimity, objected to being thwarted.

"Mamma wants to see you," she said. "Besides, you have not had any dinner, and you will not probably get any at home, unless you cook it yourself. Let Peters go in and attend to the stable. It is the only thing to do."

"Perhaps you are right," he said, irresolutely "Well, as you are so kind, I will go home, and lock a few of the doors, and return in a moment."

As he drove off, Missy heard him say a word or two to the coachman, which convinced her he was not afraid of men servants, whatever he might be of maid servants. Ann was sent to call Peters. Gabby, who was really ill from over-eating and over-fatigue, was sent to bed in care of Goneril. Jay, who pleaded to stay up to tea, was allowed to lie on the sofa beside the fire, and get warmed after his long exposure to the night air. Missy covered him with an afghan, and kneeling down beside him, had just seen his eyes close in unconquerable sleep, when Mr. Andrews came in. He was half way across the room before her mother's "Missy!" started her to her feet. "Oh, I beg your pardon; I did not hear you. Mamma, let me present Mr. Andrews."

Mrs. Varian half rose from her sofa, and Mr. Andrews thought her lovely and gracious, as every one else did. He bowed to Miss Varian; and, no doubt, he thought they were all angels, as indeed he was excusable for thinking, coming from the dark and hopeless tangle of his own house. The cheer of the fire and the lamp, the odor of the flowers, the grace of the woman who had arisen to welcome him, the kindness of the one who had been kneeling beside his little outcast, the air of order, luxury, peace, all filled him with a sense that he had been living in another world, on the other side of the arbor-vitÆ hedge. He was, as has been said, a silent man, and one of those straightforward men who never seem to think that they need to speak when they have nothing to say. He was not silent from shyness, but from simplicity of motive, from a native honesty; consequently, his silence was not oppressive, but natural. To-night, however, there was much to say. There were the details of the broken-up camp at Eel Creek, the various stages of hilarity and depression among the servants, the danger of the children, the probabilities of a slow march, the ludicrous side of the coming midnight court-martial. When they were ready to go in to tea, Missy stayed behind for an instant to tuck Jay's afghan about him and put a chair beside him, and to feel whether his pulse was quick. "Bless him," she whispered, giving him a kiss, "better days are coming."

The tea table was as graceful and pretty as possible; the things to eat rarely good, and Mr. Andrews, poor man, had been fasting all day. He despised lunch, and he hadn't had any chance to get a dinner; so no wonder he appreciated the tea that was set before him. Miss Varian was in a good humor, and quite sharp and witty, and whatever Mrs. Varian said, was always gracious and delightful. Miss Rothermel had enough to do to pour out the tea, and she was quite satisfied with the march of events, including Mr. Andrews' appetite, and the complexion of the waffles. She thought of the soupless dinner he had mentioned, and of the alms-house provision of boiled rice and raisins, and she felt for a moment, what bliss to keep house for a man with such an appetite and no ascetic tendencies. St. John was a continual trial to her. But then she checked herself sharply, and thought how deceitful appearances were, and how cruel had been the lot of the woman who had kept house for him, till alas, a month ago exactly. It was a bitter commentary on her fate, that he was able to enjoy broiled oysters so unblushingly within thirty days of his bereavement. Happily, behind the tea-kettle, Missy's dark frown was hidden; but she soon threw it off; she had made up her mind to be amiable for this one evening, and she would not break her resolution.

After tea, when they were again around the parlor fire, St. John came in. The sight of him changed the expression of the guest's face; the care-worn look came back, and a silence. Before very long, he said, rising, that he must go home, and make ready for the reception of the criminals. This was plainly a thing that ought to be done, and Mrs. Varian had been thinking so for half an hour. St. John went with him to the door, and Missy heard Mr. Andrews say, as they parted on the piazza: "I have wanted to see you. I hope you don't think that, because our interview was what it was, I shrink from further acquaintance. Perhaps I should have gone to you, and said this. I hope you will take it now. You can understand how hard it is for me to say this."

"I do understand," said St. John earnestly; "and I hope that the painful association will not interfere with our future intercourse. Perhaps I should have gone to you, and said this."

She lost what followed—an irreparable loss. She had been standing at the window, which was open, behind the curtain, and could not have helped hearing what they said.

"Rather a high and mighty penitent," she said to herself, indignantly, going over his words in her mind. "And St. John is so young, and so—well, I am afraid he's weak. It is natural for people to be weak when they are young. He seemed only anxious to propitiate him. I suppose he hopes in that way to get an influence over him. Of course, it must be hard to stand up against a man of double his own age; but I should think being a priest would give him courage."

At this time, Jay woke up, and, in taking him to bed, she missed St. John's return to the parlor, and the remainder of his visit. "Mamma, what do you think of him?" she said, sitting down beside her mother's sofa late that night.

"I rather like him," was the answer.

"Yes, if one could forget everything. I think he is gentlemanly, and unobjectionable in manner—almost pleasing. But I suppose I ought not to forget what I know of his cruel neglect, and of the almost tragic end of it."

"Of course, that seems terrible—but—"

"But, mamma!" cried Missy, "I scarcely expected you to say that. Oh, how true it is, women are cruel to each other. Think—you know nothing in favor of Mr. Andrews. Everything in his disfavor: nothing against Mrs. Andrews: everything in her favor, and yet you say, 'I rather like him; all this is very terrible—but—'"

"Well, you know I had never seen the wife. You are influenced by admiration for her. I am influenced by something that attracts me in the husband. We really, Missy, do not know much of the lives of either of them."

"I know that she was neglected, left alone. That for days together she never saw her husband. That his manner, on receiving the news of her death, was more stolid and indifferent than mine would have been on being told of the sudden and suffering death of a total stranger. I know that she hated, feared him. And she was impulsive, quick, and probably warm-hearted."

"Probably, Missy? Well, I don't want to wound you—but—but her children did not seem very dear to her."

"Mamma, when one is suffering as she was, naturally, to an undisciplined nature, life centers where the suffering is. You cannot think of anything else. You just cry out, and bend your mind upon getting through with your pain as best you may, unless you have learned the higher lesson, which of course I know she hadn't. She had not in any sense learned the uses of her sufferings; I don't deny that. But who heaped those sufferings upon her? Who failed to make her better, if she was not perfect, child as she was, compared with him? Think of the difference in their ages. Oh, it makes me bitter to think of it. No, nothing can excuse him, nothing."

"It is hard to say that. Wait till we know both stories."

"Those we never shall know. She can't tell us any more of hers, poor soul, and he never will, you may be sure. Or, if he did, I should not feel bound to believe him. I assure you, I am not impressed with him as you are."

"He seems very tender towards his children."

"Yes, tender, but weak and irresolute. Possibly a little remorseful; we don't know how long this will last. He is undoubtedly sorry he broke their poor mother's heart, as sorry as such a stout, stolid thing can be, and he doesn't want the children to be drowned by the servants, or taught to swear or steal, just now, at any rate. He is willing to second our efforts to save them. He will not oppose us, at any rate. You must acknowledge it wouldn't look well, if he did."

"Now, Missy, you are uncharitable."

"No, mamma; you are over-charitable; this plausible gentleman has so worked upon you. Really I—I hate him. I always have, and your taking him up so only increases my aversion."

"Excuse me. My taking him up is imaginary."

"Oh, no, mamma, believe me, you have taken his side, unconsciously to yourself. And, equally unconsciously, you have, from the very first, set yourself against her, and deplored my infatuation. I have always seen it."

"I confess that some things you told me prejudiced me against her. I felt that her personal attraction must be great to make you overlook them."

"You mean her telling me things against her husband, even as early as our first interview."

"And her indifference to her children, Missy, and her great egotism."

"I can understand, mamma, how this would strike you. I am quite sure if you had known her, you would not have wondered, or blamed; you would only have pitied. She spoke to me because she saw my friendship, and because, poor soul, she had seen no one but the servants for weeks or months. I shouldn't have wondered if she had told me her whole history the first time that I saw her."

"But she never did tell you her whole history, Missy. You know nothing of it really, notwithstanding all the time you spent with her."

"And that you find against her! Really, mamma, you are hard to please. You reproach her for telling me so much, and you distrust her because she did not tell me more."

"Vague accusations, and complaints of injustice are easily made, Missy. I should think we were in a better position to judge of matters, if you had ever had a plain story of her life and its wrongs given to you."

"I wish, for your sake, that I had; but perhaps it was more noble in her to die without doing it. I am afraid, mamma, we shall never think alike about this. But if you can't sympathize with me, at least do not try me by too much approbation of this man. I will bear anything in reason; but if you and Aunt Harriet and St. John all continue to pay homage to him as you did to-night, I shall think it rather trying."

"Oh, as to that, I think we were only civil; and you were quite as amiable as we—which, my dear, you must continue to be, if you hope to keep any hold over Jay's fate. Poor little fellow! do not, by an unnecessary show of rancor, throw him back into the arms of Alphonsine and Bridget."

"That is the only thing," said Missy, crossing the room to fasten the window for the night. "I mean to get my own way about him; and I only hope it will not involve speaking many more words, good or bad, to his father."