MY DUTY TO MY NEIGHBOR.

"Mamma seems better than for years, this winter," she was obliged to say, when asked about her mother's health. She did not talk much about St. John, even with Missy, but when she did talk of him, it was with simplicity and naturalness. His letters never threw her into depression, nor was she deeply anxious when they did not come. She always gave the letters to Missy to read, which had not been the case before. They were short, affectionate, plain as to fact, expressing nothing of inward emotion. Missy felt sure that this was understood between them, and that the outpouring of heart which had been so dear to both, was part of the sacrifice.

The new clergyman came, and parish matters in their new light had to be talked over. This was acute pain to Missy, to whom it seemed St. John's work alone. It seemed to give no pain to her mother, and her interest in affairs connected with the village church was unabated. The only thing that seemed to pain her, was the adverse criticism upon the step her son had taken, which Miss Varian took pains should come to her ears. People opened their minds on the matter to her, knowing she was strongly opposed to it, and she felt it to be her one source of consolation, to repeat these confidences to her sister-in-law.

After a time, it became Missy's business to thwart her in obtaining interviews with her mother, and to have always a servant in the room. Before a servant, Miss Varian would not talk on family matters, even when she was very bitter, and Goneril had a comfortable corner of the room where she was not loth to do her sewing, and where she saved Mrs. Varian many a sharp stab. The children, too, came often to the house, almost as often as in the summer time, and they and their nurse made a wall of defense as well.

After all, the winter wore away not unpeacefully to the Varian household, and all the desponding anticipations seemed to have been unwarranted. The children went and came; Jay's warm little hand was often in Missy's when she walked and rode; she had much occupation in the house, not as many interests outside. Time seemed to be healing the wound made by her brother's departure; she had read systematically, she was in fine health, the winter had been steadily cold and bracing. Yes, it had been a quiet, peaceful time to them all since Christmas. She blushed when she remembered how persistently she had prophesied evil, refusing to be comforted. "I must be very commonplace," she thought. "I am not even capable of suffering consistently." On the whole, however, it was a relief to be contented and comfortable, and she did not reject it exactly, though she took it under protest, and with a certain shame. She had, too, got over the violence of her feelings in the matter of her neighbor. She remembered her keen emotions with mortification. A good many things had contributed to this, principally the fact that St. John's going had eclipsed all other events, and that, in that real sorrow, the trifling sting was forgotten. Besides, the gentleman himself had had the kindness to keep entirely at home.

It was now May, and since November Missy had not spoken to him once. His household matters seemed to have been working smoothly. The servants, Missy learned through Eliza, the nurse, were contented and industrious. Mr. Andrews, she said, was the nicest gentleman to work for. He seemed as comfortable as a king, and was pleased with everything they did for him. He read his paper after dinner, and then talked with the children, and after they went to bed, read or wrote till after all were sleeping in the house. Two nights in the week he stayed in town; he did not seem to mind going back and forth. Sometimes he brought a gentleman home with him, but that was not very often. He seemed to think the children much improved, and he took an interest in their lessons, and made them tell him every night what they had been learning. As Eliza was herself their teacher, this gratified her very much. She was a steady, sensible young woman, and was in reality a protegÉe of Missy's. Missy had had her in her Sunday-school class, had prepared her for confirmation, and had never ceased to look after her and advise her; and had told a very naughty "story" when she denied to Mr. Andrews that the nurse elect was any protegÉe of hers. But in certain crises the most virtuous of women will say what is not true.

At first Missy tried to repress Eliza's devotion to her, and not to listen to the details she insisted on giving of her daily life and trials; but it was too alluring to give advice, and to manage Jay by proxy; and after a month or two, Missy ruled as truly in the Andrews nursery as she did in her own home. She was not without influence, either, over the other servants in the widower's establishment. They knew they owed their places to her, and they were anxious to obtain her good opinion. Through Eliza many hints were obtained how to manage about certain matters, how to arrange in certain delicate contingencies.

"Why, if I were in your place, Eliza, I should tell the cook she'd better speak to Mr. Andrews about Martin's coming in so late. It is always best to be truthful about such matters."

"Of course I don't know anything about it; but it seems to me the waitress would do much better to put up all the silver that is not in use, and ask Mr. Andrews to have it packed away. It only gives additional work, and can do no one any good; and it is really rather unsafe to have so much about, Mr. Andrews is away so many nights."

This had all come about so gradually, Missy would have denied indignantly that she had ever put a finger in her neighbor's pie; whereas, both pretty little white hands were in it greedily, all ten fingers, all the time. Dear Missy, how she did love to govern!

It was only when Gabrielle turned up her eyes, with the expression that she had had in them that horrid day by the green-house door—though she discreetly held her tongue—or when by rare chance Missy passed Mr. Andrews in driving, that she stiffened up, and felt the angry aversion coming over her again. As long as he kept out of sight it was all very well; and he had been wise, and had kept out of sight all the winter long.

It was now May; and perhaps he began to think it would be very rude not to make a call upon his neighbors, after all their kindness to the children; perhaps he began to grow a little tired of his freedom from the tyranny of women; perhaps his evenings were a trifle dull, now that he could not sit, with his book, between a wood fire and a student lamp. Perhaps he came from duty; perhaps he came because he wanted to come; but at all events he came, one soft May evening, in the twilight, and walked up the steps of the piazza, and rang the bell that he had not rung for six long months of frost and snow. It is certain he felt a trifle awkward about doing it; his manner showed that. Missy was alone in the library, writing a letter by the lamp. She looked up, surprised, when he entered—indeed, more than surprised. They were both so awkward that they were silent for a moment—the worst thing to be.

"It seems a long while since I have seen you, Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews; and then he began to see how much better it would have been not to say it. It was so absurd for people living side by side not to have spoken to each other for six months. It couldn't have happened without a reason; and the reason came, of course, to both their minds.

"Yes, I believe it is," returned Missy, uncomfortably. "I think I caught sight of you, one day last week, coming from the cars. The new time-table is a great improvement, I should think. I suppose you get home now quite early, don't you?"

She was naturally the first to get command of herself, and by and by they got upon safe ground. But Missy was uneasy, stiff; Mr. Andrews wished the visit over many times before it was, no doubt.

"I will call my aunt," said Missy, "she enjoys visitors so much."

"Which is more than you do," thought Mr. Andrews as he watched her cross the room and ring a bell. But Miss Varian was long in coming.

"Don't you think Jay is growing nicely?" asked Mr. Andrews, trying to find a subject that was safe. He dared not mention Gabrielle, of course.

"Yes, he seems very well this spring. And he is a good boy, too, I think—for him, that is."

There was a certain pretty softening of her face, when she spoke of Jay, that never escaped Mr. Andrews. He liked to see it, it amused him as much as it pleased him. "Jay has made his first conquest," he thought. "This severe little lady is perfectly his slave."

"I am afraid he troubles you with his frequent visits. His nurse tells me he insists on coming very often," he said aloud.

"Oh, he never troubles me; sometimes I do not even see him. He is great friends with mamma."

"Mrs. Varian is well, I hope? I have thought very often your brother's absence must try her very much."

Most unreasonably the tears rushed into Missy's eyes at the allusion to her brother. The letter on her lap was to him, and she was rather less composed than usual.

"We bear it," she said, "as people bear what they cannot help. It was what mamma wanted for him, and so, in some ways, it seems easier to her than to me. Though of course the loss falls heaviest on her." This was more than she had ever said to any one, and she could not understand, a moment after, how she could have said it.

"It was," he said thoughtfully, "a grave step for him to take; I confess I cannot understand his motives, but, young as he is, one feels instinctively his motives are more entitled to respect than those of most men."

"I cannot respect motives that give me so much misery," she said, in a voice that trembled.

At this moment Miss Varian came in. While Mr. Andrews was speaking to her, and while the severe hands of Goneril were arranging her a seat, Missy had time to recollect how near she had been to making Mr. Andrews a confidant of her feelings about her brother. Mr. Andrews, who had broken his wife's heart; a pretty confidant. She colored high with shame and vexation. What had moved her to so foolish a step. She was losing all confidence in herself; people who habitually do what they don't mean to do, are very poor reliance. "I always mean to treat him with contempt, and I very rarely do it," she thought. "It is amazing, and a humiliation to me to recall the way in which I always begin with coldness, and end with suavity, if not with intimacy."

Pretty soon, Miss Varian began to ask what sort of a winter he had had. He said it had been very quiet and pleasant, and that spending a winter in the country had been a new experience to him.

"You must have found it very dull," she said. "I hate the country when there's nobody in it, and I wonder you could want to stay."

"But there was somebody in it," said Mr. Andrews, with a frank smile, "for me. A little boy and girl that are of more importance than kings and crowns, God bless them."

"With all my heart," said Miss Varian, "but I didn't know you were so domestic. I'm glad to be able to say, I've seen a man who would give up his club and his comfort for his children. Not but that you had some comfort here, of course. It wouldn't do to say that before Missy, who organized your cabinet for you, didn't she? How do your servants get along?"

"Very well, thank you," said Mr. Andrews uncomfortably.

"And have you taken the house for another year?" went on the speaker.

"Oh, yes, it agrees so well with the children here," answered Mr. Andrews apologetically. "I did not know where they would be any better off."

"Well, we must be grateful to them for keeping you, I suppose. I don't think you have been a very valuable neighbor so far, however. You haven't lived enough in the country to know what is expected of neighbors, perhaps."

"No, I must confess—"

"Why, neighbors in the country have a serious duty in the winter. They spend evenings very often together; they play cribbage, they bring over the evening paper; they take watches to town to be mended; they mail letters, they even carry bundles."

"I should think Mr. Andrews would give up the lease of his house if you put much more before him as his duty for next winter."

Missy said this quite loftily, having grown red and white, possibly a little yellow, since her aunt began to speak. Her loftiness, perhaps, piqued Mr. Andrews a little, for he said, turning to her:

"Hasn't a neighbor any summer duties? I hope Miss Varian will make me out a list."

"With pleasure," cried Miss Varian, scenting mischief in the air.

"My aunt's ideas of duty are individual, pray let me say," Missy put in, in not the most perfectly suave tone.

"A neighbor, in the summer," went on Miss Varian, as if she had not spoken, "a neighbor in the summer comes across after dinner, and smokes his cigar at the beach gate, if any of the family are sitting on the lawn. In rainy weather he comes over for a game of cards; occasionally he comes in time for tea; if he has a sail-boat, he takes his neighbors out sometimes to sail; he brings them peaches, the very first that come to market, and he never minds changing a book at the library in town."

"But these are all privileges; you were going to tell me about duties, were you not?"

"As to that, you may call them what you please, they are the whole duty of man in the country, and I can't see how you ever came to overlook them for such a length of time."

"You shan't be able to reproach me any more. Peaches are not in market; and my sail-boat is not out of winter quarters. But I might change a library book for a beginning. Haven't you got one that I might try my hand upon?"

"To be sure I have," said this hateful woman, with great enjoyment of her niece's anger; "I have a volume of Balzac that Goneril has just got through, under protest, and I'd like to have another, to make an utter end of her. It's my only chance of getting rid of her, and you would be a family benefactor."

"Please, let me have the book," said Mr. Andrews. "Is it this one on the table?"

"No," said Miss Varian. "I don't think it is down-stairs. Missy, ring the bell for Goneril to get it; will you?"

Missy had been sitting with her head turned away, and her lips pressed together. After her aunt spoke, she sat quite still for a moment, as if she could not bring herself to execute the order; then, without speaking, got up and walked across to the bell, and rang it, sitting down when she came back, a little further from the light, and from the two talkers.

"Missy, you've got through with the book yourself, haven't you?" said her aunt, determined to make her talk, as she was sure her voice, if she could be made to use it, would show her agitation.

That was Missy's calamity. Her voice was very sweet and pleasant; the nicest thing about her, except her feet and hands. But it was a very unmanageable gift, and it registered her emotions with unfailing accuracy. Missy might control her words, occasionally, but she could not control her voice, even occasionally. It was never shrill in anger, but it was tremulous and husky, and, in fine, angry. So now, when she answered her aunt that she had not seen the book, and did not know its name, and did not want to read it, the words were faultless, but the voice, alas, betrayed the want of harmony between aunt and niece. That Mr. Andrews had suspected since his earliest acquaintance with them.

"Oh, then, I won't keep it out for you," Miss Varian said blithely. "But, maybe you'd like Mr. Andrews to take back your Lecky; I heard you say at breakfast you had finished it. It wouldn't be much more trouble to take two than one, would it, Mr. Andrews?"

"Neither would be any trouble, but a great pleasure," said Mr. Andrews, civilly.

"Thank you; but there is no need to put it upon you. We have not left our books to chance bounty; the expressman is trusty, and takes them regularly."

"We sometimes have to wait three days!" cried Miss Varian, annoyed to have her errand look like a caprice.

"Well, I shall try to be more prompt than the expressman. Perhaps you'd better make out your list, that there may be no mistake."

"Missy, get a card, will you, and make out a list."

Missy again got up, after a moment's hesitation, looked in her desk, and got the card and pencil, and sat down as if waiting for further orders. In the meanwhile Goneril had come in, and was waiting, like a suppressed volcano, for information as to the cause of this repeated interruption of her evening's recreation. Miss Varian sent her for the book, and then said, "Missy, I wish you'd get the card."

"I have been waiting some time," said Missy.

"Well, then," said Miss Varian, pleasantly, "write out a list of Balzac, beginning with 'Les Petites MisÈres
de la Vie Conjugale'—translated, of course, for
Goneril can hardly read English, let alone French. I ought to have a French maid."

"Surely," said Missy, "if you want to read Balzac."

"I do want to read him, every line," returned her aunt. "'Les Petites MisÈres.' Well, let me see—what else haven't I read of his?"

Missy paused with her pencil suspended over the paper after she had written the name. She disdained to prompt.

"Can't you think, Missy?" said her aunt sharply.

"I can't," said Missy, quietly.

"Well, you're not often so short of words, whatever may be the cause. Mr. Andrews, I beg you won't think ill of my niece's intelligence. She is generally able to express herself. You have read ever so many of Balzac's books aloud to me, you must know their names."

"I don't recall them at this moment," returned Missy, using her pencil to make a little fiend turning a somersault, on the margin of the evening paper which lay beside her.

"Can't you help me, Mr. Andrews," said Miss Varian, a little tartly.

"I, oh, certainly," said Mr. Andrews, recalling himself from what seemed a fit of absentmindedness. "Some of the names of Balzac's books. Let me see, 'CÉsar Birotteau,' 'Le PÈre Goriot'—"

"Oh, I don't mean those. I've read all those, of course. I'd like some of the—well, some of the ones I wouldn't have been likely to have read, you know. Missy, there was one you were so horrified about, but you were fascinated too. Can't you think what it was? It occurs to me I'd like to try it again. You're not generally so stupid, or so prudish, whichever it may be." Missy's lips grew tight; she made another little fiend on the paper, before she trusted herself to answer.

"Perhaps," she said, handing the card across the table to her aunt, "you had better leave it to Mr. Andrews and the librarian. Maybe between them they can find something that will please you."

"Well, Mr. Andrews, then I'll have to leave it to you. And if you bring me something that I have read before, it will be Missy's fault, and you'll have to hold her responsible for it."

"I hope I shall be able to suit you; but in any case, I have quite a lot of French books at the house, which are at your service."

"But, you see, my maid can't read French, and so I have to have translations."

"Oh, I forgot. Well, perhaps, Miss Rothermel, some of them might suit you, if you'd let me send them in to you."

"You are very kind," said Missy. "But I have my reading laid out for two months to come, and it would be impossible for me to take up anything more."

Mr. Andrews bowed, and got up to take his leave. Miss Varian gave him the card and her hand too, and said an effusive and very neighborly good-night. Missy half rose, and bent her head, but did not offer to put out her hand.

"The caprices and the tempers of women," he thought, as he went home under the big trees and looked back at the friendly or unfriendly lights gleaming from the library window. "Their caprices and their tempers and their tongues!"

Nevertheless, he found himself speculating upon which of Balzac's books Missy had been fascinated with and horrified about. He did not like to think of her as reading Balzac, and being ashamed to own it too. He always thought of her as a "severe little lady;" she seemed to him, with all her caprice and temper, and even her sharp tongue, as the embodiment of all the domestic virtues. He had liked her face that day she came out of church, with her blind aunt on her arm, and little Jay close at her side; surely she was a good woman, if there were good women in the world. Nevertheless (as he lit his cigar), he could have wished she had a better sense of justice, and did not vent on him the anger engendered by the faults of others.

The next evening promptly upon the arrival of the carriage from the train, Eliza and Jay brought over "Les Petites MisÈres," and another of Balzac for Miss Varian from the library, and the last "Saturday Review," "Revue des Deux Mondes" and "Punch" for Miss Rothermel. Missy would not even take them off the table where her aunt had laid them down. She considered it quite humbling that he could not understand his literature had been refused. She had quite prided herself on the decision with which she had nipped in the bud that neighborliness, and here he was persistently blooming out into politeness again.

"This shall be put an end to forever," she thought. "They shall go back with their leaves uncut to-morrow, and that he cannot misconstrue."