Miriam Coles Harris

YELLOWCOATS CALLS TO INQUIRE.

The next morning, Missy managed to get away without encountering any one more formidable than Jay and the servants. Mr. Andrews probably made an intentionally late breakfast, and Gabrielle was more than willing to keep out of sight. Matters at the house she found in worse confusion than ever. The only plumber in the village was more eminent for good-nature than for skill. He doctored furnaces and ranges, cooking stoves and "air-tights," but it must be said he was more successful with the latter. Water-backs, and traps, and reservoirs had grown up since he learned his trade, but, like a good-natured creature, he put his hand to whatever was asked of him, and sometimes succeeded in patching up leaks, and sometimes didn't. He was the worst berated man in Yellowcoats, but in the greatest demand. No one's wrath lasted out the first glance of his good-humored face. He never thought of keeping his word; indeed, it would have needed a great deal of principle to do it. The one that was first, got him, whether prince or peasant, and generally found it necessary to mount guard over him till the job was finished. He was willing to work all day, and all night, irrespective of meals or sleep. Such good-nature could not fail to be rewarded, and so every one "put up" with him, and he was not supplanted.

His yesterday's work at the Varians', however, had not been a success. He had left the range in a lamentable condition; something very distressing was the matter with the water-back, and the fire could not be made. The house-cleaners were all at a loss for hot water; trusting in his promise to be on hand the first thing in the morning, they had all waited for him, without sending in to Miss Rothermel. Upon inquiry, it was found that a magnate in the horse-and-cow business, some miles distant, had come to grief in the matter of his tin roof, and had captured Mike at an early hour, and was probably even now mounting guard over him, and it was believed that no threats or entreaties would induce him to give him up till the roof was water-tight. As it was a very bad roof, and had been in Mike's hands for years, it seemed probable that nothing short of a day or two would answer for its repair. Still, several hours of Peters' time was taken up in going over to appeal to the sense of honor of the horse-and-cow man. In the meanwhile, it was deplorable to see what a motive power hot water was, and how difficult it was to get it, when once one has come to depend upon a boiler. Very little could be done except in the small matter of putting drawers and closets in order. The women sat about the kitchen and berated Mike, unable even to get a bit of dinner cooked.

At three o'clock, Peters returned to say that there was no hope. The horse-and-cow man had taken the ladder away from the roof, and declared Mike shouldn't come down till the leaks were stopped, if it took him till November. Of course the house could not be habitable till the range was in order. Missy with a groan acknowledged her fate, and decided it was meant by destiny, that she should stay at Mr. Andrews' till everybody in the village was saturated with the intelligence.

She had been away from her mother all day, and Ann had reported her as was not feeling quite so well, so at half past three o'clock, she had turned her back upon the desolation, and leaving the servants to do what little they could or would, went back to sit with her mother for the rest of the afternoon, which had turned out fine and sunny.

Mrs. Varian was suffering quietly, as usual, but was very glad to have her daughter for a little while. The room was quiet and cool, and in an easy chair by the window, Missy found a little rest. She read aloud to her mother for awhile; but there soon began to be distractions.

"Mamma, here are the Wellses going in at our gate. I hope they'll enjoy the sight of the battered steps and the trampled lawn."

"It is but civil of them to come and leave a card, at all events."

"Ah, and here goes somebody else. Who is it, with such a pretty pony phaeton, and a puny little footman, and a pug dog? It must be the Oldhams. I didn't know they had come up. Well, I hope Ann has on a respectable cap, and that the bell wires are not broken, as it seems probable all Yellowcoats will call to inquire for us to-day."

"I am sure it is very kind of Yellowcoats. Why do you speak so, Missy? You surely can't resent it."

Missy bit her lips; she had a resentment that she had never let her mother share. Yes, she did resent it. It was bitter to her to know that they were all coming, and that every one would know where they had found asylum, and that all the old story of last September would be revived. She was quite correct in thinking that all Yellowcoats was on its way there that afternoon. Ann must have had a lively time answering the bell and the questions.

It was now the third day since the fire. The second day had been a stormy one, and the sunshine seemed to have come on purpose to disseminate the gossip. Missy, from behind the blinds, watched the carriages drive in. There were Oldhams, country Oldhams and city Oldhams, a family far reaching and intricately entwined in Yellowcoats' connections. It was not safe to say anything anti-Oldham to any one in Yellowcoats, for they were related to everybody, gentle and simple, in the place. There came the Roncevalles, who had two men on the box, and were debonair and rich and easy-going. There were the Sombreros, in a heavy, not recent carriage, driven by a man who did not even hold himself straight, and who couldn't have been dragooned into a livery. But the inmates of the carriage held themselves straight, and other people had to walk straight before them. If the object of mankind is to secure the respect of its fellows, they had attained that object. People of manifold more pretension quailed before their silent disapprobation. They "rode their sure and even trot, while now the world rode by, now lagged behind." Missy felt a sharper pang of wonder what the Sombreros had heard about her, than what the people with the two men on the box, or the black ponies and the pug dog had heard; she felt that the Sombreros would never change their minds, and minds that don't change are to be held in awe. She saw them drive away with a heavier sense of apprehension than she had felt before. But they did not turn and look towards the Andrews' cottage, as the others did. Missy felt sure the two men on the box of the Roncevalles' carriage nudged each other; the two ladies in the carriage certainly did turn and look that way; very gently and decorously, but still they turned.

By and by a carriage coming out met a carriage driving in, directly before the Andrews' house. They stopped. The ladies bent eagerly forward and talked in low tones; more than one glance flashed towards the closed blinds of the widower's house. Missy's cheeks were scarlet and her breath came quick; but she was fascinated and could not look away. It was gentle Mrs. Olor and her pretty young daughters—who could dread anything from them? Stirring Mrs. Eve was just giving them the information that she had received from the waitress at the Varians' door. She was the kindest and busiest person in Yellowcoats, but she had a sense of humor, and she also was very particular about her own daughters, one of whom was with her in the carriage. Who could doubt what view she took of Miss Rothermel's aspirations? Missy watched breathlessly the faces; the mammas alone talked, the daughters listened, with smiles and rather pursed-up mouths. Superior the whole party seemed to feel themselves, as people always seem to feel when they have a little story against their neighbors, not reflecting that their own turn may come next. Missy had felt superior for twenty-seven years, though she hadn't talked more gossip than most other well-disposed and well-bred persons. Still, she had felt superior, and it was horrid to be made to feel inferior, and she bit her lips, and angry tears came up into her eyes. Her mother lay watching her silently on the bed.

"Well, Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?" she said at last, gently.

Missy forced herself to speak indifferently, "Only the Olors and the Eves. They have met just outside the gate, and are mincing us quite fine, I should judge from their animated looks."

"Well, I hope they haven't anything worse to say of us than that we've had a fire, and that the place looks sadly out of trim."

"Mamma," said Missy abruptly, as with wreathed smiles the friends parted and the carriages drove away, "what do you say to a journey this summer? I'm sadly cut up about this fire. I never shall have the heart to get things in order before autumn; I'm tired of Yellowcoats for the first time in my life, and—I want to go away."

"Go away, Missy! How could we do that? I fear I am not strong enough; and your Aunt Harriet—you know we resolved two years ago, we'd never try it again. She is so hard to please, and you remember what a trial we found the whole three months."

"It would be less of a trial than staying here. I, for one, would be glad to risk it. And as to you, I sometimes feel sure you need a change more than anything."

Mrs. Varian shook her head. "I need rest more than anything."

"Invalids always feel that, and yet see what benefit they get from journeys that they have dreaded."

"Besides," said the mother rather hesitatingly "you know there is always a chance of St. John's return."

"I didn't know," said Missy, a little coldly.

"You know as much as I do," returned her mother. "You saw his last letter. He says all depends upon his being accepted. He may come back at any time."

"Oh, as to that," cried Missy, "I think there is no danger that he will not be accepted. It would surprise me very much if he escaped. A man with a handsome income is generally found to have a vocation."

"You have been reading too much Browning and Balzac, I am afraid," said her mother with a sigh.

"I have been reading life, and hard, common sense," cried Missy. "I ought to have been prepared to find we were all to sit meekly waiting at home, while the saint of the family was on probation. It ought to be honor enough. But I admit I would like to have a voice in my sacrifices, and to make them self-denials."

"It is new to me to imagine you finding your pleasure anywhere but at home. Since you feel so about it, I am sure—"

"Oh, don't say anything more about it," cried Missy, thoroughly unhinged. "I can stay here, I suppose. I really am not quite new at doing what I don't like, even if I am only secular."

"You are tired, Missy. Now go and lie down, and don't think anything more about this matter. When we are both fresher, we will talk it over, and you shall decide what shall be done."

At half-past five o'clock she got up, and dressed carefully for dinner, bracing herself for the ordeal with much philosophy. At dinner, she found her philosophy quite superfluous, for Mr. Andrews did not make his appearance, and Gabby scarcely lifted her eyes from her plate. This young person had been awake the night before, and an attentive listener to the conversation between her father and Missy, and it had naturally made a profound impression on her. It is difficult to say why Missy felt annoyed that Mr. Andrews did not come to dinner. She ought to have felt relieved; but on the contrary, she felt vexed. It is always disagreeable not to act your part when you have rehearsed it, and feel well up in it. But it was a great vexation to her to think that she was keeping him from his own dinner-table by reason of that unpleasant speech of the night before. She had only realized that he wasn't at breakfast at the time, with a sense of relief. She now remembered it with a sensation of chagrin. Also, she recalled his pallor and weariness of expression last night, which in her misery about herself, she had forgotten. It was possible he was really suffering to-day. It was only three days since he had met with a serious accident, all in their service.

"How is Mr. Andrews feeling to-day?" she asked of the waitress.

"Not quite so well, Miss, I think."

"Has he kept his room?"

"Oh, no, Miss, but he doesn't seem to have much appetite, and I believe the doctor told him he mustn't think of going to town for several days yet. He had been telling the doctor he was going down, and would stay away perhaps a week, and promised to keep very quiet there. But the doctor wouldn't hear of it, and said the hot weather might come on suddenly, and make him very sick, and besides, he wasn't fit to bear the journey."

Missy was quite chagrined by this information. Mr. Andrews had felt so constrained and uncomfortable in his own house, he could not bear it any longer. Or else he had so honorably desired to put her at her ease while she had to stay, that he had wanted to go away. Either view of the case was bad enough; but it was undeniably an awkward situation, and if he persisted in keeping away from the table for another meal, she should feel that it was unendurable, and they must go away, range or no range, order or disorder.

Jay followed her from the table, clinging to her skirts. She went directly to her mother, where the child's prattle covered her absent-minded silence.

It was a lovely June evening, fresh after the rain of yesterday, and she sat by the window watching the pink clouds fade into gray, and the twilight make its way over the fields and roadside. Jay babbled his innocent babble to inattentive ears; by and by he grew sleepy. Eliza came, and he was sent away.

It was about half-past eight, when the servant came up, and said that there was a person below who wished to see Mrs. or Miss Varian. Missy struck a match and looked at the card. It was the agent of the insurance company, in which the house had been insured.

"Why could he not come in the daytime! I absolutely can't talk business to-night."

The servant explained that he came up by the evening train, had been at the house, and was to go away by an early train in the morning.

There was no help for it; Missy dismissed the pink clouds and the soft creeping twilight and her thoughts, and went down stairs to the parlor. The room was lighted only by a lamp which stood on the table in the middle of it, by which the agent sat. He was a trim, dapper, middle-aged man, not at all aware that he was not a gentleman, and very sharp about business matters, while he was affable and explanatory, as became a business man dealing with a young lady. His manner annoyed Missy, who would have got on much better if he had been simply business-like. She knew he had the better of her in his knowledge of matters, and her memory was very unusually faulty about the things she ought to have remembered. The papers were all in her room at home, and for aught she knew, had been lost or destroyed when that room was torn to pieces to save it from the flames. She certainly had not been wise enough to think of looking for them since the fire occurred.

"You will have to come again," she said; "I really am not prepared to-night to talk it over."

He seemed disposed to take advantage of this, and rather pressed an immediate decision on some question.

It was not till this moment that Missy knew that Mr. Andrews was in the room. He was lying on a sofa in a corner, and a screen stood before him, shielding him from the light.

"Mr. Andrews, I beg your pardon," she said, getting up. "I am afraid we are disturbing you. I didn't know you were here. We will go into the dining-room if this gentleman has anything more to say."

"I don't think he has," said Mr. Andrews, raising himself a little on his elbow. "Don't think of going to the dining-room, or of discussing the matter further, for I am sure you are too tired to-night. Perhaps I can attend to the matter for you."

An inquiring look towards the agent had a very salutary effect upon him. It was quite amazing to notice how his manner changed when he found he had a man to deal with. Missy sat by humbled, while she listened to their talk.

Why couldn't she have been business-like? Why couldn't she have said what Mr. Andrews was saying, without "losing her head," and getting nervous? It was her affair, and she certainly ought to know more about it than he did.

When the man was fairly out of the door, she gave a sigh, and said:

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Andrews, for helping me out of it."

"I think the man is rather a sharper, and I'm afraid you are not a business woman, Miss Rothermel."

"I am afraid not; and I always meant to be."

Then there was a pause. Mr. Andrews laid his head back on the pillow of the sofa, and seemed not to have anything more to say. Missy had a great deal to say, but she didn't know where to begin. She was full of contrition and purposes of amendment; but the situation was most embarrassing, and Mr. Andrews was not inclined to help her. Time pressed. It was insupportable to sit still by the lamp, and not say anything. Mr. Andrews was lying down, too. What if any one should come in, and find her sitting there, entertaining him? She wished for Aunt Harriet—for any one; but she must say her say; and she rushed at it.

"I am afraid," she said, in a voice that showed agitation, "I am afraid you are not so well to-day, Mr. Andrews."

"I have had an uncomfortable day; but I don't suppose I am materially worse—at least the doctor doesn't tell me so."

Then another pause. Certainly he did not mean to help her.

"I am afraid," she said, getting up, and laying down upon the table the paper-cutter that she had been turning and twisting in her fingers, "I am afraid our being here makes you very uncomfortable. And it ought to be just the other way. We are so much indebted to you! You have been so good—and—and—"

She made a step toward him, and standing behind the screen in front of his sofa, which came up to her waist, leaned on it for a moment, looking down—then said, "I don't know how to express it, exactly; I hope you'll understand. I know I haven't behaved well about—about—things—but I suppose I had some excuse. It is so hard to remember one's own insignificance, and to think only about other people! I have thought of no one's discomforts or miseries but my own. I haven't been nice at all; I've been horrid. I never should have believed it of myself. At my age it seems so paltry and undignified to be minding what people may say or think, if only you know you're doing right. I have resolved I will never let it come into my mind again, nor affect my conduct in any way. And I hope you will excuse my rudeness, and the discomfort I have caused you, and will let me make up for it in some way, while we stay with you."

He lay looking at her as she stood behind the screen, leaning a little toward him on her folded arms. The only light in the room was behind her, shining through her fair, fine hair, now in a little curling disorder; all her face was in shadow. It is possible she looked to the lonely man almost a "blessed damosel," leaning to him out of Heaven.

"You have made up for it," he said, "very fully. I hope we shall always be friends, if you will let me."

"It shan't be my fault if we are not," she said. Then, hurriedly saying good-night, she went away. There was a clock in the hall, which struck nine as she passed it. It had a peculiar tone, and she never could forget it. It had been striking as she passed it on the gloomy morning last summer, when she had hurried to that fearful death-bed.

It gave her a pang to hear it now. It seemed sharply to accuse her of something. It recalled to her all her prejudices, all her resolutions. It brought to her mind his manner when she had told him of his wife's death, his absence of feeling in all the days that followed. It revived his banishing the mother's memory from the children's minds; his ready purpose to send away her favorite Gabrielle. And then she thought of what she had just been saying—of what he had just said, and in what an earnest way! Her face burned at the recollection.

"Am I never to have any peace in this tiresome matter," she said to herself as she shut herself into her room. "I will not think of it any more, while I am obliged to remain in this house. I will honestly do all I can to make things comfortable; he has done enough to make that proper. Afterwards I will keep my promise by being kind to the children, and by really serving them when it is in my power. It does not involve me in any intimacy with him. You can stand a person's friend, and not see him once a year. I will never do anything to injure or annoy him. That is being an honest friend, as we are bidden to be, even to our enemies. I have put myself and my pride away. I will do all I can to forward the comfort and pleasure of every one in the house, and there is the end of it."