Miriam Coles Harris

ALPHONSINE.

For the second day, the only visitors from the cottage were Jay and Eliza. Gabby only looked askance at the house, from over the arbor vitÆ hedge; it was a foregone conclusion they would not be troubled much by her. Mr. Andrews had now begun his daily journeys to town. Though still obliged to wear his arm in a sling, he was quite able to go to business. No doubt he had there some clerk who could write letters for him as well as Missy, though it is just possible he found it more amusing to have her do it.

June was now in full reign. If Yellowcoats were not perfect to the senses now, it never would be. The days were so long, the nights so soft and moonlit, the air, night and day, so full of fragrance. The ladies sat late on the lawn, by the beach gate. Even Mrs. Varian had ventured to come down, leaning on her daughter's arm, and sit, carefully wrapped, and with a rug spread over the grass, to watch the beauty of the sunset. The second evening after their exodus from his roof, Mr. Andrews found them so sitting, as he strolled down to the beach after dinner. The dinner had been good, the wine had been good, his cigar was good; but there was an indefinite something wanted, a flavor of companionship and human interest. He looked longingly over the hedge; he wondered if Miss Rothermel would remember how angry she had been, when Miss Varian told him, it was one of his duties to his neighbor, to come and smoke an after-dinner cigar on the lawn. He was quite interested in this speculation—how good was Miss Rothermel's memory? Sometimes he thought it very strong, sometimes he wondered at its non-existence. As he never forgot anything himself, and generally did what he meant to do, Missy was naturally a puzzle to him. She evidently had forgotten about the observation of Miss Varian, for she looked up with a very pleasant smile, when the grating of the beach gate on its hinges, caused her to turn her head. She pulled forward upon the rug a chair which had been standing beside her with books and a shawl upon it. These she put on the bench at her feet, and Mr. Andrews took the chair.

"You are sitting with your back to the sunset," she said, after the subsiding of the froth of welcoming talk among the little party.

"Well, so are you," he said.

"But I have a reason, and you haven't."

"No reason, except that you put my chair just where it is, and I didn't dare to move it."

Missy frowned; it reminded her that she had heard it stated by this gentleman, that he was afraid of her.

"A plague upon it, what have I said now," he thought.

"I am watching that boat," went on Miss Rothermel, letting drop his remark about the chair, as if it had not been worth answering. "Do you see how she is shilly-shallying there in the mouth of the harbor? There is a good breeze to bring her in, and she will lose it, if she doesn't look out. A little while ago she ran in—crept along the Neck a way, then stood out again, and now, nobody can guess what she means to do, except that she evidently doesn't want to go away. I have been watching her since five o'clock."

"Whose boat is it?" asked Mr. Andrews. "Does she belong about here?"

"No, I am sure not; I think I know all the boats that belong in the harbor, and she has an odd, unfamiliar look."

"Let's have a look at her through my glass," said Mr. Andrews; and he got up and went back to his boat-house, returning with a telescope. "This will show us the whites of our enemy's eyes," he said, adjusting it on its stand, by the beach gate. Missy got up eagerly, and went up to it. It was some moments before she got it fitted to her eye, and then a moment more before she found her craft.

"Ah! here she is," she cried. "It's a capital glass. It's almost like boarding her; it really is uncanny. There is a woman on board, and two men; and see—they have a glass! And—well, I could affirm they are looking at us. See, see, Mr. Andrews! Oh, what a funny effect! It is as if we were staring at each other across a parquet."

"Well," said Mr. Andrews, taking her place at the glass, "it is as if the opposite box didn't like being stared at, and were pulling down their curtains, and putting their fans before their faces. Upon my word, they have gone about, and are getting out of reach of our glass, just as fast as they can."

All the party were now as much interested as Missy had been. Miss Varian clamored to be told exactly what course the little vessel took; Goneril, who happened to be behind her chair, had some unnecessary comment to offer. Mrs. Varian even watched her breathlessly.

"It is very odd," said Missy; "from the moment we put up the glass, they made off. Look! they are half way across to Cooper's Bluff. In five minutes they will be out of sight."

It was quite true. In less than five minutes the little sail had shot out of range of the glasses and eyes upon the Varian lawn, and all that could follow it was very vague conjecture. It occupied the thoughts of the little party till the sunset took its place, and then, the apprehension of dew and dampness for Mrs. Varian, and then the moving up to the house. Mr. Andrews carried some shawls and a book or two, and stopped at the door of the summer parlor, as the others went in. He consented, not reluctantly by any means, to go in with them.

"For I assure you," he said, as he entered, "I find it quite dismal at home since you all went away."

Miss Varian seemed to take this as a personal tribute, and made her thanks. "I had supposed," she added, "that Jay was the only one who felt it very much; but I'm glad to know you shared his amiable sentiments."

"By the way, where is he to-night?" asked Missy, putting a shade on the lamp.

"The children were bribed to go to bed very early to-night. Eliza asked permission to go home this evening, and stay till morning; and so, I suppose, they were persuaded to be sleepy early to suit her."

Late that evening, as Missy looked out, before shutting her window for the night, she thought again of the little vessel that had excited her curiosity. She rather wondered that she had bestowed so much speculation upon it; but again, when she awoke in the night, she found herself thinking of it, and wondering how there happened to be a woman in the party. Oystermen and fishermen do not burden themselves with women when they go out into the Sound; and this little vessel had not the look of a pleasure boat. She had rather a restless night, waking again and again; she heard all sorts of sounds. Once the dog at the barn began to bark, but stopped shortly after one sharp snarl. At another time, she was so sure she heard a noise upon the beach, that she got up and opened the window and looked out. The night was dark—no moon, and but faint light of stars. A light fog had gathered over the water. She listened long; at one moment she was certain she heard the voice of a child, crying; but it was only once, and for the space of a moment. And then all was silent. The wind among the trees, and the washing of the tide upon the shore she still could hear, but could hear nothing else. She went back to bed, feeling ashamed of herself. It was like Aunt Harriet, who heard robbers and assassins all night long, and called up Goneril to listen, whenever a bough swayed against a neighboring bough, or a nut dropped from a tree.

"At any rate, I won't tell of it at breakfast," thought the young lady, determinately, putting her face down on her pillow. By and by she started up, not having been able to soothe herself, and get asleep. That was not imagination, whatever the child's cry and the dog's bark had been. There was a sound of oars, growing gradually fainter as she listened. Well, why shouldn't there be? Men often had to go off to their sloops, to be ready for an early start when the wind served; maybe it was almost daybreak. But no, as she reasoned, the clock struck two. On such a dark night, it was unusual, at such an hour as this, for any one to be rowing out from shore. If there had been a man in the house, she would have risked ridicule, and roused him to go out and see that all was right. But the men slept at the stable—there was absurdity, and a little impropriety, in her going out alone at such an hour to call the men. It would rouse Mrs. Varian, no doubt, and give her a sleepless night. And as for Miss Varian, it would furnish her a weapon which would never wear out, if, as was probable, nothing should be found out of order about the place, or on the beach. No one likes to be laughed at; no one less than Miss Rothermel. She shut the window again, and resolutely lay down to sleep. But sleep refused to come. It is impossible to say what she feared; but she seemed to have entered into a cloud of apprehension, vague as it was bewildering. It was useless to reason with herself, she was simply frightened, and she should never dare to scorn Aunt Harriet again. Was this the way the poor woman felt every night after the household were all at rest? Well, it was very unpleasant, and she wasn't to be blamed for waking Goneril; if Missy hadn't been ashamed, she'd have waked somebody.

It was not till dawn fairly came that she was able to go to sleep. From this sleep she was confusedly wakened by a hurried knock at her door. The sun was streaming into the room. She felt as if she hadn't been asleep at all, and yet the misgivings of the night seemed endlessly far off in time.

"Well, what is it?" she answered, sitting up and pushing back her pillow, and feeling rather cross, it must be said.

"They've sent over from the other house to know if Jay is here," said the waitress, out of breath, showing she had run up-stairs very fast.

"Here!" cried Missy, springing to the door and opening it. "How should he be here? Do you mean to say they cannot find him?"

"Oh," gasped Ann, putting both hands on her heart, "Eliza's in a dreadful way. She's just got in from spending the night at home, and went up to the nursery to dress the children, and opened the door softly, and there was Jay's crib empty, but Gabby sound asleep."

"He'd gone into his father's room, no doubt," said Missy, pale and trembling.

"No," cried the woman, "she ran right off to Mr. Andrews' door, and he called out the child wasn't there, and in a terrible fright, she came over here. When I told her no, I knew he wasn't, she flew back."

"Go there, quick, and tell me if they find him in the kitchen or dining-room; maybe he missed Eliza and crept down-stairs and fell asleep on the sofa in the parlor."

This mission suited Ann exactly; she ran as her mistress bade her, but failed to come back with news. Missy dressed in a moment of time. She saw it all; she knew what she had heard in the night; she knew what the boat had meant hovering about the harbor, shooting out of sight. She knew what was the explanation of the fire, for which no one had ever been able satisfactorily to account. She began to realize what it was to have an enemy. The thought of that child's cry, so suddenly smothered last night, sent a pang through her. She scarcely knew how she got her clothes on; her hands shook as with an ague. When it came to opening the front door to let herself out she found they were as weak as if she had had a fever. Half-way across the lawn she met Ann, who shook her head and wrung her hands, and turned back, and followed her. Ann liked to be in the proscenium box when there was a tragedy on the boards; it would be dull laying the breakfast table when all this excitement was going on next door (though a trifle more useful). She ran after her mistress, who did not stop till she reached the gate that led into the Andrews' yard. There she found herself face to face with Mr. Andrews, who had come hurriedly down the path with the confused air of one who had been waked from sleep by a sudden and stunning blow.

"What does it mean," he said to her, as she came into the gate.

"You haven't found him?" she said, as they went together towards the house. "Where are his clothes—what has been taken—what doors were open?"

"His clothes are left—only a blanket from the bed is missing—no doors were open—a ladder was against the nursery window. I am bewildered. I don't know what it means at all."

"It means Alphonsine," cried Missy, leaning against the door for support. "It means revenge and a reward. The boat we watched last night—the sounds I heard in the night—ah, ah, don't let us waste a moment. It was two o'clock when I heard the sound of oars—it is seven now—and a good breeze blowing. Oh, my poor little Jay, where have they got you by this time!"

"You suspect that woman," said the father, "that I sent away last autumn? But what motive—what provocation—what could have prompted such an act? I confess I cannot follow you—"

"Believe me, and don't waste a moment," cried Missy. "Rouse the village, ring the bells, get out your boat, send for the Roncevalles, telegraph to town to the police. The Roncevalles will take their yacht, she came in yesterday—you know she's fast. Why do you look so doubtful? Mr. Andrews, I love him as well as you do. I am sorry for you, but I shall hate you if you are not quick. Every moment that you doubt me is a moment lost. Jay is in the hands of wicked people. You will never see him again, if you are not prompt. Those creatures have stolen him—they will board some French ship outward bound; don't look for motive—they know you have money—they want revenge for being sent away. Oh, my little boy! What have I brought upon you!"

And with a burst of tears, Missy hid her face. The poor man groaned and turned away. He walked to the door and back, as if trying to steady his brain and to think.

Missy recovered herself in a moment, and making a step forward, with a passionate gesture of the hands, "Do something," she cried. "Do not, do not waste a moment."

Then, seeing he still had not admitted her theory, but was weighing it with a troubled mind, she exclaimed, "Send in a hundred different directions if you will, but send my way first. You have no other plan follow mine till something better comes before you; it is better to be doing something than nothing."

"You are right," he said, with sudden resolution, starting towards the library door—"Send a woman over to Captain Perkins; tell Michael to saddle Jenny."

From that moment there was no lack of speed in carrying on the search. In half an hour, the bells were ringing in the village steeples; the telegraph wire was talking hotly into the Police Headquarters of the city; men and boys were swarming on the beach. The good yacht Ilia, which had loafed in yesterday, with no intention but to spend a few hours in harbor, was ready at a moment's warning. In a hasty conclave of half a dozen gentlemen, it had been decided that Miss Rothermel's suspicions were quite worth acting upon, faute de mieux. There were others who had seen the mysterious little craft; and one man who had come upon a foreign-looking group encamped upon a lonely point of the Neck, the day before. There were two men and a woman in the party, and they had evidently shunned observation. There were foot-marks upon the sand, a little below the Andrews' boat-house, and a track that the keel of a boat had made when pushed off, in the falling tide. It was more than probable that the child had been stolen with a view to the largest reward, and that the matter had been well arranged; and Miss Rothermel's idea, that out on the Sound some homeward-bound French ship was expected to come along, which would take them on board, and put them beyond reach of pursuit for many weeks at least, found favor. There was, of course, a possibility of their having failed to meet their ship, or of their not having such a plan; and all the neighborhood of the Necks, and the shores along the Sound must be instantly searched; it was even possible that their plan had been to secrete him in the city. Jay had been a well-known and rather favorite little person in the neighborhood—Mr. Andrews was understood to be rich—the people were naturally kind-hearted—the occurrence was quite beyond the ordinary; in short, it was a day unparalleled in Yellowcoats for excited feeling. Men were scouring the woods on horseback and on foot, and patrolling the shores in boats; mothers were leaving, equally, wash-tubs and piano-fortes, to hug closer their own children and mourn over the dangers of poor Jay, and listen for the latest news. People drove aimlessly about from house to house; all day long there were groups on the steamboat wharf, and along the shore that led to Mr. Andrews' house; the telegraph office was besieged. Little work was done. I almost think there was no dinner cooked in more houses than the Andrews' and the Varians'.

When the Ilia sailed gallantly out of the mouth of the harbor, the foremost and fastest of all the pursuing craft, people cheered and wept, and prayed for the continuance of the stiff breeze that had been blowing since day-break. But the stiff breeze was a two-edged sword that cut both ways; while it helped the pursuers, it helped the pursued.

At first, it was decided Mr. Andrews should not go on the yacht, but should be on the spot to direct, and order the search in different quarters. A hastily sworn-in officer was taken on board, and several gentlemen who had full authority to act for him. But when the last boat load was about to push off, a certain fierce impatience seemed to seize him. He had taken up Missy's theory, it seemed, at last, and felt that he could not let them go without him. He signalled them to wait, and hurried across the lawn to Missy, who stood with a rigid face, watching the vessel's sails filling with the breeze.

"I believe I'm going with them," he said, "there is nothing I can do here. If anything comes up, you will decide. The fact is, I can't stand it, all day in suspense."

"Then don't keep the boat waiting," said Missy, with ungraciousness. The truth was, she wanted to go so wildly herself, she hated him for being able to do what she could not. What was the suspense more to him than to her, she thought. She must count all these dreadful hours at home, while he could feel he was nearer, every moment, to some certainty, good or bad, which must be so many hours further off from her. In a moment more he had sprung aboard the little boat, and they were off.

All this while Gabrielle had been wandering about, silent and eager. At first she had been questioned, with few results, as to her knowledge of the events of the night. She had denied, generally, having been awake or knowing anything till Eliza had waked her up in her fright at finding Jay's crib empty. Then, in the hurry and panic, she had dropped out of notice. Missy found her standing beside her on the lawn, watching the boat go off. A sudden doubt came into Missy's mind as she saw the child's keen, silent face.

"What was Alphonsine's last name?" she said to her, without preface.

"Gatineau," she answered, promptly.

"When did you see her last?" she asked, looking at her narrowly.

"I—I—don't know—" faltered the child, turning her eyes away.

"Yes, you do know, Gabby," said Missy, firmly. "Tell me quickly. Did you see her yesterday?"

"I promised not to tell," returned the child, faintly.

"Come into the house with me," said Missy, taking her by the hand with no uncertain grasp. "I want to talk to you about all this."

There were groups of people upon the lawn, and Missy felt afraid to trust herself to talk before them, afraid, also, that the presence of strangers would weaken her power over the child, who followed her unwillingly into the house. When there, she shut the door upon them, and sat down, drawing Gabrielle towards her.

"We all feel very unhappy about your little brother," she said, looking directly into the oblique eyes of Gabrielle; "this is a terrible day for your father and for us all."

"They won't hurt him," faltered the child, uneasily.

"They say they won't, but they may. They tell lies, those French people. Alphonsine told lots of lies when she was here. We can't believe her, even if she says she won't hurt Jay."

"I know she won't," said Gabrielle.

"We'd give anything to get him back," said Missy. "Tell me all that happened; you shall not be punished."

"I promised not," said the child, looking down, and glancing towards the clock uncomfortably. Missy caught the direction of her glance.

"Why do you look at the clock?" she asked.

Gabrielle hung her head lower than before, and looked convicted.

"When did she tell you you might tell?" demanded Missy, with keen sagacity.

"Not till after ten o'clock," murmured the girl.

Missy's heart sank; it was just forty-five minutes past eight o'clock. They had felt sure of safety if the child could be kept silent for that length of time, and had no doubt set an outside limit to her silence.

"You are quite right," said Missy, "in not breaking your promise. I suppose she thought you would be punished to make you tell, and she told you you must hold out till ten?"

Gabrielle nodded, perplexed at this reading of her mind.

"Always keep your word, even to wicked people," said Missy, getting up and smoothing out some papers that were lying open on the table. "You know I think Alphonsine is a wicked woman, but you must keep your word to her all the same, you know."

Gabrielle was quite reassured by this, and drew a freer breath.

"She told me I might tell after ten o'clock if I couldn't help it, and she'd give me—the—the—"

"I understand," said Missy, "the reward she offered. Well, now, I'll go and see about some things up-stairs, and you can come with me and put my ribbon box in order. And at ten o'clock I'll call you to come and tell me all about it."

Gabrielle brightened. She had rarely had access to Missy's sashes and ribbons; she longed to get at them, even at this agitated moment. While she was shut in Missy's room in this congenial occupation, Missy went down stairs and rapidly turned forward an hour the hands of the hall and parlor clocks; then waiting fifteen minutes in breathless suspense, called up to Gabrielle to come to her. She was sure the child would not have any correct estimate of time, and saw her glance without surprise at the clock on the mantelpiece, which pointed at ten.

"Now, I suppose you may tell me all about it," she said, trying to speak very indifferently. "Tell me when you first saw Alphonsine."

"Day before yesterday," she said. "After dinner, when papa had taken Jay to drive, and left me all alone."

"Oh, where were you?"

"I was down on the beach below the cedars. I heard somebody call me softly up on the bank, and I looked up and saw Alphonsine beckoning to me. So I went up, and she took me behind the bushes and talked to me."

There was a long pause.

"Well," said Missy, trying to smooth out her voice as she smoothed out the creases in a piece of work she had in her hand. "Well, what did she say?"

"I don't know," murmured Gabby, getting uneasy, and twisting around on her heels, and getting out of range of her interlocutor's eyes. "I don't know—all sorts of things."

"Oh, I suppose she talked about me, and asked whether your papa came to our house often, and all that."

Gabby gave her a doubtful, sharp look.

"Ye—es," she said.

"And you told her about that, and then she said—?"

Gabby, relieved to have this most delicate part of the conversation so passed over, went on to state that Alphonsine had coaxed her to tell her all about Eliza, the nurse, and when Eliza went out, and all about the ways of the other servants in the house. And when she knew that Eliza was going out to stay away till morning, the next night, she had told Gabby she had a great secret to tell her, and made her promise to keep it. She then told her, Jay was the cause of all her (Gabrielle's) trouble, and that if he went away she wouldn't be snubbed so, and her papa would give her plenty of money and buy jewelry for her, instead of laying it all up, as he did now, for Jay. This part of her communication Gabby made with much shame-facedness, and many oblique looks at her companion. This latter was discreet, however, and helped the narrative on with many little questions which took off the edge of its badness. Gabby admitted that Alphonsine had given her a ring at this stage of the interview, and that she had said she was going to give her something else, if she did what she asked of her. Then she said she had been getting married to a German sea-captain, who was rich, and wanted a little boy. And she liked Jay, and was going to see if she couldn't get Jay to come away and live with her. But, of course, Jay mustn't know anything about it, for he was so little he would tell it all to his papa, and that would spoil everything. She would come that next night, after Eliza had gone out, and talk to Jay herself about it. But Gabby must promise to get up softly as soon as Eliza went away, and unfasten the window that opened on the shed, if it should be shut, and also promise to lie quite still, and not speak till she was spoken to, if she heard her come. Then, at that visit, she would bring her a locket and a fine sash, which she had bought for her. And then, with many flattering words, she sent her away, staying herself till some one came for her in a boat, she said.

All the next day, Gabrielle felt very important, having this secret, and knowing what a visitor they were going to have in the night. She watched Eliza go off that evening with much satisfaction. It grew dark, and very soon Jay was fast asleep, and she got up and opened the window, and there lay awake and waited for Alphonsine. Hours passed. She heard her father come in and go to his room, and all the house shut up. Then she thought Alphonsine wasn't coming, and had been laughing at her. So she went to sleep at last and didn't know anything more till she heard Jay make a cry, and then heard somebody hush him up and put something over his mouth. She sat up in bed and saw, by a light put in one corner, and shaded, that Alphonsine had Jay in her arms, bundled up in a blanket, and that somebody was waiting half-way in at the window. This was a man, Gabrielle knew when she saw Alphonsine hurry to the window and put Jay in his arms, for he spoke German in a low, hoarse, man's voice. She was frightened at seeing Jay taken away out into the darkness in a strange man's arms, and she began to cry. Alphonsine uttered a bad word, and told the man to go on, she must settle this stupid. She spoke in German, but Gabrielle knew German. Then she came back to Gabrielle, and was very coaxing, thrusting into her hand the package she had promised, but telling her she had a pair of bracelets that matched the locket, that she had meant to bring her, but would send her, if she held her tongue until after ten in the morning.

"No matter what they do to you," she said, "hold your tongue till then, and you will never need be sorry. I shall know, for I have somebody here that tells me all about what's going on. And if I hear you haven't told, you'll have your bracelets by express on Thursday. You see I keep my promise; look at the locket, and see if it isn't beautiful, and the bracelets are worth ten of it."

Then, with hurried words of caution, she left her—only looking back to say, "Tell Madamoiselle next door if she finds out I have been here, that I have not forgotten her. I would do a good deal for the love of her."

The window Gabrielle closed, because she was a little afraid, but the lamp she put out in obedience to Alphonsine's injunction, after she had looked at the locket, which was very big, and very gay with garnets. The sash, too, was quite magnificent, showing that Alphonsine was playing for high stakes. She had wrapped these two treasures up, and, together with the ring, they were tightly concealed in the bosom of her dress. She had not had time to admire them as they deserved, not having dared to bring them out till she should be alone. Now, however, she yielded very willingly to Missy's invitation to unbutton her dress, and brought them to the light. Missy took them with trembling hands; they were the price of blood, and she almost shuddered at the touch of the little monster who pressed close to her to gaze with delight upon her treasures. Not one word in the narrative had indicated remorse, or sorrow for being parted from her little brother. The servants, and the children in the street, seemed to have more feeling. After Missy had looked at the showy French locket, she unwrapped the sash, thinking, as she did so, how much reliance could be placed on the woman's statement that she was married to a German sea-captain. The paper in which the sash was wrapped first she had not noticed. The inner paper was a plain white one. Some writing on the outer paper, which had been loosely wrapt round the parcel, caught her eye. It was a part of a bill of lading of the Hamburg barque Frances, bound to Valparaiso, and it bore date three days back, and was signed by G.A. Reitzel, captain. Alphonsine had not meant to leave this trace; in her hurry, perhaps, she had pulled this paper out of her pocket with the package. Gabrielle said it had not been wrapped around it, but had been with it when in the hurry and the darkness she had thrust it into her hand. Missy sprang up in haste. This was an important clew. How should she get the news to the Ilia? She left the astonished Gabrielle and flew down stairs. One or two gentlemen were on the beach below the house, talking, and scanning the harbor with glasses. She ran down to them and communicated her news. It might make all the difference, they said, and they estimated its importance as highly as she did. It was of the greatest moment that they should be warned to look for a German barque and not a French one; besides the difference of the course she would take for Valparaiso if she got out to sea before they overhauled her. Missy shivered.

"Don't talk of that," she said. "The suspense would be unbearable. I look for them back to-night."

The elder of the gentlemen shook his head. "You must remember they had nearly seven hours the start of us," he said, "and a good stiff breeze since daybreak."

"But the delays," said Missy, "and the uncertainty of coming up with the vessel at the right moment. I count on their losing hours in that."

"But then," returned the other, "the woman must have had good assurance of their arrangements to have taken the embargo off the child at ten."

"How shall we overtake them and get this news to them?" asked Missy, finding speculation very tiresome which did not lead up to this. No one could suggest an answer. The Ilia was the quickest vessel anywhere about, and it would be an impossibility to overtake her.

"Can't you telegraph to some station a few miles further down the Sound than she can yet be, and tell them to send out a boat and watch for her, and board her with the message?" said Missy. This was finally decided on, and carried out with some variations.

About two o'clock, a message was received that the Ilia had been boarded, and was in possession of the intelligence. She had evidently sighted no Hamburg bark, or she would have sent back word to that effect, nor had she made quite as good time as they had hoped she would. The wind was slackening, and varying from one quarter to another. It would not hold out much longer, every one agreed in thinking. And so the afternoon wore on. Some of the gentlemen went in to the Varians and got a glass of wine and some lunch in the dining-room. Others drove away and came back again. Always there were two or three on the lawn, and some one was always at the glass by the beach gate.

Missy shut herself into her own room. Even her mother's sympathy was no help. She wanted to be let alone; the suspense was telling on her nerves. She had hardly eaten at all, and there had scarcely been a moment till now, that she had not been using her wits in the most active way. Poor wits; they felt as if they were near a revolt. But what could she do with them for the hours that remained, before a word, good or bad, could come from the slim little yacht and her gallant crew? Hours, she talked about. She well knew it might be days. One of the gentlemen on the lawn had said, of course she would return if by midnight they had met with no success; they were not provisioned for a cruise; and at best would never think of going out to sea. This gentleman was elderly, and had a son on board the Ilia. Missy scorned his opinion—now that Mr. Andrews had gone, there would be no turning back. She did not say anything, but she felt quite safe, provisions or no provisions. The day did wear away—as all days do.

Evensong, however, brought its own additions to the misery. If it were hard to think of the betrayed child, alone with such cruel keepers, when the sun shone, and the waves danced blue and white, it was little short of maddening when the twilight thickened, and the long day died, and the thick, starless night set in. Missy could not stay in the house after dark; it seemed to her insupportable to be within four walls. She paced the beach below the lawn, or sat under shelter of the boat-house, and watched the bonfire which the men had made a few feet off, and which sent a red light out a little way upon the black waters.

A little way, alas, how little a way! Missy's eyes were always strained eagerly out into the darkness beyond; her ears were always listening for something more than the lonely sounds she heard. It seemed to her that it would be intolerable to watch out these hours of darkness and silence; she must penetrate them. She felt as if her solicitude and wretchedness would be half gone if the night were lifted, and the day come again. Ten o'clock struck—eleven—the outsiders, one by one, dropped off. There were left two or three men who had been hired by some of the gentlemen to watch the night out by the bonfire; Mr. Andrews' own man, the Varians' man, and Missy and Goneril. Eliza, the nurse, worn out and useless, had gone to bed. Of course, Ann was expended, and no one but Goneril had nerve and strength left to be of any service. She had a real affection for the little boy, with all her ungraciousness, and felt, with Missy, that the house was suffocating, and sleep impossible. She had got Miss Varian into her bed, and then told her she must fight her burglars by herself, for Miss Rothermel needed her more than she. This put Miss Varian in a rage, but Goneril did not stop to listen. She went to Mrs. Varian's room, and soothed her by taking down warm wraps for Missy, and promising to stay by her till she consented to come up and go to bed. She also carried down coffee and biscuits to the men, and made Missy drink some, and lie down a little while inside the boat-house door. It was surprising how invaluable Goneril was in time of trouble, and how intolerable in hours of ease.

Midnight passed, and in the cold, dreary hours between that and dawn, poor Missy's strength and courage ebbed low. She was chilled and ill; her fancy had been drawing such dreadful pictures for her they were having the same effect upon her as realities. She felt quite sure that the child never would be restored to them; that even now, perhaps, his life was in danger from the violent temper of the wicked woman in whose hands he was; that if she found herself near being thwarted in her object, she was quite capable of killing him. Her temper was violent, even outstripping her cunning and malice. Poor little boy! how terrified and lonely he would be, shut down, perhaps, in some dark hole in the ship. "I want you, Missy! I want you, Missy!" he had cried, heartbroken, in the darkness of his own nursery. What would be his terror in the darkness of that foreign ship. She felt such a horror of her own thoughts that she tried to sleep; failing that, she made Goneril talk to her, till the talking was intolerable.

The men around the fire smoked and dozed, or chatted in low tones; the wind, which had come up again, made a wailing noise in the trees, the rising tide washed monotonously over the pebbles; a bird now and then twittered a sharp note of wonder at the untimely light of the fire upon the beach. These were the only sounds; the night was unusually dark; a damp mist shut out the stars, and there was no moon.

It was just two o'clock; Missy had bent down for the fiftieth time to look at her watch by the light of the bonfire; Goneril, silent and stern, was sitting with her hands clasped around her knees, on the boat-house floor, when a sudden sound broke the stillness, a gun from the yacht as she rounded into the harbor. The two women sprang to their feet, and Missy clutched Goneril's arm.

"If those milk-sops have come back without him," said the latter between her teeth, answering Missy's thought. Surely they would not have come without him; the father was not a man to give up so; and yet it was earlier than any one had supposed it possible they could return; and the wind had been so variable, and the night so dark. Could it be that they had come in, disheartened and hungry? feeling the barque was beyond their reach upon the seas, and excusing themselves by sending after her steam instead of sail?

The men around the fire sprang up at the sound of the gun, and in an instant were all alertness. One threw a fresh armfull of wood on the fire "to make it more cheerful-like;" two others sprang into a small boat and pushed out to meet the yacht.

"It'll be a half hour before they can anchor and get off a boat and land," said Goneril, impatiently. "It'll never occur to 'em that anybody on shore may want to know the news they've got. As long as they know themselves, they think it's all that's necessary."

Missy felt too agitated to speak. The long excitement had taken all her strength away, and a half hour more of suspense seemed impossible to bear. Goneril also found it intolerable; she had not lost her strength by the day's agitation, but she had no patience to stand still and wait for them.

"I'll run up and tell the cook to have some coffee ready for the gentlemen, and some supper. Most likely they've come in for that. Men don't work long upon an empty stomach. The boy wouldn't be much to them if the provisions had given out."

With this sneer she hurried away, and left Missy alone. She came back, however, before the sound of oars drew very near the beach. She had caught up a lantern from the hall table as she passed it, and lighted it at the fire. It gave a good light, and shone up into her handsome face, as she paced up and down restlessly upon the beach.

"Well, they'll soon be here," she said, standing still and listening to the regular stroke of the oars, and the sound of voices out in the darkness gradually coming nearer. "They can't be much longer, if they don't stop to play a game of euchre on the way, or toss up which shall stand the supper. Much they care for anything but that. If they could smell the coffee it would hurry them. Men are all alike."

The voices came nearer; Missy's eager eyes saw the boat's prow push into the circle of light that went out from the bonfire, but the mist made it impossible to discern what and who were in her. She made a step forward, and the water washed against her feet; she clasped her hands together and gazed forward, scarcely seeing anything for her agitation. Goneril stood just behind her, on the sand, holding up the lantern, which shone through Missy's yellow hair. Missy saw some one spring ashore; she heard the captain's hearty voice call out:

"All right, Miss Rothermel; you put us on the right track; we've brought the little fellow back, safe and sound, to you."

Then some one else stepped out upon the sand; some one else, with something in his arms, and, in a moment more, a little pair of arms, warm and tight, hugged her neck, and a fretful voice cried:

"Let me go to Missy—I want Missy—" and Mr. Andrews hoarsely said, trying to take him back, seeing her stagger under his weight,

"Let me carry you; you shall go to Missy in a moment, and you shan't be taken away from her again."

They were within a few steps of the boat-house; Missy, with the child clinging obstinately to her, staggered into it, and then—well, it was all a blank after that; for the first time in her life, and the last in this history, she fainted dead away.

Jay stopped his crying, Goneril dropped her lantern, Mr. Andrews started forward and caught her in his arms. The other gentlemen, directed by Goneril, had already gone towards the house; Goneril, in an instant, seeing what happened, called to one of the men on the beach, to run for water and some brandy, and kneeling down, received Missy in her arms, and laid her gently down upon some shawls. Mr. Andrews caught up the lantern, and anxiously scanned the very white face upon the shawls. It looked dreadfully like a dead face; poor Jay was awestruck, and crept close to his father's side. Goneril chafed her hands, loosened her dress, fanned her, moved the shawls and laid her flatter on the floor. But it was an obstinate faint; even Goneril looked up alarmed into Mr. Andrews' alarmed face.

"I wish we had the doctor, though he's an ass," she said. "Send your man there for him, quick as he can go; but don't you go away yourself, I might want you—I don't know what is going to happen."

It was a moment's work to despatch the man, who was helping haul up the boat, which half a man could have done. The brandy and the water soon arrived, but failed to produce any apparent effect. "You take that hand, rub it—don't be afraid—rub it hard," said Goneril, as Mr. Andrews, kneeling on the other side, set down the lantern. "I don't like this sort of thing. I've seen a dozen women faint in my life, but they came to as quick as wink, if you dashed water on 'em. I've heard people do die sometimes of their feelings—but I never believed it before. But then, I needn't wonder—this has been an awful day, and she's looked, poor thing, like dead for the last four hours or more. Heavens, there ain't a bit of pulse in her. Just you put your ear down: I can't hear her heart beat—why don't that idiot hurry; not that he'll do any good by coming, but, my conscience, I don't want her to die on my hands. I've had enough of this sort of business. I wouldn't go through such another day. I've heard of people losing their heads when they were most wanted—I—I don't know what to do—I believe I've lost mine now—" and Goneril dropped the hand which she had been fiercely chafing, and starting up, stood with her arms upon her hips, gazing down on Missy.

Poor Goneril, the day had been a hard one, and she was made of the same clay as other women, though a little stiffer baked. She had lost her head, and her nerves were shaken, for once in her experience. Mr. Andrews' day certainly had not been less hard, but he had a man's strength to go upon, and not a woman's.

"Let us see," he said, lifting Missy and laying her where the wind blew fresh upon her from the door, then hurrying to another door pushed it open violently with his knee—"Hold the lantern down," he said—"Now give me the brandy," and he forced a drop or two into her mouth. The change of position, or the stimulant, or the fresh wind in her face, started her suspended powers into play—and a slight movement of the lips and a flutter in the pulse on which Mr. Andrews' hand was laid, showed him Goneril had been in a panic, and Missy was only paying the penalty of being an excitable woman. I hope he didn't think it was a nuisance, considering it was all about his boy. Goneril was quite ashamed of herself for having lost the head on which she so prided herself. She was almost sharp with the young lady, when, after more rubbing and more brandy, she opened her eyes and looked about her.

"I didn't know you was one of the fainting kind or I should have been prepared for you," she said, raising her up and putting some pillows and shawls behind her. The pillows and shawls she had twitched into place with asperity, the tone in which she spoke was not dulcet.

"You have given us a great fright," said Mr. Andrews, drawing a long breath as he stood up; and, taking off his hat, passed his hand over his forehead.

"It doesn't take much to frighten a man," said Goneril tartly. "Please to shut that door. Cold's as bad to die of as a fainting fit, and it's like a pair of bellows blowing on her back."

"What are you talking about, and where am I?" murmured poor Missy, a sickened look passing over her face, as her eyes fell on Mr. Andrews. He wasn't slow to understand it, and kneeling down beside her, said:

"You have had too much excitement to-day, and getting Jay back made you faint. Now, don't think any more about it, but let me assure you, he is well and safe."

For Master Jay, like a valiant little man, had slunk out of sight at the occurrence of the fainting fit, and stood outside the door-post, around which he gazed furtively back upon the group, prepared to depart permanently, if anything tragic came about. He was thoroughly masculine, was Jay; he never voluntarily stayed where it wasn't pleasant.

When Missy heard Mr. Andrews' words, and knew that her keen suspense had ended, she began to cry hysterically. Everybody knows that the physical sensations of coming back after a faint are not joyful, no matter what news you hear. It was all horror and suffering, and Missy wept as if her heart were broken instead of being healed. Goneril chided her with very little regard to distinction of class; but they had been fellow-sufferers for so many hours, she seemed in a manner privileged.

"I can't think what you're taking on so about," she said, spreading the shawl out over Missy's feet, picking up the lantern, and tidying up the boat-house as a natural vent to her feelings. "There might have been some sense in it if they had come in without the child, as we thought they would; or if he'd been your own child, or if it had been any fault of yours, that he got carried off. There's nothing ever gained by bothering about other people's troubles; folks have generally got enough to do in getting along with their own. The Lord gives you grace to bear what He sends you—at least He engages to; but there ain't any promises to them that take on about what they've taken up of themselves. Don't set your heart on other people's children unless you want it broken for you. And don't go to managing other people's matters unless you want to get into the hottest kind of water. You burn your fingers when you put 'em into other people's pies. Every man for himself and every woman for herself, most emphatic. Keep your tears till the Lord sends you children of your own to cry about; goodness knows you'll need 'em all if you ever come to that."

Goneril had had two children in her early disastrous marriage; one had died, and one had lived to go to destruction in his father's steps, so she always bore about with her a sore heart, and the passionate love of children, which she could not repress, she always fought down fiercely with both hands. Her sharp words did not soothe Missy much. She cried and cried as if there were nothing left to live for, and the fact that Mr. Andrews was there and was trying to make her hear him above Goneril's tirade, did not help matters in the least.

"If you'll take my advice," said Goneril to this latter person, dashing some more brandy and water into a glass, and speaking to him over her shoulder as she did it, "If you'll take my advice, you'll go away and leave her to get over it by herself. She's just got to cry it out, and the sight of you and the boy'll only make it worse. Take him home and put him to bed, and let's have a little common sense."

"Oh, go away, go away, everybody," cried poor Missy, smothering her face down in the shawls.

"Take this," said Goneril, sternly, holding the brandy and water to her lips, which she had no choice but to take, and it was a mercy that she didn't strangle amidst her sobs. But she didn't, and found voice to say,

"I am better. I don't want anything but to be by myself," before she began to sob again.

Thus adjured, it was natural that poor Mr. Andrews should think it best to go away. Nobody wanted him, evidently, and he had been ordered away by two women, when one was always quite enough for him. So he took Jay by the hand and went out into the dim path that led up to his own house. It was, no doubt, time to put the child to bed! The clock in the hall was just proclaiming three in its queer voice, as he went in, and stumbled through the darkness up to the nursery, where he had to go through another scene with the nurse, who woke up and was hysterical.

But Jay soon battered the hysterics out of her. He had been fretful before, but now he was fiendish, and it was as much as they could do to get him into bed. I am afraid it passed through her mind that he'd better have got to France, and it took all the paternal love of Mr. Andrews to keep from inaugurating his return home by a good thrashing. The tragic and comic and very unpleasant are mixed in such an intimate way in some cups.