P. P. C.

There were but six days and nights for Missy to dream and hope about her reprieve, and she employed them well. She was white and languid-looking in the morning, but from the first sound of the knocker, the first step heard upon the walk outside, a spot of color burned in her cheeks, and a strange glow shone from her light eyes. She was absent-minded, imperious, impatient. She was living upon a chance, the throw of a dice, and she couldn't say her prayers. She wanted to be let alone, and she hated even her mother when she interfered with this desire.

The six days had worn themselves away to one, uneventful, save for the blotted score of Missy's dreams. This day must bring some event, some occurrence, good or bad. It was impossible that Mr. Andrews would go away and offer such a disrespect to, at all events, her mother, as not to come and say good-bye. It was a fixed fact in her mind that he would come. She dressed for it, she waited for it, she counted off the moments, one by one. Not a motion of wind in the trees missed her ears, not a carriage rolled along the road, nor a step crossed the lawn that she did not hear.

At last, in the afternoon, there came some steps up from the gate. A group under the trees; for a moment she could not discern them, but presently she saw he was not with them. There came the two ladies, with Jay and Gabrielle, Flora and the latter laughing and romping, and apparently trying to get themselves quieted down before entering the house of their stiff-necked neighbors. Missy came down stairs to find them talking with her mother in the parlor. Flora was in brilliant spirits, the prospect of "dear Europe" again, she said, had quite upset her. Mrs. Eustace was rather overbearing, and less suave and conciliatory than usual. She found herself so near "dear Europe" and a settlement for Flora, that she could afford to be natural for once. She fastened herself upon Mrs. Varian, and was sufficiently disagreeable to cause even that languid lady to wish the visit over. Flora, sweet young thing, stood to her guns manfully till the very last minute, and made Missy's cheeks burn and her eyes glow. Though she knew she had given her whatever success she would ever have, and had played into her hand, and thrown up her own game in a pet, she could not hear her calmly.

"We are all so eager to get off," she said. "I was telling the Olors they mustn't think it uncomplimentary to Yellowcoats, though it does sound so! I have had a lovely time. I never shall forget it! A beatific summer! And mamma has enjoyed it, too, though she has had a great deal of care and worry getting things into shape after those dreadful servants that we found there. But poor Mr. Andrews has had such a horrid time ever since he took the place that I think he fairly longs to get away, and never see it again. 'Thank heaven, it's the last day of it!' he said this morning, poor dear man, with such an emphasis."

"Papa meant the hall stove," said Gabrielle, in an insinuating little voice. "Because it smoked so dreadfully."

This took Flora aback for a moment; she choked as if somebody had hold of her throat, then, with a sweet smile to Gabrielle, "Very likely he said it about the hall stove too, dear," she said, and putting her arms around the engaging child's waist, went on to ask Miss Rothermel if they meant to spend the winter in the country.

Miss Rothermel thought it probable, though it was not quite determined.

"How dreary!" exclaimed Miss Eustace. "It passes me to understand how you can exist. I suppose, though, one doesn't mind it so much as one gets—I mean—that is—as mamma says—at my age—" And she stopped with a pretty naÏve embarrassment, which was surprisingly well done. She recovered from it to say:

"And Mr. Andrews tells us you are so domestic. He thinks he didn't see you once all winter long."

"No," said Missy. "I don't remember seeing him at all, all winter. But the children came, and Jay was a great pleasure to me."

"Fancy," cried Flora, "being amused by a child to that extent. I dote on children, but oh, I dote on other things too. Mr. Andrews thinks he will settle us at Florence, and if he finds a satisfactory governess, we shall be free to leave the children, and he will take us to Rome, and Naples, and there is a talk of Spain. Oh, we spend all our leisure hours in mapping out excursions. I tell mamma it is like the Arabian Nights. I have only to wish a thing, and it comes. Mr. Andrews has such a way of ordering and carrying out what you want, and putting things through. Don't you think so?"

"I don't know," said Missy. "I never traveled with him and I can't judge."

"Well, I never did either, except on paper, and we've been around the world that way. But I mean in excursions, picnics, and sailing parties, and all that. You see he has kept us busy this summer, always planning something for us. I don't think there ever was anybody so good as Gabrielle's good papa!" cried the young lady, giving Gabrielle a little hug and a kiss.

Gabrielle received this attention in silence, shooting a penetrating glance across towards Missy. It is probable that this gifted child fully understood the position of affairs.

"But it seems dreadful to think of you here all winter," pursued Miss Eustace. "Nobody is going to stay, as far as I can hear. And I should think you'd be afraid, only you three ladies, and yours the only house open anywhere about. It was a sort of protection, last winter, when Mr. Andrews was here, even if you didn't see him."

"Yes, it was pleasant to feel the next house was inhabited. But I don't think there is anything to be afraid of."

"Suppose you had another fire. What a fright you must have had, Miss Rothermel! It must have been quite an experience. And so droll. I suppose there is always a droll side to things, if one has the ability to see it. Mr. Andrews has told me all about it. Don't you think he has a strong sense of humor, Miss Rothermel?"

Miss Flora's face expressed great amusement at the recollection of something connected with the fire. She repeated her question, which Missy had not answered.

"He is so very quiet, one wouldn't suspect him of it, but don't you think he has a keen sense of the ridiculous?"

"I have never thought of it," said Missy. "I should rather have said not. But of course you know him best."

"I've always threatened to ask you some questions about the fire," she continued, with merriment in her eyes. "But he made me promise not."

"Then I don't see that I can help you," Miss Rothermel said.

"I shall be anxious to know how you get out of the next fire, without Mr. Andrews here to see to it."

"I hope we sha'n't have another fire; but if we do, we shall miss Mr. Andrews, I am sure, for he was most kind in every way. But it is possible that we may not be alone; my brother may spend the winter with us; he is coming home this autumn."

"Your brother? Is it possible? That is the young—the young—monk, that I've heard them talking of."

"Yes."

"Oh, then I am almost sorry that we're going away. I had such a curiosity to see him. Probably you don't know, but I take the greatest interest in the Catholic movement."

"I certainly had not suspected it."

"Oh, dear Miss Rothermel, how sarcastically you said that. I find Mr. Andrews was right about that

"Papa said that about old Mr. Vanderveer; it wasn't about Missy," put in Gabrielle again, and this time she didn't get a kiss for it.

"You are a very pert little girl," said Flora, withdrawing her arm, "and would be the better for a year or two of boarding-school."

Gabrielle gave a frightened look at Missy, and dropped her eyes. At this moment Jay, on the other side of the room, pulled over a stand of flowers, and in consequence of the noise and alarm, began to cry. Missy ran to him, and putting her arms around him, whispered that he needn't care about the flowers, that if he'd give her a dear kiss and be her own little boy again, she'd like it better than all the flowers in America. This comforted him, and he consented to dry his eyes, and accompany her to the dining-room, to look for cake on a shelf which he knew of old. Missy did not hurry to take him back, and they had an old-time talk, and a great many kisses and promises. He was quite like himself when he was away from his cousins.

"You'll be a big boy when I see you again, Jay," she said, "and you'll have forgotten all about me when you come back from over the water."

"Why don't you go 'long with me, then," he said, with a voice rendered husky by cake.

"Oh, you've got your cousin Flora. I should think she was enough for any little boy."

"She can go to boarding-school with Gabby," said Jay, settling himself closer into Missy's lap, and taking another piece of cake. Missy laughed at this disposition of the triumphant young lady in the other room.

"I don't know what she'd say to that, nor papa either," she added, in a lower tone.

"Papa wouldn't mind. Papa's a man, and he can do anything he wants to. You can come with us, and you can ride my pony that I'm going to have, and papa can drive you with his horses, like he did that day."

"Ah, Jay, that would be nice indeed, only I'm afraid Gabby and the two cousins wouldn't agree to it."

"I'd make 'em," said Jay. "Papa's going to buy me a little pistol, and I'd shoot 'em if they didn't."

In such happy confidences the minutes slipped away. Presently the voice of Flora called Jay from the hall, and, recalled to civility, Missy took him by the hand and went back. She found them all standing up, preparing to take leave.

"I am sorry to hurry you, Jay, but we must go."

"Won't you please leave Jay to spend the afternoon with me?" asked Missy. "I will send him safely back at whatever hour you say."

"That would be very pleasant," said Mrs. Eustace, "but Mr. Andrews is going to take us for a drive, and charged us to be back at four o'clock, to go with him. He has been hurrying all the morning to get through with everything, so that he might be at liberty to take this drive, which is a sort of farewell to Yellowcoats. He seemed to want to have the children go, though I am afraid we shall be rather late getting back for them. We take the early train in the morning, but I believe everything is in readiness for the start. You may imagine I have had my hands full, Mrs. Varian."

Mrs. Varian expressed her sympathy, the good-byes were said, Missy held Jay tight in her arms, and kissed his little hands when she loosened them from her own, and watched the group from the piazza as they walked away.

Then he was not coming this afternoon. He preferred a drive with these ladies, to coming here. No, she did not believe it was any pleasure to him to go with them. He had his own reasons. She would rest upon the belief that he would come in the evening.

The afternoon was fine and clear, with a touch of autumn in the air. She longed to be alone and to be free—so, telling no one of her intention, she wandered away along the beach and was gone till after six o'clock. The short day was ended and dusk had already fallen. She was little tired by her long walk, but soothed by the solitude, and braced by the thought of what evening would surely bring her.

The lamp was newly lighted at one end of the hall, and was burning dimly. As she passed up the stairs, her eye fell on some small cards on the dark table near the door. With a sudden misgiving, she went back, and picking them up, went over to the lamp to read them. They were three cards of "Mr. James Andrews," with p.p.c. in the corner.

I don't know exactly what Missy thought or felt when she read them. She stood a few minutes in a stupid sort of state. Then, the drive had been a fable, and the hand of fate was against her. The precious opportunity was lost, while she was wandering aimlessly along the beach, saying over and over to herself, the words that now never would be spoken. She had tossed away from her her one chance, as she had tossed pebbles into the water while she walked that afternoon. She had felt so secure, she had been so calm. Now all was over, and the days and nights that had been given to this meeting were days and nights that mocked her when she thought of them. How she had been cheated! She realized fully that the chance was gone. She knew that months of separation, just as they were situated, would have been enough to make a renewal of friendship impossible, and here were years coming in between them. No, the only moment that she could have spoken would have been while the recollection of what he had said to her the other day upon the lawn, was fresh in both their minds. Perhaps, already, it was too late to revive any feeling for her; but at least, she could have tried. She hadn't any pride left. At least, she thought she hadn't, till, in her own room, she found herself writing to him. Then, when she saw the thing in black and white, she found she had still a little pride, or perhaps, only a sense of decency. Here was a man who hadn't talked to her about love, who hadn't said anything that anybody mightn't have said about an ordinary friendship. She knew quite well that he meant more, but he hadn't said more, and by that she must abide. So she tore her letter up; ah, the misery of it all. She bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, and went stonily down to tea when the bell rang. When the tea bell rings, if the death-knell of your happiness hasn't done tolling, you hear it, more's the marvel.

The monotonies of Mrs. Smatter and the asperities of Miss Varian for once roused little opposition. Missy had a fevered sense of oppression from their presence, but she was too full of other thoughts to heed them. After tea there was something to be done for her mother, who was ill from the strain of the afternoon's visitors, and two or three persons on business had to be attended to. She felt as if she had begun a dreadful round of heartless work that would last all her life.

When at last she was free from these occupations she threw a cloak around her shoulders and went out on the piazza. The night was dark and still, and as she listened she could hear voices and sounds from the other house—a door close, a window put down, a call to a dog, the rattle of his chain. Then she heard the shrill whistle, which she knew was the summons for the man from the stable, and after a few moments she heard Mr. Andrews' voice on the piazza.

With an impulse that she made no attempt to resist, she went down the steps and ran quickly across the lawn, and, standing behind the gate, under the heavy shadow of the trees, strained her eyes through the darkness, and gazed over toward the next house. Mr. Andrews was talking with the man, who presently went away, and then he walked up and down on the piazza slowly; it was easy to hear his regular tread upon the boards, and to see a dark figure cross the lighted windows. That was as near as he would ever be to her again, perhaps.

After a few moments he came down the steps, walked slowly along the path, and stood leaning against the gate. She could see the spark of his cigar. They were not two hundred feet apart. If she had spoken in her ordinary tone, he could have heard her; the stillness of the night was unusual. There was no breeze, no rustle of the leaves overhead; no one was moving, apparently, at either house—no one passing along the road. Her heart beat so violently she put both hands over it to smother the sound. Why should she not speak? It was her last chance, her very last. If the night had not been so dark, she might have spoken. If the stars had been shining, or moonlight had made it possible for them to see each other, if the hour had been earlier, if there had been any issue but one, from the speaking—if, in fact, it were not what it was, to speak, she might have spoken.

The minutes passed—how long, and yet how swift, they were in passing. She had made no decision in her own mind what to do; she meant to speak, and yet something in her held her back from speaking. There are some things we do without thought, they do themselves without any help from us, and so this thing was done, and a great moment in two lives was lost—or gained perhaps, who knows? She stood spell-bound as she saw the tiny spark of light waver, then, tossed away, drop down and go out in the damp grass. Then she heard him turn and go slowly towards the house—always slowly, she could have spoken a hundred times before he reached the piazza steps. Then he took a turn or two up and down the piazza, and then, opening the front door, went in, shutting it behind him.

It was not till that door shut, that Missy realized what had come to pass in her life, and what she had done, or left undone. A great blankness and dreariness settled down upon her with an instant pall. She did not blame herself—she could not have spoken, no woman of her make could have spoken. She did not blame herself, but she blamed her fate, that put her where she stood, that made her as she was. An angry rebellion slowly awoke within her. It is safer to blame yourself than to blame fate. Poor Missy took the unsafest way, and went into the house, hardening her heart, and resisting the destiny that lay before her.