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diff --git a/3491-h/3491-h.htm b/3491-h/3491-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f22a2c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/3491-h/3491-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12722 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Missy, by Dana Gatlin + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Missy, by Dana Gatlin + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Missy + +Author: Dana Gatlin + +Release Date: February 12, 2009 [EBook #3491] +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISSY *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, Ralph Zimmermann, the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team, and David Widger + + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + MISSY + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Dana Gatlin + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + TO VIOLA ROSEBORO + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE FLAME DIVINE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </td> + <td> + “Your True Friend, Melissa M.” + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </td> + <td> + LIKE A SINGING BIRD + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </td> + <td> + MISSY TACKLES ROMANCE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </td> + <td> + IN THE MANNER OF THE DUCHESS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </td> + <td> + INFLUENCING ARTHUR + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </td> + <td> + BUSINESS OF BLUSHING + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </td> + <td> + A HAPPY DOWNFALL + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </td> + <td> + DOBSON SAVES THE DAY + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </td> + <td> + MISSY CANS THE COSMOS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE FLAME DIVINE + </h2> + <p> + Melissa came home from Sunday-school with a feeling she had never had + before. To be sure she was frequently discovering, these days, feelings + she had never had before. That was the marvellous reward of having grown + to be so old; she was ten, now, an advanced age—almost grown up! She + could look back, across the eons which separated her from seven-years-old, + and dimly re-vision, as a stranger, the little girl who cried her first + day in the Primary Grade. How absurd seemed that bashful, timid, ignorant + little silly! She knew nothing at all. She still thought there was a Santa + Claus!—would you believe that? And, even at eight, she had lingering + fancies of fairies dancing on the flower-beds by moonlight, and talking in + some mysterious language with the flowers! + </p> + <p> + Now she was much wiser. She knew that fairies lived only in books and + pictures; that flowers could not actually converse. Well... she almost + knew. Sometimes, when she was all alone—out in the summerhouse on a + drowsy afternoon, or in the glimmering twilight when that one very bright + and knowing star peered in at her, solitary, on the side porch, or when, + later, the moonshine stole through the window and onto her pillow, so + thick and white she could almost feel it with her fingers—at such + times vague fancies would get tangled up with the facts of reality, and + disturb her new, assured sense of wisdom. Suddenly she'd find herself all + mixed up, confused as to what actually was and wasn't. + </p> + <p> + But she never worried long over that. Life was too complex to permit much + time for worry over anything; too full and compelling in every minute of + the long, long hours which yet seemed not long enough to hold the new + experiences and emotions which ceaselessly flooded in upon her. + </p> + <p> + The emotion she felt this Sunday was utterly new. It was not contentment + nor enjoyment merely, nor just happiness. For, in the morning as mother + dressed her in her embroidered white “best” dress, and as she walked + through the June sunshine to the Presbyterian church, trying to remember + not to skip, she had been quite happy. And she had still felt happy during + the Sunday-school lesson, while Miss Simpson explained how our Lord + multiplied the loaves and fishes so as to feed the multitude. How + wonderful it must have been to be alive when our Lord walked and talked + among men! + </p> + <p> + Her feeling of peaceful contentment intensified a little when they all + stood up to sing, + </p> + <p> + “Let me be a little sunbeam for Jesus—” and she seemed, then, to + feel a subtle sort of glow, as from an actual sunbeam, warming her whole + being. + </p> + <p> + But the marvellous new feeling did not definitely begin till after + Sunday-school was over, when she was helping Miss Simpson collect the + song-books. Not the big, thick hymn-books used for the church service, but + smaller ones, with pasteboard backs and different tunes. Melissa would + have preferred the Sunday-school to use the big, cloth-covered hymnals. + Somehow they looked more religious; just as their tunes, with slow, + long-drawn cadences, somehow sounded more religious than the + Sunday-school's cheerful tunes. Why this should be so Melissa didn't know; + there were many things she didn't yet understand about religion. But she + asked no questions; experience had taught her that the most serious + questions may be strangely turned into food for laughter by grown-ups. + </p> + <p> + It was when she carried the song-books into the choir-room to stack them + on some chairs, that she noticed the choir had come in and was beginning + to practise a real hymn. She loitered. It was an especially religious + hymn, very slow and mournful. They sang: + </p> + <p> + “A-a—sle-e-e-ep in Je-e-e—sus—Ble-e-es—ed + sle-e-e-ep—From which none e-e-ev—er Wake to we-e-e-ep—” + </p> + <p> + The choir did not observe Melissa; did not suspect that state of + deliciousness which, starting from the skin, slowly crept into her very + soul. She stood there, very unobtrusive, drinking in the sadly sweet + sounds. Up on the stained-glass window the sunlight filtered through + blue-and-red-and-golden angels, sending shafts of heavenly colour across + the floor; and the fibres of her soul, enmeshed in music, seemed to + stretch out to mingle with that heavenly colour. It was hard to separate + herself from that sound and colour which was not herself. Tears came to + her eyes; she couldn't tell why, for she wasn't sad. Oh, if she could + stand there listening forever!—could feel like this forever! + </p> + <p> + The choir was practising for a funeral that afternoon, but Melissa didn't + know that. She had never attended a funeral. She didn't even know it was a + funeral song. She only knew that when, at last, they stopped singing and + filed out of the choir-room, she could hardly bear to have them go. She + wished she might follow them, might tuck herself away in the auditorium + somewhere and stay for the church service. But her mother didn't allow her + to do that. Mother insisted that church service and Sunday-school, + combined, were too much for a little girl, and would give her headaches. + </p> + <p> + So there was nothing for Missy to do but go home. The sun shone just as + brightly as on her hither journey but now she had no impulse to skip. She + walked along sedately, in rhythm to inner, long-drawn cadences. The + cadences permeated her—were herself. She was sad, yet pleasantly, + thrillingly so. It was divine. When she reached home, she went into the + empty front-parlour and hunted out the big, cloth-covered hymnal that was + there. She found “Asleep in Jesus” and played it over and over on the + piano. The bass was a trifle difficult, but that didn't matter. Then she + found other hymns which were in accord with her mood: “Abide with Me”; + “Nearer My God to Thee”; “One Sweetly Solemn Thought.” The last was + sublimely beautiful; it almost stole her favour away from “Asleep in + Jesus.” Not quite, though. + </p> + <p> + She was re-playing her first favourite when the folks all came in from + church. There were father and mother, grandpa and grandma Merriam who + lived in the south part of town, Aunt Nettie, and Cousin Pete Merriam. + Cousin Pete's mother was dead and his father out in California on a long + business trip, so he was spending that summer in Cherryvale with his + grandparents. + </p> + <p> + Melissa admired Cousin Pete very much, for he was big and handsome and + wore more stylish-looking clothes than did most of the young men in + Cherryvale. Also, he was very old—nineteen, and a sophomore at the + State University. Very old. Naturally he was much wiser than Missy, for + all her acquired wisdom. She stood in awe of him. He had a way of asking + her absurd, foolish questions about things that everybody knew; and when, + to be polite, she had to answer him seriously in his own foolish vein, he + would laugh at her! So, though she admired him, she always had an impulse + to run away from him. She would have liked, now, in this heavenly, + religious mood, to run away lest he might ask her embarrassing questions + about it. But, before she had the chance, grandpa said: + </p> + <p> + “Why Missy, playing hymns? You'll be church organist before we know it!” + </p> + <p> + Missy blushed. + </p> + <p> + “'Asleep in Jesus' is my favourite, I think,” commented grandma. “It's the + one I'd like sung over me at the last. Play it again, dear.” + </p> + <p> + But Pete had picked up a sheet of music from the top of the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Let's have this, Missy.” He turned to his grandmother. “Ought to hear her + do this rag—I've been teaching her double-bass.” + </p> + <p> + Missy shrank back as he placed the rag-time on the music-rest. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'd rather not—to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Pete smiled down at her—his amiable but condescending smile. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with to-day?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Missy blushed again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know—I just don't feel that way, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't feel that way?” repeated Pete. “You're temperamental, are you? How + do you feel, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + Missy feared she was letting herself in for embarrassment; but this was a + holy subject. So she made herself answer: + </p> + <p> + “I guess I feel religious.” + </p> + <p> + Pete shouted. “She feels religious! That's a good one! She guesses she—” + </p> + <p> + “Peter, you should be ashamed of yourself!” reproved his grandmother. + </p> + <p> + “She's a scream!” he insisted. “Religious! That kid!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” defended Missy, timid and puzzled, but wounded to unwonted + bravery, “isn't it proper to feel like that on the Sabbath?” + </p> + <p> + Pete shouted again. + </p> + <p> + “Peter—stop that! You should be ashamed of yourself!” It was his + grandfather this time. Grandpa moved over to the piano and removed the + rag-time from off the hymnal, pausing to pat Missy on the head. + </p> + <p> + But Peter was not the age to be easily squelched. + </p> + <p> + “What does it feel like, Missy—the religious feeling?” + </p> + <p> + Missy, her eyes bright behind their blur, didn't answer. Indeed, she could + not have defined that sweetly sad glow, now so cruelly crushed, even had + she wanted to. + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't enjoy her dinner as much as she usually did the midday Sunday + feasts when grandpa and grandma came to eat with them. She felt + embarrassed and shy. Of course she had to answer when asked why she wasn't + eating her drumstick, and whether the green apples in grandma's orchard + had given her an “upset,” and other direct questions; but when she could, + she kept silent. She was glad Pete didn't talk to her much. Yet, now and + then, she caught his eyes upon her in a look of sardonic enquiry, and + quickly averted her own. + </p> + <p> + Her unhappiness lasted till the visitors had departed. Then, after + aimlessly wandering about, she took her Holy Bible out to the summerhouse. + She was contemplating a surprise for grandpa and grandma. Next week mother + and Aunt Nettie were going over to Aunt Anna's in Junction City for a few + days; during their absence Missy was to stay with her grandparents. And to + surprise them, she was learning by heart a whole Psalm. + </p> + <p> + She planned to spring it upon them the first night at family prayers. At + grandma's they had prayers every night before going to bed. First grandpa + read a long chapter out of the Holy Bible, then they all knelt down, + grandpa beside his big Morris chair, grandma beside her little willow + rocker, and whoever else was present beside whatever chair he'd been + sitting in. Grandpa prayed a long prayer; grandma a shorter one; then, if + any of the grandchildren were there, they must say a verse by heart. + Missy's first verse had been, “Jesus wept.” But she was just a tiny thing + then. When she grew bigger, she repeated, “Suffer the little children to + come unto Me.” Later she accomplished the more showy, “In My Father's + house are many mansions; I go there to prepare a place for you.” + </p> + <p> + But this would be her first whole Psalm. She pictured every one's + delighted and admiring surprise. After much deliberation she had decided + upon the Psalm in which David sings his song of faith, “The Lord is my + shepherd; I shall not want.” + </p> + <p> + How beautiful it was! So deep and so hard to understand, yet, somehow, all + the more beautiful for that. She murmured aloud, “I will fear no evil—for + Thou art with me—Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me”; and + wondered what the rod and staff really were. + </p> + <p> + But best of all she liked the last verse: + </p> + <p> + “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I + will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” + </p> + <p> + To dwell in the house of the Lord forever!—How wonderful! What was + the house of the Lord?... Missy leaned back in the summerhouse seat, and + gazed dreamily out at the silver-white clouds drifting lazily across the + sky; in the side-yard her nasturtium bed glowed up from the slick green + grass like a mass of flame; a breeze stirred the flame to gentle motion + and touched the ramblers on the summerhouse, shaking out delicious scents; + distantly from the backyard came the tranquil, drowsy sounds of unseen + chickens. Missy listened to the chickens; regarded sky and flowers and + green—colours so lovely as to almost hurt you—and sniffed the + fragrant air... All this must be the house of the Lord! Here, surely + goodness and mercy would follow her all the days of her life. + </p> + <p> + Thus, slowly, the marvellous new feeling stole back and took possession of + her. She could no longer bear just sitting there quiet, just feeling. She + craved some sort of expression. So she rose and moved slowly over the + slick green grass, pausing by the blazing nasturtium bed to pick a few + vivid blossoms. These she pinned to her dress; then went very leisurely on + to the house-to the parlour—to the piano—to “Asleep in Jesus.” + </p> + <p> + She played it “with expression.” Her soul now seemed to be flowing out + through her fingers and to the keyboard; the music came not from the + keyboard, really, but from her soul. Rapture! + </p> + <p> + But presently her mood was rudely interrupted by mother's voice at the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Missy, Aunt Nettie's lying down with a headache. I'm afraid the piano + disturbs her.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, mother.” + </p> + <p> + Lingeringly Missy closed the hymnal. She couldn't forbear a little sigh. + Perhaps mother noted the sigh. Anyway, she came close and said: + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, dear. I think it's nice the way you've learned to play hymns.” + </p> + <p> + Missy glanced up; and for a moment forgetting that grown-ups don't always + understand, she breathed: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, it's HEAVENLY! You can't imagine—” + </p> + <p> + She remembered just in time, and stopped short. But mother didn't + embarrass her by asking her to explain something that couldn't be + explained in words. She only laid her hand, for a second, on the sleek + brown head. The marvellous feeling endured through the afternoon, and + through supper, and through the evening—clear up to the time Missy + undressed and said her prayers. Some special sweetness seemed to have + crept into saying prayers; our Lord Jesus seemed very personal and very + close as she whispered to Him a postlude: + </p> + <p> + “I will fear no evil, for Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Surely + goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I'll dwell + in Thy house forever, O Lord—Amen.” + </p> + <p> + For a time she lay open-eyed in her little white bed. A flood of moonlight + came through the window to her pillow. She felt that it was a shining + benediction from our Lord Himself. And indeed it may have been. Gradually + her eyes closed. She smiled as she slept. + </p> + <p> + The grace of God continued to be there when she awoke. It seemed an + unusual morning. The sun was brighter than on ordinary mornings; the birds + outside were twittering more loudly; even the lawnmower which black Jeff + was already rolling over the grass had assumed a peculiarly agreeable + clatter. And though, at breakfast, father grumbled at his eggs being + overdone, and though mother complained that the laundress hadn't come, and + though Aunt Nettie's head was still aching, all these things, somehow, + seemed trivial and of no importance. + </p> + <p> + Missy could scarcely wait to get her dusting and other little “chores” + done, so that she might go to the piano. + </p> + <p> + However, she hadn't got half-way through “One Sweetly Solemn Thought” + before her mother appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Missy! what in the world do you mean? I've told you often enough you must + finish your practising before strumming at other things.” + </p> + <p> + Strumming! + </p> + <p> + But Missy said nothing in defence. She only hung her head. Her mother went + on: + </p> + <p> + “Now, I don't want to speak to you again about this. Get right to your + exercises—I hope I won't have to hide that hymn-book!” + </p> + <p> + Mother's voice was stern. The laundress's defection and other domestic + worries may have had something to do with it. But Missy couldn't consider + that; she was too crushed. In stricken silence she attacked the + “exercises.” + </p> + <p> + Not once during that day had she a chance to let out, through music, any + of her surcharged devotionalism. Mother kept piling on her one errand + after another. Mother was in an unwonted flurry; for the next day was the + one she and Aunt Nettie were going to Junction City and there were, as she + put it, “a hundred and one things to do.” + </p> + <p> + Through all those tribulations Missy reminded herself of “Thy rod and Thy + staff.” She didn't yet know just what these aids to comfort were; but the + Psalmist had said of them, “they shall comfort me.” And, somehow, she did + find comfort. That is what Faith does. + </p> + <p> + And that night, after she had said her prayers and got into bed, once more + the grace of God rode in on the moonlight to rest upon her pillow. + </p> + <p> + But the next afternoon, when she had to kiss mother good-bye, a great tide + of loneliness rushed over Missy, and all but engulfed her. She had always + known she loved mother tremendously, but till that moment she had + forgotten how very much. She had to concentrate hard upon “Thy rod and Thy + staff” before she was able to blink back her tears. And mother, noticing + the act, commented on her little daughter's bravery, and blinked back some + tears of her own. + </p> + <p> + In the excitement of packing up to go to grandma's house, Missy to a + degree forgot her grief. She loved to go to grandma's house. She liked + everything about that house: the tall lilac hedge that separated the yard + from the Curriers' yard next door; the orchard out in back where grew the + apples which sometimes gave her an “upset”; the garden where grandpa spent + hours and hours “cultivating” his vegetables; and grandma's own particular + garden, which was given over to tall gaudy hollyhocks, and prim rows of + verbena, snap-dragon, phlox, spicy pinks, heliotrope, and other flowers + such as all grandmothers ought to have. + </p> + <p> + And she liked the house itself, with its many unusual and delightful + appurtenances: no piano—an organ in the parlour, the treadles of + which you must remember to keep pumping, or the music would wheeze and + stop; the “what-not” in the corner, its shelves filled with fascinating + curios—shells of all kinds, especially a big conch shell which, held + close to the ear, still sang a song of the sea; the marble-topped + centre-table, and on it the interesting “album” of family photographs, and + the mysterious contrivance which made so lifelike the double “views” you + placed in the holder; and the lamp with its shade dripping crystal + bangles, like huge raindrops off an umbrella; and the crocheted “tidies” + on all the rocking-chairs, and the carpet-covered footstools sitting + demurely round on the floor, and the fringed lambrequin on the mantel, and + the enormous fan of peacock feathers spreading out on the wall—oh, + yes, grandma's was a fascinating place! + </p> + <p> + Then besides, of course, she adored grandpa and grandma. They were + charming and unlike other people, and very, very good. Grandpa was + slow-moving, and tall and broad—even taller and broader than father; + and he must be terribly wise because he was Justice-of-the-Peace, and + because he didn't talk much. Other children thought him a person to be + feared somewhat, but Missy liked to tuck her hand in his enormous one and + talk to him about strange, mysterious things. + </p> + <p> + Grandma wasn't nearly so big—indeed she wasn't much taller than + Missy herself; and she was proud of her activity—her “spryness,” she + called it. She boasted of her ability to stoop over and, without bending + her knees, to lay both palms flat on the floor. Even Missy's mother + couldn't do that, and sometimes she seemed to grow a little tired of being + reminded of it. Grandma liked to talk as much as grandpa liked to keep + silent; and always, to the running accompaniment of her tongue, she kept + her hands busied, whether “puttering about” in her house or flower-garden, + or crocheting “tidies,” or knitting little mittens, or creating the + multi-coloured paper-flowers which helped make her house so alluring. + </p> + <p> + That night for supper they had beefsteak and hot biscuits and custard pie; + and grandma let her eat these delicacies which were forbidden at home. She + even let her drink coffee! Not that Missy cared especially for coffee—it + had a bitter taste; but drinking it made her feel grown-up. She always + felt more grown-up at grandma's than at home. She was “company,” and they + showed her a consideration one never receives at home. + </p> + <p> + After supper Cousin Pete went out somewhere, and the other three had a + long, pleasant evening. Another agreeable feature about staying at + grandma's was that they didn't make such a point of her going to bed + early. The three of them sat out on the porch till the night came stealing + up; it covered the street and the yard with darkness, crawled into the + tree tops and the rose-bushes and the lilac-hedge. It hid all the familiar + objects of daytime, except the street-lamp at the corner and certain + windows of the neighbours' houses, which now showed square and yellow. Of + the people on the porch next door, and of those passing in the street, + only the voices remained; and, sometimes, a glowing point of red which was + a cigar. + </p> + <p> + Presently the moon crept up from behind the Jones's house, peeping + stealthily, as if to make sure that all was right in Cherryvale. And then + everything became visible again, but in a magically beautiful way; it was + now like a picture from a fairy-tale. Indeed, this was the hour when your + belief in fairies was most apt to return to you. + </p> + <p> + The locusts began to sing. They sang loudly. And grandma kept up her + chatter. But within Missy everything seemed to become very quiet. Suddenly + she felt sad, a peculiar, serene kind of sadness. It grew from the inside + out—now and then almost escaping in a sigh. Because it couldn't + quite escape, it hurt; she envied the locusts who were letting their + sadness escape in that reiterant, tranquil song. + </p> + <p> + She was glad when, at last, grandpa said: + </p> + <p> + “How'd you like to go in and play me a tune, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'd love to, grandpa!” Missy jumped up eagerly. + </p> + <p> + So grandpa lighted the parlour lamp, whose crystal bangles now looked like + enormous diamonds; and a delicious time commenced. Grandpa got out his + cloth-covered hymnal, and she played again those hymns which mingle so + inexplicably with the feelings inside you. Not even her difficulties with + the organ—such as forgetting occasionally to treadle, or having the + keys pop up soundlessly from under her fingers—could mar that + feeling. Especially when grandpa added his bass to the music, a deep bass + so impressive as to make it improper to question its harmony, even in your + own mind. + </p> + <p> + Grandma had come in and seated herself in her little willow rocker; she + was rocking in time to the music, her eyes closed, and saying nothing—just + listening to the two of them. And, playing those hymns, with grandpa + singing and grandma listening, the new religious feeling grew and grew and + grew in Missy till it seemed to flow out of her and fill the room. It + flowed on out and filled the yard, the town, the world; and upward, + upward, upward—she was one with the sky and moon and stars... + </p> + <p> + At last, in a little lull, grandpa said: + </p> + <p> + “Now, Missy, my song—you know.” + </p> + <p> + Missy knew very well what grandpa's favourite was; it was one of the first + pieces she had learned by heart. So she played for him “Silver Threads + among the Gold.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, baby,” said grandpa when she had finished. There was a suspicious + brightness in his eyes. And a suspicious brightness in grandma's, too. So, + though she wasn't unhappy at all, she felt her own eyes grow moist. + Grandpa and grandma weren't really unhappy, either. Why, when people are + not really unhappy at all, do their eyes fill just of themselves? + </p> + <p> + And now was the moment of the great surprise at hand. Missy could scarcely + wait. It must be admitted that, during the interminable time that grandpa + was reading his chapter—it was even a longer chapter than usual + to-night—and while grandma was reading her shorter one, Missy was + not attending. She was repeating to herself the Twenty-third Psalm. And + even when they all knelt, grandpa beside the big Morris chair and grandma + beside the little willow rocker and Missy beside the “patent rocker” with + the prettiest crocheted tidy—her thoughts were still in a divine + channel exclusively her own. + </p> + <p> + But now, at last, came the time for that channel to be widened; she closed + her eyes tighter, clasped her hands together, and began: + </p> + <p> + “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want, He maketh me to lie down in + green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters...” + </p> + <p> + How beautiful it was! Unconsciously her voice lifted—quavered—lowered—lifted + again, with “expression.” And she had the oddest complex sensation; she + could, through her tightly closed eyes, vision herself kneeling there; + while, at the same time, she could feel her spirit floating away, mingling + with the air, melting into the night, fusing with all the divine mystery + of heaven and earth. And her soul yearned for more mystery, for more + divinity, with an inexpressible yearning. + </p> + <p> + Yet all the time she was conscious of the dramatic figure she made, and of + how pleased and impressed her audience must be; in fact, as her voice + “tremuloed” on that last sublime “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow + me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord + forever,” she unclosed one eye to note the effect. + </p> + <p> + Both the grey heads remained prayerfully bent; but at her “Amen” both of + them lifted. And oh! what a reward was the expression in those two pairs + of eyes! + </p> + <p> + Grandma came swiftly to her and kissed her, and exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Why, however did you learn all that long Psalm, dear? And you recited it + so beautifully, too!—Not a single mistake! I never was prouder in my + life!” + </p> + <p> + Grandpa didn't kiss her, but he kept saying over and over: + </p> + <p> + “Just think of that baby!—the dear little baby.” + </p> + <p> + And Missy, despite her spiritual exaltation, couldn't help feeling + tremendously pleased. + </p> + <p> + “It was a surprise—I thought you'd be surprised,” she remarked with + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + Grandma excitedly began to ask all kinds of questions as to how Missy came + to pick out that particular Psalm, and what difficulties she experienced + in learning it all; but it was grandpa who, characteristically, enquired: + </p> + <p> + “And what does it mean to you, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “Mean—?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. For instance, what does that last verse mean?” + </p> + <p> + “'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life—?' + That—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I think I see myself walking through some big, thick woods. It's + springtime, and the trees are all green, and the grass slick and soft. And + birds are singing, and the wind's singing in the leaves, too. And the + sun's shining, and all the clouds have silver edges.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” said grandpa. + </p> + <p> + “That's the house of the Lord,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” said grandpa again. “What else?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm skipping and jumping along, for I'm happy to be in the house of + the Lord. And there are three little fairies, all dressed in silver and + gold, and with paper-flowers in their hair, and long diamond bangles + hanging like fringe on their skirts. They're following me, and they're + skipping and jumping, too. They're the three fairies in the verse.” + </p> + <p> + “The three fairies?” Grandpa seemed puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It says 'Surely goodness and mercy,' you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But that makes only two, doesn't it?” said grandpa, still puzzled. + </p> + <p> + Missy laughed at his stupidity. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no!—Three!” She counted them off on her fingers: “Surely—and + Goodness—and Mercy. Don't you see?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, dear—I see now,” said grandpa, very slowly. “I wasn't + counting Surely.” + </p> + <p> + Just then came a chuckle from the doorway. Missy hadn't seen Pete enter, + else she would have been less free in revealing her real thoughts. What + had he overheard? + </p> + <p> + Still laughing, Pete advanced into the room. + </p> + <p> + “So there's a fairy named 'Surely,' is there? What's the colour of her + eyes, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + Missy shrank a little closer into the haven of grandpa's knees. And + grandpa, in the severe voice that made the other children stand in awe of + him, said: + </p> + <p> + “That will do, Peter!” + </p> + <p> + But Peter, unawed, went on: + </p> + <p> + “I know, grandpa—but she's such a funny little dingbat! And now, + that she's turned pious—” + </p> + <p> + Grandpa interrupted him with a gesture of the hand. + </p> + <p> + “I said that'd do, Peter. If you'd find some time to attend prayers + instead of cavorting round over town, it wouldn't hurt you any.” + </p> + <p> + Then grandma, who, though she was fond of Missy, was fond of Pete also, + joined in defensively: + </p> + <p> + “Pete hasn't been cavorting round over town, grandpa—he's just been + over to the Curriers'.” + </p> + <p> + At that Missy turned interested eyes upon her big cousin. He'd been + calling on Polly Currier again! Polly Currier was one of the prettiest big + girls in Cherryvale. Missy gazed at Pete, so handsome in his + stylish-looking blue serge coat and sharply creased white ducks, + debonairly twirling the bamboo walking-stick which the Cherryvale boys, + half-enviously, twitted him about, and felt the wings of Romance whirring + in the already complicated air. For this additional element of interest he + furnished, she could almost forgive him his scoffing attitude toward her + own most serious affairs. + </p> + <p> + But Pete, fortunately for his complacency, didn't suspect the reason for + her concentrated though friendly gaze. + </p> + <p> + All in all, Missy felt quite at peace when she went upstairs. Grandma + tucked her into bed—the big, extraordinarily soft feather-bed which + was one of the outstanding features of grandma's fascinating house. + </p> + <p> + And there—wonder of wonders!—the moon, through grandma's + window, found her out just as readily as though she'd been in her own + little bed at home. Again it carried in the grace of God, to rest through + the night on her pillow. + </p> + <p> + Next day was an extremely happy day. She had coffee for breakfast, and was + permitted by Alma, the hired girl, to dry all the cups and saucers. Then + she dusted the parlour, including all the bric-a-brac, which made dusting + here an engrossing occupation. Later she helped grandpa hoe the cabbages, + and afterward “puttered around” with grandma in the flower-garden. Then + she and grandma listened, very quietly, through a crack in the + nearly-closed door while grandpa conducted a hearing in the parlour. To + tell the truth, Missy wasn't greatly interested in whether Mrs. Brenning's + chickens had scratched up Mrs. Jones's tomato-vines, hut she pretended to + be interested because grandma was. + </p> + <p> + And then, after the hearing was over, and the Justice-of-the-Peace had + become just grandpa again, Missy went into the parlour and played hymns. + Then came dinner, a splendid and heavy repast which constrained her to + take a nap. After the nap she felt better, and sat out on the front porch + to learn crocheting from grandma. + </p> + <p> + For a while Pete sat with them, and Polly Currier from next door came + over, too. She looked awfully pretty all in white—white shirtwaist + and white duck skirt and white canvas oxfords. Presently Pete suggested + that Polly go into the parlour with him to look at some college snapshots. + Missy wondered why he didn't bring them out to the porch where it was + cooler, but she was too polite to ask. + </p> + <p> + They stayed in there a long time—what were they doing? For long + spaces she couldn't even hear their voices. Grandma chattered away with + her usual vivacity; presently she suggested that they leave off crocheting + and work on paper-flowers a while. What a delight! Missy was just learning + the intricacies of peonies, and adored to squeeze the rosy tissue-paper + over the head of a hat-pin and observe the amazing result. + </p> + <p> + “Run up to my room, dear,” said grandma. “You'll find the box on the + closet shelf.” + </p> + <p> + Missy knew the “paper-flower box.” It was a big hat-box, appropriately + covered with pink-posied paper—a quaintly beautiful box. + </p> + <p> + In the house, passing the parlour door, she tip-toed, scarcely knowing + why. There was now utter silence in the parlour—why were they so + still? Perhaps they had gone out somewhere. Without any definite plan, but + still tip-toeing in the manner she and grandma had approached to overhear + the law-suit, she moved toward the partly-closed door. Through the crevice + they were out of vision, but she could hear a subdued murmur—they + were in there after all! Missy, too interested to be really conscious of + her act, strained her ears. + </p> + <p> + Polly Currier murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Why, what do you mean?—what are you doing?” + </p> + <p> + Pete murmured: + </p> + <p> + “What a question!—I'm trying to kiss you.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me go!—you're mussing my dress! You can't kiss me—let me + go!” + </p> + <p> + Pete murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Not till you let me kiss you!” + </p> + <p> + Polly Currier murmured: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that's the way you talk to all the girls!—I know you + college men!” + </p> + <p> + Pete murmured, a whole world of reproach in one word: + </p> + <p> + “Polly.” + </p> + <p> + They became silent—a long silence. Missy stood petrified behind the + door; her breathing ceased but her heart beat quickly. Here was Romance—not + the made-up kind of Romance you surreptitiously read in mother's + magazines, but real Romance! And she—Missy—knew them both! And + they were just the other side of the door! + </p> + <p> + Too thrilled to reflect upon the nature of her deed, scarcely conscious of + herself as a being at all, Missy craned her neck and peered around the + door. They were sitting close together on the divan. Pete's arm was about + Polly Currier's shoulder. And he was kissing her! Curious, that! Hadn't + she just heard Polly tell him that he couldn't?... Oh, beautiful! + </p> + <p> + She started noiselessly to withdraw, but her foot struck the conch shell + which served as a door-stop. At the noise two startled pairs of eyes were + upon her immediately; and Pete, leaping up, advanced upon her with a + fierce whisper: + </p> + <p> + “You little spy-eye!—What're you up to? You little spy-eye!” + </p> + <p> + A swift wave of shame engulfed Missy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm sorry!” she cried in a stricken voice. “I didn't mean to, Pete—I—” + </p> + <p> + He interrupted her, still in that fierce whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Stop yelling, can't you! No, I suppose you 'didn't mean to'—Right + behind the door!” His eyes withered her. + </p> + <p> + “Truly, I didn't, Pete.” Her own voice, now, had sunk to a whisper. “Cross + my heart I didn't!” + </p> + <p> + But he still glared. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be ashamed of yourself—always sneaking round! You + ought to be ashamed of yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am, Pete,” she quavered, though, in fact, she wasn't sure in just + what lay the shamefulness of her deed; till he'd spoken she had felt + nothing but Romance in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you ought to be,” Pete reiterated. He hesitated a second, then went + on: + </p> + <p> + “You aren't going to blab it all around, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” breathed Missy, horrified at such a suggestion. “Well, see that + you don't! I'll give you some candy to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—candy,” came Polly's voice faintly from the divan. + </p> + <p> + Then, as the subject seemed to be exhausted, Missy crept away, permeated + with the sense of her sin. + </p> + <p> + It was horrible! To have sinned just when she'd found the wonderful new + feeling. Just when she'd resolved to be good always, that she might dwell + in the house of the Lord forever. She hadn't intended to sin; but she must + have been unusually iniquitous. Pete's face had told her that. It was + particularly horrible because sin had stolen upon her so suddenly. Does + sin always take you unawares, that way? A new and black fear settled + heavily over her. + </p> + <p> + When she finally returned to the porch with the paper-flowers box, she was + embarrassed by grandma's asking what had kept her so long. It would have + been easy to make up an excuse, but this new sense of sin restrained her + from lying. So she mumbled unintelligibly, till grandma interrupted: + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel sick, Missy?” she asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure? You ate so much at dinner. Maybe you didn't take a long + enough nap.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sleepy, grandma.” + </p> + <p> + But grandma insisted on feeling her forehead—her hands. They were + hot. + </p> + <p> + “I think I'd better put you to bed for a little while,” said grandma. + “You're feverish. And if you're not better by night, you mustn't go to the + meeting.” + </p> + <p> + Missy's heart sank, weighted with a new fear. It would be an unbearable + calamity to miss going to the meeting. For, that night, a series of + “revivals” were to start at the Methodist Church; and, though father was a + Presbyterian (to oblige mother), grandpa and grandma were Methodists and + would go every night; and so long as mother was away, she could go to + meeting with them. In the fervour of the new religious feeling she craved + sanctified surroundings. + </p> + <p> + So, though she didn't feel at all sick and though she wanted desperately + to make paper-flowers, she docilely let herself be put to bed. Anyway, + perhaps it was just a penance sent to her by our Lord, to make atonement + for her sin. + </p> + <p> + By supper-time grandma agreed that she seemed well enough to go. + Throughout the meal Pete, who was wearing an aloof and serious manner, + refrained from looking at her, and she strived to keep her own anxious + gaze away from him. He wasn't going to the meeting with the other three. + </p> + <p> + Just as the lingering June twilight was beginning to darken—the most + peaceful hour of the day—Missy walked off sedately between her + grandparents. She was wearing her white “best dress.” It seemed + appropriate that your best clothes should be always involved in the matter + of church going; that the spiritual beatification within should be + reflected by the garments without. + </p> + <p> + The Methodist church in Cherryvale prided itself that it was not + “new-fangled.” It was not nearly so pretentious in appearance as was the + Presbyterian church. Missy, in her heart, preferred stained-glass windows + and their glorious reflections, as an asset to religion; but at night + services you were not apt to note that deficiency. + </p> + <p> + She sat well up front with her grandparents, as befitted their position as + pillars of the church, and from this vantage had a good view of the + proceedings. She could see every one in the choir, seated up there behind + the organ on the side platform. Polly Currier was in the choir; she wasn't + a Methodist, but she had a flute-like soprano voice, and the Methodists—whom + all the town knew had “poor singing”—had overstepped the boundaries + of sectarianism for this revival. Polly looked like an angel in pink lawn + and rose-wreathed leghorn hat; she couldn't know that Missy gazed upon her + with secret adoration as a creature of Romance—one who had been + kissed! Missy continued to gaze at Polly during the preliminary songs—tunes + rather disappointing, not so beautiful as Missy's own favourite hymns—till + the preacher appeared. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Poole—“Brother” Poole as grandpa called him, though he + wasn't a relation—was a very tall, thin man with a blonde, rather + vacuous face; but at exhortation and prayer he “had the gift.” For so good + a man, he had a remarkably poor opinion of the virtues of his fellow-men. + Missy couldn't understand half his fiery eloquence; but she felt his + inspiration; and she gathered that most of the congregation must be + sinners. Knowing herself to be a sinner, she wasn't so much surprised at + that. + </p> + <p> + Finally Brother Poole, with quavering voice, urged all sinners to come + forward and kneel at the feet of Jesus, and pray to be “washed in the + blood of the lamb.” Thus would their sins be forgiven them, and their + souls be born anew. Missy's soul quivered and stretched up to be born + anew. So, with several other sinners—including grandpa and grandma + whom she had never before suspected of sin—she unhesitatingly walked + forward. She invoked the grace of God; her head, her body, her feet seemed + very light and remote as she walked; she seemed, rather, to float; her + feet scarcely touched the red-ingrain aisle “runner”—she was nearly + all spirit. She knelt before the altar between grandpa and grandma, one + hand tight-clasped in grandpa's. + </p> + <p> + Despite her exaltation, she was conscious of material things. For instance + she noted that Mrs. Brenning was on the other side of grandma, and + wondered whether she were atoning for the sins of her chickens against + Mrs. Jones's tomato-vines; she noticed, too, that Mrs. Brenning's hat had + become askew, which gave her a queer, unsuitable, rakish look. Yet Missy + didn't feel like laughing. She felt like closing her eyes and waiting to + be born anew. But, before closing her eyes, she sent a swift glance up at + the choir platform. Polly Currier was still up there, looking very placid + as she sang with the rest of the choir. They were singing a rollicking + tune. She listened— + </p> + <p> + “Pull for the shore, sailor! Pull for the shore! Leave the poor old + strangled wretch, and pull for the shore!” + </p> + <p> + Who was the old strangled wretch? A sinner, doubtless. Ah, the world was + full of sin. She looked again at Polly. Polly's placidity was reassuring; + evidently she was not a sinner. But it was time to close her eyes. + However, before doing so, she sent a swift upward glance toward the + preacher. He had a look on his face as though an electric light had been + turned on just inside. He was praying fervently for God's grace upon + “these Thy repentant creatures.” Missy shut her eyes, repented violently, + and awaited the miracle. What would happen? How would it feel, when her + soul was born anew? Surely it must be time. She waited and waited, while + her limbs grew numb and her soul continued to quiver and stretch up. But + in vain; she somehow didn't feel the grace of God nearly as much as last + Sunday when the Presbyterian choir was singing “Asleep in Jesus,” while + the sun shone divinely through the stained-glass window. + </p> + <p> + She felt cheated and very sad when, at last, the preacher bade the + repentant ones stand up again. Evidently she hadn't repented hard enough. + Very soberly she walked back to the pew and took her place between grandpa + and grandma. They looked rather sober, too; she wondered if they, also, + had had trouble with their souls. + </p> + <p> + Then Brother Poole bade the repentant sinners to “stand up and testify.” + One or two of the older sinners, who had repented before, rose first to + show how this was done. And then some of the younger ones, after being + urged, followed example. Sobbing, they testified as to their depth of sin + and their sense of forgiveness, while Brother Poole intermittently cut in + with staccato exclamations such as “Praise the Lord!” and “My Redeemer + Liveth!” + </p> + <p> + Missy was eager to see whether grandpa and grandma would stand up and + testify. When neither of them did so, she didn't know whether she was more + disappointed or relieved. Perhaps their silence denoted that their souls + had been born anew quite easily. Or again—! She sighed; her soul, at + all events, had proved a failure. + </p> + <p> + She was silent on the way home. Grandpa and grandma held her two hands + clasped in theirs and over her head talked quietly. She was too dejected + to pay much attention to what they were saying; caught only scattered, + meaningless phrases: “Of course that kind of frenzy is sincere but—” + “Simple young things—” “No more idea of sin or real repentance—” + </p> + <p> + But Missy was engrossed with her own dismal thoughts. The blood of the + Lamb had passed her by. + </p> + <p> + And that night, for the first time in three nights, the grace of God + didn't flow in on the flood of moonlight through her window. She tossed on + her unhallowed pillow in troubled dreams. Once she cried out in sleep, and + grandma came hurrying in with a candle. Grandma sat down beside her—what + was this she was saying about “green-apple pie”? Missy wished to ask her + about it—green-apple pie—green-apple pie—Before she knew + it she was off to sleep again. + </p> + <p> + It was the next morning while she was still lying in bed, that Missy made + the Great Resolve. That hour is one when big Ideas—all kinds of + unusual thoughts—are very apt to come. When you're not yet entirely + awake; not taken up with trivial, everyday things. Your mind, then, has + full swing. + </p> + <p> + Lying there in grandma's soft feather bed, Missy wasn't yet distracted by + daytime affairs. She dreamily regarded the patch of blue sky showing + through the window, and bits of fleecy cloud, and flying specks of + far-away birds. How wonderful to be a bird and live up in the beautiful + sky! When she died and became an angel, she could live up there! But was + she sure she'd become an angel? That reflection gradually brought her + thoughts to the events of the preceding night. + </p> + <p> + Though she could recall those events distinctly, Missy now saw them in a + different kind of way. Now she was able to look at the evening as a whole, + with herself merely a part of the whole. She regarded that sort of + detached object which was herself. That detached Missy had gone to the + meeting, and failed to find grace. Others had gone and found grace. Even + though they had acted no differently from Missy. Like her they sang tunes; + listened to the preacher; bowed the head; went forward and knelt at the + feet of Jesus; repented; went back to the pews; stood up and testified— + </p> + <p> + Oh! + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Missy gave a little sound, and stirred. She puckered her brows in + intense concentration. Perhaps—perhaps that was why! + </p> + <p> + And then she made the Great Resolve. + </p> + <p> + Soon after breakfast, Pete appeared with a bag of candy. + </p> + <p> + “I don't deserve it,” said Missy humbly. + </p> + <p> + “You bet you don't!” acquiesced Pete. + </p> + <p> + So even he recognized her state of sin! Her Great Resolve intensified. + </p> + <p> + That morning, for the first time in her life at grandma's house, Missy + shirked her “chores.” She found paper and pencil, took a small Holy Bible, + and stole back to the tool-house where grandpa kept his garden things and + grandma her washtubs. For that which she now was to do, Missy would have + preferred the more beautiful summerhouse at home; but grandma had no + summerhouse, and this offered the only sure seclusion. + </p> + <p> + She stayed out there a long time, seated on an upturned washtub; read the + Holy Bible for awhile; then became absorbed in the ecstasies of + composition. So engrossed was she that she didn't at first hear grandma + calling her. + </p> + <p> + Grandma was impatiently waiting on the back porch. + </p> + <p> + “What in the world are you doing out there?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + Loath to lie, now, Missy made a compromise with her conscience. + </p> + <p> + “I was reading the Holy Bible, grandma.” + </p> + <p> + Grandma's expression softened; and all she said was: + </p> + <p> + “Well, dinner's waiting, now.” + </p> + <p> + Grandpa was staying down town and Pete was over at the Curriers', so there + were only grandma and Missy at the table. Missy tried to attend to + grandma's chatter and make the right answers in the right places. But her + mind kept wandering; and once grandma caught her whispering. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with you, Missy? What are you whispering about?” + </p> + <p> + Guiltily Missy clapped her hand to her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! was I whispering?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess it was just a piece I'm learning.” + </p> + <p> + “What piece?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I—it's going to be a surprise.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, another surprise? Well, that'll be nice,” said grandma. + </p> + <p> + Missy longed acutely to be alone. It was upsetting to have to carry on a + conversation. That often throws you off of what's absorbing your thoughts. + </p> + <p> + So she was glad when, after dinner, grandma said: + </p> + <p> + “I think you'd better take a little nap, dear. You don't seem quite like + yourself—perhaps you'd best not attempt the meeting to-night.” + </p> + <p> + That last was a bomb-shell; but Missy decided not to worry about such a + possible catastrophe till the time should come. She found a chance to slip + out to the tool-house and rescue the Holy Bible and the sheet of paper, + the latter now so scratched out and interlined as to be unintelligible to + anyone save an author. + </p> + <p> + When at last she was alone in her room, she jumped out of bed—religion, + it seems, sometimes makes deception a necessity. + </p> + <p> + For a time she worked on the paper, bending close over it, cheeks flushed, + eyes shining, whispering as she scratched. + </p> + <p> + At supper, Missy was glad to learn that Pete had planned to attend the + meeting that evening. “Revivals” were not exactly in Pete's line; but as + long as Polly Currier had to be there, he'd decided he might as well go to + see her home. Moreover, he'd persuaded several others of “the crowd” to go + along and make a sort of party of it. + </p> + <p> + And Missy's strained ears caught no ominous suggestion as to her own + staying at home. + </p> + <p> + Later, walking sedately to the church between her grandparents, Missy felt + her heart beating so hard she feared they might hear it. Once inside the + church, she drew a long breath. Oh, if only she didn't have so long to + wait! How could she wait? + </p> + <p> + Polly Currier was again seated on the choir platform, to night an angel in + lavender mull. She had a bunch of pansies at her belt—pansies out of + grandma's garden. Pete must have given them to her! She now and then + smiled back toward the back pew where Pete and “the crowd” were sitting. + </p> + <p> + To Missy's delight Polly sang a solo. It was “One Sweetly Solemn Thought”—oh, + rapture! Polly's high soprano floated up clear and piercing-sweet. It was + so beautiful that it hurt. Missy shut her eyes. She could almost see + angels in misty white and floating golden hair. Something quivered inside + her; once more on the wings of music was the religious feeling stealing + back to her. + </p> + <p> + The solo was finished, but Missy kept her eyes closed whenever she thought + no one was looking. She was anxious to hold the religious feeling till her + soul could be entirely born anew. And she had quite a long time to wait. + That made her task difficult and complicated; for it's not easy at the + same time to retain an emotional state and to rehearse a piece you're + afraid of forgetting. + </p> + <p> + But the service gradually wore through. Now they were at the “come forward + and sit at the feet of Jesus.” To-night grandpa and grandma didn't do + that; they merely knelt in the pew with bowed heads. So Missy also knelt + with bowed head. She was by this time in a state difficult to describe; a + quivering jumble of excitement, eagerness, timidity, fear, hope, and + exaltation... + </p> + <p> + And now at last, was come the time! + </p> + <p> + Brother Poole, again wearing the look on his face as of an electric light + turned on within, exhorted the repentant ones to “stand up and testify.” + </p> + <p> + Missy couldn't bear to wait for someone else to begin. She jumped hastily + to her feet. Grandma tried to pull her down. Missy frowned slightly—why + was grandma tugging at her skirt? Tugging aways she extended her arms with + palms flat together and thumbs extended—one of Brother Poole's most + effective gestures—and began: + </p> + <p> + “My soul rejoiceth because I have seen the light. Yea, it burns in my soul + and my soul is restoreth. I will fear no evil even if it is born again. + Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I + will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. I have been a sinner but—” + </p> + <p> + Why was grandma pulling at her skirt? Missy twitched away and, raising her + voice to a higher key, went on: + </p> + <p> + “I said I've been a sinner, but I've repented my sins and want to lead a + blameless life. I repent my sins—O Lord, please forgive me for being + a spy-eye when Cousin Pete kissed Polly Currier, and guide me to lead a + blameless life. Amen.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down. + </p> + <p> + A great and heavenly stillness came and wrapped itself about her, a soft + and velvety stillness; to shut out gasp or murmur or stifled titter. + </p> + <p> + The miracle had happened! It was as if an inner light had been switched + on; a warm white light which tingled through to every fibre of her being. + Surely this was the flame divine! It was her soul being born anew... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. “Your True Friend, Melissa M.” + </h2> + <p> + Missy knew, the moment she opened her eyes, that golden June morning, that + it was going to be a happy day. Missy, with Poppylinda purring beside her, + found this mysterious, irradiant feeling flowing out of her heart almost + as tangible as a third live being in her quaint little room. It seemed a + sort of left-over, still vaguely attached, from the wonderful dream she + had just been having. Trying to recall the dream, she shut her eyes again; + Missy's one regret, in connection with her magical dreams, was that the + sparkling essence of them was apt to become dim when she awoke. But now, + when she opened her eyes, the suffusion still lingered. + </p> + <p> + For a long, quiet, blissful moment, she lay smiling at the spot where the + sunlight, streaming level through the lace-curtained window, fell on the + rose-flowered chintz of the valances. Missy liked those colours very much; + then her eyes followed the beam of light to where it spun a prism of fairy + colours on the mirror above the high-boy, and she liked that ecstatically. + She liked, too, by merely turning her head on the pillow, to glimpse, + through the parting of the curtains, the ocean of blue sky with its flying + cloud ships, so strange; and to hear the morning song of the birds and the + happy hum of insects, the music seeming almost to filter through the lace + curtains in a frescoed pattern which glided, alive, along the golden + roadway of sunshine. She even liked the monotonous metallic rattle which + betold that old Jeff was already at work with the lawn-mower. + </p> + <p> + All this in a silent moment crammed to the full with vibrant ecstasy; then + Missy remembered, specifically, the Wedding drawing every day nearer, and + the new Pink Dress, and the glory to be hers when she should strew flowers + from a huge leghorn hat, and her rapture brimmed over. Physically and + spiritually unable to keep still another second, she suddenly sat up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Poppylinda!” she whispered. “I'm so happy—so happy!” + </p> + <p> + Everyone knows—that is, everyone who knows kittens—that + kittens, like babies, listen with their eyes. To Missy's whispered + confidence, Poppylinda, without stirring, opened her lids and blinked her + yellow eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you happy, too? Say you're happy, Poppy, darling!” + </p> + <p> + Poppy was stirred to such depths that mere eye-blinking could not express + her emotion. She opened her mouth, so as to expose completely her tiny red + tongue, and then, without lingual endeavour, began to hum a gentle, + crooning rumble down somewhere near her stomach. Yes; Poppy was happy. + </p> + <p> + The spirit of thanksgiving glamorously enwrapped these two all the time + Missy was dressing. Like the efficient big girl of twelve that she was, + Missy drew her own bath and, later, braided her own hair neatly. As she + tied the ribbons on those braids, now crossed in a “coronet” over her + head, she gave the ghost of a sigh. This morning she didn't want to wear + her every-day bows; but dutifully she tied them on, a big brown cabbage + above each ear. When she had scrambled into her checked gingham “sailor + suit,” all spick and span, Missy stood eying herself in the mirror for a + wistful moment, wishing her tight braids might metamorphose into lovely, + hanging curls like Kitty Allen's. They come often to a “strange child”—these + moments of vague longing to overhear one's self termed a “pretty child”—especially + on the eve of an important occasion. + </p> + <p> + But thoughts of that important occasion speedily chased away consciousness + of self. And downstairs in the cheerful dining room, with the family all + gathered round the table, Missy, her cheeks glowing pink and her big grey + eyes ashine, found it difficult to eat her oatmeal, for very rapture. In + the bay window, the geraniums on the sill nodded their great, biossomy + heads at her knowingly. Beyond, the big maple was stirring its leaves, + silver side up, like music in the breeze. Away across the yard, somewhere, + Jeff was making those busy, restful sounds with the lawn-mower. These + alluring things, and others stretching out to vast mental distances, quite + deadened, for Missy, the family's talk close at hand. + </p> + <p> + “When I ran over to the Greenleaf's to borrow the sugar,” Aunt Nettie was + saying, “May White was there, and she and Helen hurried out of the dining + room when they saw me. I'm sure they'd been crying, and—” + </p> + <p> + “S-sh!” warned Mrs. Merriam, with a glance toward Missy. Then, in a louder + tone: “Eat your cereal, Missy. Why are you letting it get cold?” + </p> + <p> + Missy brought her eyes back from space with an answering smile. “I was + thinking,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + “What of, Missy?” This, encouragingly, from father. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dream, last night.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you dream about?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—mountains,” replied Missy, somewhat vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “For the land's sake!” exclaimed Aunt Nettie. “What ever put such a thing + into her head? She never saw a mountain in her life!” Grown-ups have a + disconcerting way of speaking of children, even when present, in the third + person. But Aunt Nettie finally turned to Missy with a direct (and + dreaded): “What did they look like, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—mountains,” returned Missy, still vague. + </p> + <p> + At a sign from mother, the others did not press her further. When she had + finished her breakfast, Missy approached her mother, and the latter, + reading the question in her eyes, asked: + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “I feel—like pink to-day,” faltered Missy, half-embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + But her mother did not ask for explanation. She only pondered a moment. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” reminded the supplicant, “I have to try on the Pink Dress this + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then,” granted mother. “But only the second-best ones.” + </p> + <p> + Missy's face brightened and she made for the door. + </p> + <p> + Before she got altogether out of earshot, Aunt Nettie began: “I don't know + that it's wise to humour her in her notions. 'Feel like pink!'—what + in the world does she mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + Missy was glad the question had not been put to her; for, to have saved + her life, she couldn't have answered it intelligibly. She was out of + hearing too soon to catch her mother's answer: + </p> + <p> + “She's just worked up over the wedding, and being a flower-girl and all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't believe,” stated Aunt Nettie with the assurance that + spinsters are wont to show in discussing such matters, “that it's good for + children to let them work themselves up that way. She'll be as much upset + as the bridegroom if Helen does back out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't think old Mrs. Greenleaf would ever let her break it off, + now” said Mrs. Merriam, stooping to pick up the papers which her husband + had left strewn over the floor. + </p> + <p> + “She's hard as rocks,” agreed Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “Though,” Mrs. Merriam went on, “when it's a question of her daughter's + happiness—” + </p> + <p> + “A little unhappiness would serve Helen Green leaf right,” commented the + other tartly. “She's spoiled to death and a flirt. I think it was a lucky + day for young Doc Alison when she jilted him.” + </p> + <p> + “She's just young and vain,” championed Mrs. Merriam, carefully folding + the papers and laying them in the rack. “Any pretty girl in Helen's + position couldn't help being spoiled. And you must admit nothing's ever + turned her head—Europe, or her visits to Cleveland, or anything.” + </p> + <p> + “The Cleveland man is handsome,” said Aunt Nettie irrelevantly—the + Cleveland man was the bridegroom-elect. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in a stylish, sporty kind of way. But I don't know—” She + hesitated a moment, then concluded: “Missy doesn't like him.” + </p> + <p> + At that Aunt Nettie laughed with genuine mirth. “What on earth do you + think a child would know about it?” she ridiculed. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the child, whose departure had thus loosed free speech, was + leagues distant from the gossip and the unrest which was its source. Her + pink hair bows, even the second-best ones, lifted her to a state which + made it much pleasanter to idle in her window, sniffing at the + honey-suckle, than to hurry down to the piano. She longed to make up + something which, like a tune of water rippling over pink pebbles, was + running through her head. But faithfully, at last, she toiled through her + hour, and then was called on to mind the Baby. + </p> + <p> + This last duty was a real pleasure. For she could wheel the perambulator + off to the summerhouse, in a secluded, sweet-smelling corner of the yard, + and there recite poetry aloud. To reinforce those verses she knew by + heart, she carried along the big Anthology which, in its old-blue binding, + contrasted so satisfyingly with the mahogany table in the sitting-room. + The first thing she read was “Before the Beginning of Years” from + “Atalanta in Calydon;” Missy especially adored Swinburne—so + liltingly incomprehensible. + </p> + <p> + The performance, as ever, was highly successful all around. Baby really + enjoyed it and Poppylinda as well, both of them blinking in placid + appreciation. And as for Missy, the liquid sound of the metres rolling off + her own lips, the phrases so beautiful and so “deep,” seemed to lift a + choking something right up into her throat until she could have wept with + the sweet pain of it. She did, as a matter of fact, happy tears, about + which her two auditors asked no embarrassing question. Baby merely + gurgled, and Poppylinda essayed to climb the declaimer's skirts. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, sad Soul!” Missy's mood could no longer even attempt to mate + with prose. She turned through the pages of the Anthology until she came + to another favourite: + </p> + <p> + So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like + young Lochinvar. + </p> + <p> + This she read through, with a fine, swinging rhythm. “I think that last + stanza's perfectly exquisite—don't you?” Missy enquired of her mute + audience. And she repeated it, as unctuously as though she were the poet + herself. Then, quite naturally, this romance recalled to her the romance + next door, so deliciously absorbing her waking and dreaming hours—the + romance of her own Miss Princess. Miss Princess—Missy's more formal + adaptation of Young Doc's soubriquet for Helen Greenleaf in the days of + his romance—was the most beautiful heroine imaginable. And the + Wedding was next week, and Missy was to walk first of all the six + flower-girls, and the Pink Dress was all but done, and the Pink Stockings—silk!—were + upstairs in the third drawer of the high-boy! Oh, it was a golden world, + radiant with joy. Of course—it's only earth, after all, and not + heaven—she'd rather the bridegroom was going to be young Doc. But + Miss Princess had arranged it this other way—her bridegroom had come + out of the East. And the Wedding was almost here!... There never was + morning so fair, nor grass so vivid and shiny, nor air so soft. Above her + head the cherry-buds were swelling, almost ready to burst. From the open + windows of the house, down the street, sounds from a patient piano, + flattered by distance, betokened that Kitty Allen was struggling with + “Perpetual Motion”; Missy, who had finished her struggles with that + abomination-to-beginners a month previously felt her sense of beatitude + deepen. + </p> + <p> + Presently into this Elysium floated her mother's voice, summoning her to + the house. Rounding the corner of the back walk with the perambulator, she + collided with the grocer-boy. He was a nice-mannered boy, picking up the + Anthology and Baby's doll from the ground, and handing them to her with a + charming smile. Besides, he had very bright, sparkling eyes. Missy fancied + he must be some lost Prince, and inwardly resolved to make up, as soon as + alone, a story to this effect. + </p> + <p> + In the house, mother told her it was time to go to Miss Martin's to try on + the Pink Dress. + </p> + <p> + Down the street, she encountered Mr. Hackett, the rich bridegroom come out + of the East, a striking figure, on that quiet street, in the natty white + flannels suggesting Cleveland, Atlantic City, and other foreign places. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if here isn't Sappho!” he greeted her gaily. Missy blushed. Not for + worlds had she suspected he was hearing her, that unlucky morning in the + grape-arbour, when she recited her latest Poem to Miss Princess. Now she + smiled perfunctorily, and started to pass him. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Hackett, swinging his stick, stood with his feet wide apart and + looked down at her. + </p> + <p> + “How's the priestess of song, this fine morning?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “All-right,” stammered Missy. + </p> + <p> + He laughed, as if actually enjoying her confusion. Missy observed that his + eyes were red-rimmed, and his face a pasty white. She wondered whether he + was sick; but he jauntily waved his stick at her and went on his way. + </p> + <p> + Missy, a trifle subdued, continued hers. + </p> + <p> + But oh, it is a wonderful world! You never know what any moment may bring + you. Adventures fairy-sent surprises, await you at the most unexpected + turns, spring at you from around the first corner. + </p> + <p> + It was around the very first corner, in truth, that Missy met young Doc + Alison, buzzing leisurely along in his Ford. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Missy,” he greeted. “Like a lift?” + </p> + <p> + Missy would. Young Doc jumped out, and, in a deferential manner she + admired very much, assisted her into the little car as though she were a + grown-up and lovely young lady. Young Doc was a nice man. She knew him + well. He had felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, sent her Valentines, + taken her riding, and shown her many other little courtesies for as far + back as she could remember. Then, too, she greatly admired his looks. He + was tall and lean and wiry. His face was given to quick flashes of + smiling; and his eyes could be dreamy or luminous. He resembled, Missy now + decided—and marvelled she hadn't noticed it before—that other + young man, Lochinvar, “so faithful in love and so dauntless in war.” + </p> + <p> + When young Doc politely enquired whether she could steal enough time from + her errand to turn about for a run up “The Boulevard,” Missy acquiesced. + She regretted she hadn't worn her shirred mull hat. But she decided not to + worry about that. After all, her appearance, at the present moment, didn't + so much matter. What did matter was the way she was going to look next + Wednesday—and she excitedly began telling young Doc about her coming + magnificence, “It's silk organdie,” she said in a reverent tone, “and has + garlands of rosebuds.” She went on and told him of the big leghorn hat to + be filled with flowers, of the Pink Stockings—best of all, silk!—waiting, + in tissue-paper, in the high-boy drawer. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can hardly wait!” she concluded rapturously. + </p> + <p> + Young Doc, guiding the car around the street-sprinkling wagon, did not + answer. Beyond the wagon, Mr. Hackett, whom the Ford had overtaken, was + swinging along. Missy turned to young Doc with a slight grimace. + </p> + <p> + “'The poor craven bridegroom said never a word,'” she quoted. + </p> + <p> + Young Doc permitted himself to smile—not too much. “Why don't you + like him, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + Missy shook her head, without other reply. It would have been difficult + for her to express why she didn't like stylish Mr. Hackett. + </p> + <p> + “I wish,” she said suddenly, “that you were going to be the bridegroom, + Doc.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled a wry smile at her. “Well, to tell the truth, I wish so, too, + Missy.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she'll be coming back to visit us often, and maybe you can take us + out riding again.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe—but after getting used to big imported cars, I'm afraid one + doesn't care much for a Ford.” + </p> + <p> + There was a note of cynicism, of pain, which, because she didn't know what + it was, cut Missy to the heart. It is all very well, in Romance and Poems, + to meet with unhappy, discarded lovers—they played an essential part + in many of the best ballads in the Anthology; but when that romantic role + falls, in real life, on the shoulders of a nice young Doc, the matter + assumes a different complexion. Missy's own ecstasy over the Wedding + suddenly loomed thoughtless, selfish, wicked. She longed timidly to reach + over and pat that lean brown hand resting on the steering-wheel. Two + sentences she formed in her mind, only to abandon them unspoken, when, to + her relief, the need for delicate diplomacy was temporarily removed by the + car's slowing to a stop before Miss Martin's gate. + </p> + <p> + Inside the little white cottage, however, in Miss Martin's sitting-room—so + queer and fascinating with its “forms,” its samples and “trimmings” pinned + to the curtains, its alluring display of fashion magazines and “charts,” + and its eternal litter of varicoloured scraps over the floor—Missy's + momentary dejection could but vanish. Finally, when in Miss Martin's + artfully tilted cheval glass, she surveyed the pink vision which was + herself, gone, for the time, was everything of sadness in the world. She + turned her head this way and that, craning to get the effect from every + angle-the bouffance of the skirt, the rosebuds wreathing the sides, the + butterfly sash in the back. Adjured by Miss Martin to stand still, she + stood vibrantly poised like a lily-stem waiting the breath of the wind; + bade to “lift up your arms,” she obeyed and visioned winged fairies alert + for flight. Even when Miss Martin, carried away by her zeal in fitting, + stuck a pin through the pink tissue clear into the warmer, softer pink + beneath, Missy scarcely felt the prick. + </p> + <p> + But, at the midday dinner-table, that sympathetic uneasiness returned. + Father, home from the office, was full of indignation over something + “disgraceful” he had heard down town. Though the conversation was held + tantalizingly above Missy's full comprehension, she could gather that the + “disgrace” centred in the bachelor dinner which Mr. Hackett had given at + the Commercial House the night before. Father evidently held no high + opinion of the introduction of “rotten Cleveland performances” nor of the + man who had introduced them. + </p> + <p> + “What 'rotten Cleveland performances'?” asked Missy with lively curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just those late, indigestible suppers,” cut in mother quickly. “Rich + food at that hour just kills your stomach. Here, don't you want another + strawberry tart, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't; but she affected a desire for it, and then a keen interest + in its consumption. By this artifice, she hoped she might efface herself + as a hindrance to continuation of the absorbing talk. But it is a trick of + grown-ups to stop dead at the most thrilling points; though she consumed + the last crumb of the tart, her ears gained no reward, until mother said: + </p> + <p> + “As soon as you've finished dinner, Missy, I wish you'd run over to + Greenleafs' and ask to borrow Miss Helen's new kimono pattern.” + </p> + <p> + Missy brightened. The sight of old Mrs. Greenleaf and Miss Princess, + bustling gaily about, would lift this strange cloud gathering so + ominously. She asked permission to carry along a bunch of sweet peas, and + gathered the kind Miss Princess liked best—pinkish lavender + blossoms, a delicious colour like the very fringe of a rainbow. + </p> + <p> + The Greenleafs' coloured maid let her in and showed her into the “den” + back of the parlour. “I'll tell Mrs. Greenleaf,” she said. “They're all + busy upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + Very busy they must have been, for Missy had restlessly dangled her feet + for what seemed hours, before she heard voices approaching the parlour. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I won't—I won't—” It was Miss Princess's voice, almost + unrecognizably high and quavering. + </p> + <p> + “Now, just listen a minute, darling—” This unmistakably Mr. + Hackett's languorous, curiously repellent monotone. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you touch me!” + </p> + <p> + Missy, stricken by the knowledge she was eavesdropping, peered about for a + means of slipping out. But the only door, portiere-hung, was the one + leading into the parlour. And now this concealed poor blundering Missy + from the speakers while it allowed their talk to drift through. + </p> + <p> + That talk, stormy and utterly incomprehensible, filled the child with a + growing sense of terror. Accusations, quick pleadings, angry retorts, + attempts at explanation, all formed a dreadful muttering background out of + which shot, like sharp streaks of lightning, occasional clearly-caught + phrases: “Charlie White came home dead drunk, I tell you—” “—You + know I'm mad about you, Helen, or I wouldn't—” “—Oh, don't you + touch me!” + </p> + <p> + To Missy, trapped and shaking with panic, the storm seemed to have raged + hours before she detected a third voice, old Mrs. Greenleaf's, which cut + calm and controlled across the area of passion. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better go out a little while, Porter, and let me talk to her.” + </p> + <p> + Then another interminable stretch of turmoil, this all the more terrifying + because less violent. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother-I can't—” Anger, spent, had given way to broken sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “I understand how you feel, dear. But you'll—” + </p> + <p> + “I despise him!” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, dear. All girls get frightened and—” + </p> + <p> + “But it isn't that, mother. I don't love him. I can't go on. Won't you, + this minute, tell him—tell everybody—?” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, don't you realize I can't?” Missy had never before heard old + Mrs. Greenleaf's voice tremble. + </p> + <p> + “The invitation, and the trousseau, and the presents, and everything. + Think of the scandal, dear. We couldn't. Don't you see, dear, we can't + back out, now?” + </p> + <p> + “O-o-oh.” + </p> + <p> + “I almost wish—but don't you see—?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can't stand it another hour!” + </p> + <p> + “You're excited, dear,” soothingly. “You'd better go rest a while. I'll + have a good talk with Porter. And you go upstairs and lie down. The + Carrolls' dinner—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dinners, luncheons, clothes. I—” + </p> + <p> + The despairing sound of Miss Princess's cry, and the throbbing realization + that these were calamities she must not overhear, stung Missy to renewed + reconnoitering. Tiptoeing over to the window, she fumbled at the fastening + of the screen, swung it outward, and, contemplating a jump to the sward + below, thrust one foot over the sill. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, there! What are you up to?” + </p> + <p> + On the side porch, not twenty feet away, Mr. Hackett was regarding her + with amazed and hostile eyes. Missy's heart thumped against her ribs. Her + consternation was not lessened when, tossing away his cigarette with a + vindictive gesture, he added: “Stay where you are!” + </p> + <p> + Missy slackened her hold and crouched back like a hunted criminal. And + like a hunted criminal he condemned her, a moment later, to old Mrs. + Greenleaf. + </p> + <p> + “That kid from next door has been snooping in here. I caught her trying to + sneak out.” + </p> + <p> + Missy faltered out her explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I know it wasn't your fault, dear,” said old Mrs. Greenleaf kindly. “What + was it you wanted?” + </p> + <p> + Her errand forgotten, Missy could only attempt a smile and dumbly extend + the bouquet. + </p> + <p> + Old Mrs. Greenleaf took the flowers, then spoke over her shoulder: “I + think Helen wants you upstairs, Porter.” Missy had always thought she was + like a Roman Matron; now it was upsetting to see the Roman Matron so + upset. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Helen's got a terrible headache and is lying down,” said old Mrs. + Greenleaf, fussing over the flowers. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Missy, desperately tongue-tied and ill-at-ease. + </p> + <p> + For a long second it endured portentously still in the room and in the + world without; then like a sharp thunder-clap out of a summer sky, a door + slammed upstairs. There was a sound of someone running down the steps, and + Missy glimpsed Mr. Hackett going out the front door, banging the screen + after him. + </p> + <p> + At the last noise, old Mrs. Greenleaf's shoulders stiffened as if under a + lash. But she turned quietly and said: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you so much for the flowers, Missy. I'll give them to her after a + while, when she's better. And you can see her to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + It was the politest of dismissals. Missy, having remembered the pattern, + hurriedly got it and ran home. She had seen a suspicion of tears in old + Mrs. Greenleaf's eyes. It was as upsetting as though the bronze Winged + Victory on the parlour mantel should begin to weep. + </p> + <p> + All that afternoon Missy sought solitude. She refused to play croquet with + Kitty Allen when that beautiful and most envied friend appeared. When + Kitty took herself home, offended, Missy went out to the remote + summerhouse, relieved. She looked back, now, on her morning's careless + happiness as an old man looks back on the heyday of his youth. + </p> + <p> + Heavy with sympathy, non-comprehension and fear, she brooded over these + dark, mysterious hints about the handsome Cleveland man; over young Doc's + blighted love; over Miss Princess's wanting to “back out”; over old Mrs. + Greenleaf's strange, dominant “pride.” + </p> + <p> + Why did Miss Princess want to “back out”?—Miss Princess with her + beautiful coppery hair, and eager parted lips, and eyes of mysterious + purple (Missy lingered on the reflection “eyes of mysterious purple” long + enough to foreshadow a future poem including that line). Was it because + she still loved Doc? If so, why didn't it turn out all right, since Doc + loved her, too? Surely that would be better, since there seemed to be + something wrong with Mr. Hackett—even though everybody did talk + about what a wonderful match he was. Then they talked about invitations + and things as though old Mrs. Greenleaf thought those things counted for + more than the bridegroom. Old Mrs. Greenleaf, Missy was sure, loved Miss + Princess better than anything else in the world: then how could she, even + if she was “proud,” twist things so foolishly? + </p> + <p> + She had brought with her the blue-bound Anthology and a writing-pad and + pencil. First she read a little—“Lochinvar” it was she opened to. + Then she meditated. Poor Young Doc! The whole unhappy situation was like + poetry. (So much in life she was finding, these days, like poetry.) This + would make a very sad, but effective poem: the faithful, unhappy lover, + the lovely, unhappy bride, the mother keeping them asunder who, though + stern, was herself unhappy, and the craven bridegroom who—she hoped + it, anyway!—was unhappy also. + </p> + <p> + In all this unhappiness, though she didn't suspect it, Missy revelled—a + peculiar kind of melancholy tuned to the golden day. She detected a subtle + restlessness in the shimmering leaves about her; the scent of the June + roses caught at something elusively sad in her. Without knowing why, her + eyes filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + She drew the writing-pad to her; conjured the vision of nice Doc and of + Miss Princess, and, immersed in a sea of feeling, sought for words and + rhyme: + </p> + <p> + O, young Doctor Al is the pride of the West, Than big flashy autos his + Ford is the best; Ah! courtly that lover and faithful and true. And fair, + wondrous fair, the maiden was, too. But O—dire the day! when from + Cleveland afar— + </p> + <p> + A long pause here: “car,” “scar,” “jar,”—all tried and discarded. + Finally sense, rhyme and meter were attuned: + </p> + <p> + —afar, A dastard she met, their sweet idyl to mar. + </p> + <p> + He won her away with his glitter and plume And citified ways, while the + lover did fume. O, fair dawned the Wedding Day, pink in the East, And folk + from all quarters did come for the feast; Gay banners from turrets— + </p> + <p> + “Missy!” + </p> + <p> + The poet, head bent, absorbed in creation, did not hear. + </p> + <p> + “Missy! Where are you? Me-lis-sa!” + </p> + <p> + This time the voice cleaved into the mood of inspiration. With a sigh + Missy put the pad and pencil in the Anthology, laid the whole on the + bench, and obediently went to mind the Baby. But, as she wheeled the + perambulator up and down the front walk, her mind liltingly repeated the + words she had written, and she stepped along in time to the rhythm. It was + a fine rhythm. And, as soon as she was relieved from duty, she rushed back + to the temporary shrine of the Muse. The words, now, flowed much more + easily than at the beginning—one of the first lessons learned by all + creative artists. + </p> + <p> + Gay banners from turrets streamed out in the air And all Maple, Avenue + turned out for the pair. Ah! beauteous was she, that white-satin young + bride, But sorrow had reddened her deep purple eyes. Each clatter of hoofs + from the courtyard below Did summon the blood swift to ebb and then flow; + For the gem on her finger, the flower in her hair, Bound not her sad heart + to that Cleveland man there. + </p> + <p> + Ah! who is this riding so fast through Main Street? The gallant young + lover— + </p> + <p> + Again, reiterant and increasingly imperative, summons from the house + slashed across her mood. Can't one's family ever appreciate the yearning + for solitude? However, even amid the talkative circle round the + supper-table, Missy felt uplifted and strangely remote. + </p> + <p> + “Why aren't you eating your supper, Missy? Just look at that wasted good + meat!” + </p> + <p> + “Meat,” though a good rhyme for “street,” would not work well. “Neat”—“fleet”—Ah! + “Fleet!” + </p> + <p> + Immediately after supper, followed by the inquisitive Poppylinda, Missy + took her poem out to the comparative solitude of the back porch steps. It + was very sweet and still out there, the sun sinking blood-red over the + cherry trees. With no difficulty at all, she went on, inspired: + </p> + <p> + —Main Street? + </p> + <p> + The gallant young Doctor in his motor so fleet! So flashing his eye and so + stately his form That the bride's sinking heart with delight did grow + warm. But the poor craven bridegroom said never a word; And the parent so + proud did champ in her woe. + </p> + <p> + The knight snatched her swiftly into the Ford, And she smiled as he + steered adown the Boulevard; Then away they did race until soon lost to + view, And all knew 'twas best for these lovers so true. For where, tell me + where, would have gone that bride's bliss? Who flouts at true love all + true happiness must miss! + </p> + <p> + What matters the vain things of Earth, soon or late, If the heart of a + loved one in anguish doth break? + </p> + <p> + When she came to the triumphant close, among the fragrant cherry blooms + the birds were twittering their lullabies. She went in to say her own good + night, the Poem, much erased and interlined, tucked in the front of her + blouse together with ineffable sensations. But she was not, for all that, + beyond a certain concern for material details. “Mother, may I do my hair + up in kid-curlers?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this is only Wednesday.” Mother's tone connoted the fact that + “waves,” rippling artificially either side of Missy's “part” down to her + two braids, achieved a decorative effect reserved for Sundays and special + events. Then quickly, perhaps because she hadn't been altogether unaware + of this last visitation of the Heavenly Muse, she added: “Well, I don't + care. Do it up, if you want to.” + </p> + <p> + Then, moved by some motive of her own, she followed Missy upstairs to do + it up herself. These occasions of personal service were rare, these days, + since Missy had grown big and efficient, and were therefore deeply + cherished. But to-night Missy almost regretted her mother's unexpected + ministration; for the paper in her blouse crackled at unwary gestures, and + if mother should protract her stay throughout the undressing period, there + might come an awkward call for explanations. + </p> + <p> + And mother, innocently, added one more element to her entangled burden of + distress. + </p> + <p> + “We'll do it up all over your head, for the Wedding,” she said, gently + brushing the full length of the fine, silvery-brown strands. “And let it + hang in loose curls.” + </p> + <p> + At the conjectured vision, Missy's eyes began to sparkle. + </p> + <p> + “And I think a ribbon band the colour of your dress would be pretty,” + mother went on, parting off a section and wrapping it round a “curler.” A + sudden remembrance clutched at Missy's ecstatic reply; the shine faded + from her eyes. But mother, engrossed, didn't observe; more deeply she sank + her unintentional barb. “No,” she mused aloud, “a garland of little + rosebuds would be better, I believe-tiny delicate little buds, tied with a + pink bow.” + </p> + <p> + At that, the prospective flower-girl, to have saved her life, could not + have repressed the sigh which rose like a tidal wave from her overcharged + heart. Mother caught the sigh, and looked at her anxiously. “Don't you + think it would look pretty?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Missy nodded mutely. So complex were her emotions that, fearing for + self-control, she was glad, just then, that the Baby cried. + </p> + <p> + As soon as mother had kissed her good night and left her, she pulled out + the paper rustling importantly within her blouse, and laid it in the + celluloid “treasure box” which sat on the high-boy. Then soberly she + finished the operation on her hair, and undressed herself. + </p> + <p> + Before getting into bed, after her regular prayer was said, she stayed + awhile on her knees and put the whole of her seething dilemma before God. + “Dear God,” she said, “you know how unhappy Miss Princess is and young + Doc, too. Please make them both happy, God. And please help me not feel + sorry about the Pink Dress. For I just can't help feeling sorry. Please + help us all, dear God, and I'll be such a good girl, God.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it is the biggest gift in the world, to be able to pray. And, by + prayer, is not meant the saying over of a formal code, but the simple, + direct speaking with God. It is so simple in the doing, so marvellous in + its reaction, that the strange thing is that it is not more generally + practiced. But there is where the gift comes in: a supreme essence of + spirit which must, if the prayer is to achieve its end, be first + possessed-a thing possessed by all children not yet quite rid of the + glamour of immortality and by some, older, who contrive to hold enough + glamour to be as children throughout life. Some call this thing Faith, but + there are other names just as good; and the essence lives on forever. + </p> + <p> + These reflections are not Missy's. She knelt there, without consciousness + of any motive or analysis. She only knew she was telling it all to God. + And presently, in her heart, in whispers fainter than the stir of the + slumbering leaves outside, she heard His answer. God had heard; she knew + it by the peace He laid upon her tumultuous heart. + </p> + <p> + Steeped in faith, she fell asleep. But not a dreamless sleep. Missy always + dreamed, these nights: wonderful dreams—magical, splendid, sometimes + vaguely terrifying, often remotely tied up with some event of the day, but + always wonderful. And the last dream she dreamed, this eventful night, was + marvellous indeed. For it was a replica of the one she had dreamed the + night before. + </p> + <p> + It was an omen of divine portent. No one could have doubted it. Missy, + waking from its subtle glamour to the full sunlight streaming across her + pillow, hugged Poppylinda, crooned over her and, though preparing to + sacrifice that golden something whose prospect had gilded her life, sang + her way through the duties of her toilet. + </p> + <p> + That accomplished, she lifted out her Poem, and wrote at the bottom: “Your + true friend, MELISSA M.” + </p> + <p> + Then she tucked the two sheets in her blouse, and scrambled downstairs to + be chided again for not eating her breakfast. + </p> + <p> + After the last spoonful, obligatory and arduous, had been disposed of, she + loitered near the hall telephone until there was a clear field, then + called Young Doc's number. What a relief to find he had not yet gone out! + Could he stop by her house, pretty soon? Why, what was the matter—Doc's + voice was alarmed—someone sick? + </p> + <p> + “No, but it's something very important, Doc.” + </p> + <p> + Missy's manner was hurried and impressive. + </p> + <p> + “Won't it wait?” + </p> + <p> + “It's terribly important.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Can't you tell me now, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “No—it's a secret. And I've got to hurry up now and hang up the + phone because it's a secret.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. All right, I'll be along in about fifteen minutes. What do you + want me to—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop by the summerhouse,” she cut in nervously. “I'll be there.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed a long time, but in reality was shorter than schedule, before + Young Doc's car appeared up the side street. He brought it to a stop + opposite the summerhouse, jumped out and approached the rendezvous. + </p> + <p> + Summoning all her courage, she held the Poem ready in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning, Missy,” he sang out. “What's all the mystery?” + </p> + <p> + For answer Missy could only smile—a smile made wan by nervousness—and + extend the two crumpled sheets of paper. + </p> + <p> + Young Doc took them curiously, smiled at the primly-lettered, downhill + lines, and then narrowed his eyes to skimming absorption. A strange + expression gathered upon his face as he read. Missy didn't know exactly + what to make of his working muscles—whether he was pained or angry + or amused. But she was entirely unprepared for the fervour with which, + when he finished, he seized her by the shoulders and bounced her up and + down. + </p> + <p> + “Did you make all this up?” he cried. “Or do you mean she really doesn't + want to marry that bounder?” + </p> + <p> + “She really doesn't,” answered Missy, not too engaged in steeling herself + against his crunching of her shoulder bones to register the soubriquet, + “bounder.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you didn't make most of it up?” Young Doc knew well Missy's + strain of romanticism. But she strove to convince him that, for once, she + was by way of being a realist. + </p> + <p> + “She despises him. She can't bear to go on with it. She can't stand it + another hour. I heard her say so myself.” Young Doc, crunching her + shoulder bones worse than ever, breathed hard, but said nothing. Missy + proffered bashfully: + </p> + <p> + “I think, maybe, she wants to marry you, Doc.” + </p> + <p> + Young Doc then, just at the moment she couldn't have borne the vise a + second longer, let go her shoulders, and smiled a smile which, for her, + would have eased a splintered bone itself. + </p> + <p> + “We'll quickly find that out,” he said, and his voice was more buoyant + than she had heard it in months. “Missy, do you think you could get a note + to her right away?” + </p> + <p> + Missy nodded eagerly. + </p> + <p> + He scribbled the note on the back of a letter and folded it with the Poem + in the used envelope. “There won't be any answer,” he directed Missy, + “unless she brings it herself. Just get it to her without anyone's + seeing.” + </p> + <p> + Missy nodded again, vibrant with repressed excitement. “I'll just pretend + it's a secret about a poem. Miss Princess always helps make secrets about + poems.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently Miss Princess did so this time. For, after an eternity of ten + minutes, Young Doc, peering through the leaves of the summerhouse, saw + Missy and her convoy coming across the lawn. Missy was walking along very + solemnly, with only an occasional skip to betray the ebullition within + her. + </p> + <p> + But it was on the tall girl that Young Doc's gaze was riveted, the slender + graceful figure which, for all its loveliness, had something pathetically + drooping about it—like a lily with a storm-bruised stem. + </p> + <p> + Something in Young Doc's throat clicked, and every last trace of + resentment and wounded pride magically dissolved. He went straight to her + in the doorway, and for a moment they stood there as if forgetful of + everyone else in the world. Neither spoke, as is the way of those whose + minds and hearts are full of inarticulate things. Then it was Doc who + broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Missy,” he said in quite an ordinary tone, “there are some of + those sugar pills in a bag out in the Ford. You'll find them tucked in a + corner of the seat.” + </p> + <p> + Obediently Missy departed to get the treat. And when she returned, not too + quickly, Miss Princess was laughing and crying both at once, and Young Doc + was openly squeezing both her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Missy,” he hailed, “run in and ask your mother if you can go for a ride. + Needn't mention Miss Princess is going along.” + </p> + <p> + O, it is a wonderful world! Swiftly back at the trysting place with the + necessary permission, tucked into the Ford between the two happy lovers, + “away they did race until soon lost to view.” + </p> + <p> + And exactly the same happy purpose as that in the Poem! For, half-way down + the stretch of Boulevard, Miss Princess squeezed her hand and said: + </p> + <p> + “We're going over to Somerville, darling, to be married, and you're to be + one of the witnesses.” + </p> + <p> + Missy's heart surged with delight—O, it was a wonderful world! Then + a dart of remembrance came, and a big tear spilled out and ran down her + cheek. Miss Princess, in the midst of a laugh, looked down and spied it. + </p> + <p> + “Why, darling, what is it?” she cried anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “My Pink Dress—I just happened to think of it. But it doesn't really + make any difference.” However Missy's eyes were wet and shining with an + emotion she couldn't quite control. + </p> + <p> + With eyes which were shining with many emotions, the man and girl, over + her head, regarded each other. It was the man who spoke first, slowing + down the car as he did so. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think we'd better run back to Miss Martin's and get it?” + </p> + <p> + For answer, his sweetheart leaned across Missy and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + A fifteen minutes' delay, and again the Ford was headed towards Somerville + and the County Courthouse; but now an additional passenger, a big brown + box, was hugged between Missy's knees. In the County Courthouse she did + not forget to guard this box tenderly all the time Young Doc and Miss + Princess were scurrying around musty offices, interviewing important, + shirt-sleeved men, and signing papers—not even when she herself was + permitted to sign her name to an imposing document, “just for luck,” as + Doc laughingly said. + </p> + <p> + Then he bent his head to hear what Miss Princess wanted to whisper to him, + and they both laughed some more; and then he said something to the + shirtsleeved men, and they laughed; and then—O, it is a wonderful + world!—Miss Princess took her into a dusty, paper-littered inner + office, lifted the Pink Dress out of the box, dressed Missy up in it, + fluffed out the “wave” in her front hair, and exclaimed that she was the + loveliest little flower-girl in the whole world. + </p> + <p> + “Even without the flower-hat and the pink stockings?” + </p> + <p> + “Even without the flower-hat and the pink stockings,” said Miss Princess + with such assurance that Missy cast off doubt forever. + </p> + <p> + After the Wedding—and never in Romance was such a gay, laughing + Wedding—when again they were all packed in the Ford, Missy gave a + contented sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I kind of knew it,” she confided. “For I dreamed it all, two nights + running. Both times I had on the Pink Dress, and both times it was Doc. + I'm so happy it's Doc.” + </p> + <p> + And over her head the other two looked in each other's eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. LIKE A SINGING BIRD + </h2> + <p> + She was fourteen, going on fifteen; and the world was a fascinating place. + There were people who found Cherryvale a dull, poky little town to live + in, but not Melissa. Not even in winter, when school and lessons took up + so much time that it almost shut out reading and the wonderful dreams + which reading is bound to bring you. Yet even school-especially high + school the first year-was interesting. The more so when there was a + teacher like Miss Smith, who looked too pretty to know so much about + algebra and who was said to get a letter every day from a lieutenant-in + the Philippines! Then there was ancient history, full of things + fascinating enough to make up for algebra and physics. But even physics + becomes suddenly thrilling at times. And always literature! Of course + “grades” were bothersome, and sometimes you hated to show your monthly + report to your parents, who seemed to set so much store by it; and + sometimes you almost envied Beulah Crosswhite, who always got an A and who + could ask questions which disconcerted even the teachers. + </p> + <p> + Yes, even school was interesting. However, summertime was best, although + then you must practice your music lesson two hours instead of one a day, + dust the sitting room, and mind the baby. But you could spend long, long + hours in the summerhouse, reading poetry out of the big Anthology and-this + a secret-writing poetry yourself! It was heavenly to write poetry. + Something soft and warm seemed to ooze through your being as you sat out + there and watched the sorrow of a drab, drab sky; or else, on a bright + day, a big shining cloud aloft like some silver-gold fairy palace and, + down below, the smell of warm, new-cut grass, and whispers of little live + things everywhere! It was then that you felt you'd have died if you + couldn't have written poetry! + </p> + <p> + It was on such a lilting day of June, and Melissa's whole being in tune + with it, that she was called in to the midday dinner-and received the + invitation. + </p> + <p> + Father had brought it from the post office and handed it to her with + exaggerated solemnity. “For Miss Melissa Merriam,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + Yes! there was her name on the tiny envelope. + </p> + <p> + And, on the tiny card within, written in a painstaking, cramped hand: + </p> + <p> + Mr. Raymond Bonner At Home Wednesday June Tenth R.S.V.P. 8 P.M. + </p> + <p> + With her whole soul in her mouth, which made it quite impossible to speak, + she passed the card to her mother and waited. “Oh,” said mother, “an + evening party.” + </p> + <p> + Melissa's soul dropped a trifle: it still clogged her throat, but she was + able to form words. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother!” + </p> + <p> + “You KNOW you're not to ask to go to evening parties, Missy.” Mother's + tone was as firm as doom. + </p> + <p> + Missy turned her eyes to father. + </p> + <p> + “Don't look at me with those big saucers!” he smiled. “Mother's the + judge.” + </p> + <p> + So Missy turned her eyes back again. “Mother, PLEASE-” + </p> + <p> + But mother shook her head. “You're too young to begin such things, Missy. + I don't know what this town's coming to—mere babies running round at + night, playing cards and dancing!” + </p> + <p> + “But, mother—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't start teasing, Missy. It won't do any good.” + </p> + <p> + So Missy didn't start teasing, but her soul remained choking in her + throat. It made it difficult for her to swallow, and nothing tasted good, + though they had lamb chops, which she adored. + </p> + <p> + “Eat your meat, Missy,” adjured mother. Missy tried to obey and felt that + she was swallowing lumps of lead. + </p> + <p> + But in the afternoon everything miraculously changed. Kitty Allen and her + mother came to call. Kitty was her chum, and lived in the next block, up + the hill. Kitty was beautiful, with long curls which showed golden glints + in the sun. She had a whim that she and Missy, sometimes, should have + dresses made exactly alike-for instance, this summer, their best dresses + of pink dotted mull. Missy tried to enjoy the whim with Kitty, but she + couldn't help feeling sad at seeing how much prettier Kitty could look in + the same dress. If only she had gold-threaded curls! + </p> + <p> + During the call the party at the Bonners' was mentioned. Mrs. Allen was + going to “assist” Mrs. Bonner. She suggested that Missy might accompany + Kitty and herself. + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't thought of letting Missy go,” said Mrs. Merriam. “She seems so + young to start going out evenings that way.” + </p> + <p> + “I know just how you feel,” replied Mrs. Allen. “I feel just the same way. + But as long as I've got to assist, I'm willing Kitty should go this time; + and I thought you mightn't object to Missy's going along with us.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother!” Missy's tone was a prayer. + </p> + <p> + And her mother, smiling toward her a charming, tolerant smile as if to + say: “Well, what can one do in the face of those eyes?” finally assented. + </p> + <p> + After that the afternoon went rushing by on wings of joy. When the + visitors departed Missy had many duties to perform, but they were not + dull, ordinary duties; they were all tinted over with rainbow colours. She + stemmed strawberries in the kitchen where Marguerite, the hired girl, was + putting up fruit, and she loved the pinkish-red and grey-green of the + berries against the deep yellow of the bowl. She loved, too, the colour of + the geraniums against the green-painted sill just beside her. And the + sunlight making leafwork brocade on the grass out the window! There were + times when combinations of colour seemed the most beautiful thing in the + world. + </p> + <p> + Then she had to mind the baby for a while, and she took him out on the + side lawn and pretended to play croquet with him. The baby wasn't quite + three, and it was delicious to see him, with mallet and ball before a + wicket, trying to mimic the actions of his elders. Poppylinda, Missy's big + black cat, wanted to play too, and succeeded in getting between the baby's + legs and upsetting him. But the baby was under a charm; he only picked + himself up and laughed. And Missy was sure that black Poppy also laughed. + </p> + <p> + That night at supper she didn't have much chance to talk to father about + the big event, for he had brought an old friend home to supper. Missy was + rather left out of the conversation. She felt glad for that; it is hard to + talk to old people; it is hard to express to them the thoughts and + feelings that possess you. Besides, to-night she didn't want to talk to + anyone, nor to listen. She only wanted to sit immersed in that soft, warm, + fluttering deliciousness. + </p> + <p> + Just as the meal was over the hall telephone rang and, at a sign from + mother, she excused herself to answer it. From outside the door she heard + father's friend say: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he be speaking of her? + </p> + <p> + The evening, as the afternoon had been, was divine. When Missy was getting + ready for bed she leaned out of the window to look at the night, and the + fabric of her soul seemed to stretch out and mingle with all that dark, + luminous loveliness. It seemed that she herself was a part of the silver + moon high up there, a part of the white, shining radiance which spread + down and over leaves and grass everywhere. The strong, damp scent of the + ramblers on the porch seemed to be her own fragrant breath, and the black + shadows pointing out from the pine trees were her own blots of sadness—sadness + vague and mysterious, with more of pleasure in it than pain. + </p> + <p> + She could hardly bear to leave this mysterious, fascinating night; to + leave off thinking the big, vague thoughts the night always called forth; + but she had to light the gas and set about the business of undressing. + </p> + <p> + But, first, she paused to gaze at herself in the looking-glass. For the + millionth time she wished she were pretty like Kitty Allen. And Kitty + would wear her pink dotted mull to the party. Missy sighed. + </p> + <p> + Then meditatively she unbraided her long, mouse-coloured braids; twisted + them into tentative loops over her ears; earnestly studied the effect. No; + her hair was too straight and heavy. She tried to imagine undulating waves + across her forehead-if only mother would let her use crimpers! Perhaps she + would! And then, perhaps, she wouldn't look so plain. She wished she were + not so plain; the longing to be pretty made her fairly ache. + </p> + <p> + Then slowly the words of that man crept across her memory: “What beautiful + eyes!” Could he have meant her? She stared at the eyes which stared back + from the looking-glass till she had the odd sensation that they were + something quite strange and Allen to her: big, dark, deep, and grave eyes, + peering out from some unknown consciousness. And they were beautiful eyes! + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door: “Missy, + why in the world haven't you gone to bed?” + </p> + <p> + Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing with your hair?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just experimenting. Mother, may I have it crimped for the party?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—we'll see. Now hurry and jump into bed.” + </p> + <p> + After mother had kissed her good night and gone, and after the light had + been turned out, Missy lay awake for a long time. + </p> + <p> + Through the lace window curtains shone the moonlight, a gleaming path + along which Missy had often flown out to be a fairy. It is quite easy to + be a fairy. You lie perfectly still, your arms stretched out like wings. + Then you fix your eyes on the moonlight and imagine you feel your wings + stir. And the first thing you know you feel yourself being wafted through + the window, up through the silver-tinged air. You touch the clouds with + your magic wand, and from them fall shimmering jewels. + </p> + <p> + Missy was fourteen, going on fifteen, but she could still play being a + fairy. + </p> + <p> + But to-night, though the fairy path stretched invitingly to her very bed, + she did not ride out upon it. She shut her eyes, though she felt + wide-awake. She shut her eyes so as to see better the pictures that came + before them. + </p> + <p> + With her eyes shut she could see herself quite plainly at the party. She + looked like herself, only much prettier. Yes, and a little older, perhaps. + Her pink dotted mull was easily recognizable, though it had taken on a + certain ethereally chic quality—as if a rosy cloud had been + manipulated by French fingers. Her hair was a soft, bright, curling + triumph. And when she moved she was graceful as a swaying flower stem. + </p> + <p> + As Missy watched this radiant being which was herself she could see that + she was as gracious and sweet-mannered as she was beautiful; perhaps a bit + dignified and reserved, but that is always fitting. + </p> + <p> + No wonder the other girls and the boys gathered round her, captivated. All + the boys were eager to dance with her, and when she danced she reminded + you of a swaying lily. Most often her partner was Raymond himself. Raymond + danced well too. And he was the handsomest boy at his party. He had blonde + hair and deep, soft black eyes like his father, who was the handsomest as + well as the richest man in Cherryvale. And he liked her, for last year, + their first year in high school, he used to study the Latin lesson with + her and wait for her after school and carry her books home for her. He had + done that although Kitty Allen was much prettier than she and though + Beulah Crosswhite was much, much smarter. The other girls had teased her + about him, and the boys must have teased Raymond, for after a while he had + stopped walking home with her. She didn't know whether she was gladder or + sorrier for that. But she knew that she was glad he did not ignore that + radiant, pink-swathed guest who, in her beautiful vision, was having such + a glorious time at his party. + </p> + <p> + Next morning she awoke to find a soft, misty rain greying the world + outside her window. Missy did not mind that; she loved rainy days—they + made you feel so pleasantly sad. For a time she lay quiet, watching the + slant, silvery threads and feeling mysteriously, fascinatingly, at peace. + Then Poppy, who always slept at the foot of her bed, awoke with a + tremendous yawning and stretching—exactly the kind of “exercises” + that young Doc Alison prescribed for father, who hated to get up in the + mornings! + </p> + <p> + Then Poppy, her exercises done, majestically trod the coverlet to salute + her mistress with the accustomed matinal salutation which Missy called a + kiss. Mother did not approve of Poppy's “kisses,” but Missy argued to + herself that the morning one, dependable as an alarm clock, kept her from + oversleeping. + </p> + <p> + She hugged Poppy, jumped out of bed, and began dressing. When she got + downstairs breakfast was ready and the house all sweetly diffused with the + dreamy shadows that come with a rainy day. + </p> + <p> + Father had heard the great news and bantered her: “So we've got a society + queen in our midst!” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” put in Aunt Nettie, “that it's disgraceful the way they put + children forward these days.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't let Missy go if Mrs. Allen wasn't going to be there to look + after her,” said mother. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, may I have the hem of my pink dress let down?” asked Missy. + </p> + <p> + At that father laughed, and Aunt Nettie might just as well have said: “I + told you so!” as put on that expression. + </p> + <p> + “It's my first real party,” Missy went on, “and I'd like to look as pretty + as I can.” + </p> + <p> + Something prompted father, as he rose from the table, to pause and lay his + hand on Missy's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you get her a new ribbon or something, mother?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe a new sash,” answered mother reflectively. “They've got some pretty + brocaded pink ribbon at Bonner's.” + </p> + <p> + After which Missy finished her breakfast in a rapture. It is queer how you + can eat, and like what you eat very much, and yet scarcely taste it at + all. + </p> + <p> + When the two hours of practicing were over, mother sent her down town to + buy the ribbon for the sash—a pleasant errand. She changed the black + tie on her middy blouse to a scarlet one and let the ends fly out of her + grey waterproof cape. Why is it that red is such a divine colour on a + rainy day? + </p> + <p> + Upon her return there was still an hour before dinner, and she sat by the + dining-room window with Aunt Nettie, to darn stockings. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Missy,” said Aunt Nettie presently, “a penny for your thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + Missy looked up vaguely, at a loss. “I wasn't thinking of anything + exactly,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “What were you smiling about?” + </p> + <p> + “Was I smiling?” + </p> + <p> + Just then mother entered and Aunt Nettie said: “Missy smiles, and doesn't + know it. Party!” + </p> + <p> + But Missy knew it wasn't the party entirely. Nor was it entirely the sound + of the rain swishing, nor the look of the trees quietly weeping, nor of + the vivid red patches of geranium beds. Everything could have been quite + different, and still she'd have felt happy. Her feeling, mysteriously, was + as much from things INSIDE her as from things outside. + </p> + <p> + After dinner was over and the baby minded for an hour, mother made the + pink-brocaded sash. It was very lovely. Then she had an hour to herself, + and since the rain wouldn't permit her to spend it in the summerhouse, she + took a book up to her own room. It was a book of poems from the Public + Library. + </p> + <p> + The first poem she opened to was one of the most marvellous things she had + ever read—almost as wonderful as “The Blessed Damozel.” She was glad + she had chanced upon it on a rainy day, and when she felt like this. It + was called “A Birthday,” and it went: + </p> + <p> + My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart + is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart + is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder + than all these, Because my love is come to me. + </p> + <p> + Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve + it with doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work in + it gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys, Because the + birthday of my life Is come; my love is come to me. + </p> + <p> + The poem expressed beautifully what she might have answered when Aunt + Nettie asked why she smiled. Only, even though she herself could have + expressed it so beautifully then, it was not the kind of answer you'd + dream of making to Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Missy awoke to find the rain gone and warm, golden + sunshine filtering through the lace curtains. She dressed herself quickly, + while the sunshine smiled and watched her toilet. After breakfast, at the + piano, her fingers found the scales tiresome. Of themselves they wandered + off into unexpected rhythms which seemed to sing aloud: Work it in gold + and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys... Raise me a dais + of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes... + </p> + <p> + She was idly wondering what a “vair” might be when her dreams were crashed + into by mother's reproving voice: “Missy, what are you doing? If you don't + get right down to practicing, there'll be no more parties!” + </p> + <p> + Abashed, Missy made her fingers behave, but not her heart. It was singing + a tune far out of harmony with chromatic exercises, and she was glad her + mother could not hear. + </p> + <p> + The tune kept right on throughout dinner. During the meal she was called + to the telephone, and at the other end was Raymond; he wanted her to save + him the first dance that evening. What rapture—this was what + happened to the beautiful belles you read about! + </p> + <p> + After dinner mother and Aunt Nettie went to call upon some ladies they + hoped wouldn't be at home—what funny things grown-ups do! The baby + was taking his nap, and Missy had a delicious long time ahead in which to + be utterly alone. + </p> + <p> + She took the library book of poems and a book of her father's out to the + summerhouse. First she opened the book of her father's. It was a + translation of a Russian book, very deep and moving and sad and + incomprehensible. A perfectly fascinating book! It always filled her with + vague, undefinable emotions. She read: “O youth, youth! Thou carest for + nothing: thou possessest, as it were, all the treasures of the universe; + even sorrow comforts thee, even melancholy becomes thee; thou art + self-confident and audacious; thou sayest: 'I alone live—behold!' + But the days speed on and vanish without a trace and without reckoning, + and everything vanishes in thee, like wax in the sun, like snow...” + </p> + <p> + Missy felt sublime sadness resounding through her soul. It was intolerable + that days should speed by irrevocably and vanish, like wax in the sun, + like snow. She sighed. But even as she sighed the feeling of sadness began + to slip away. So she turned to the poem discovered last night, and read it + over happily. + </p> + <p> + The title, “A Birthday,” made her feel that Raymond Bonner was somehow + connected with it. This was his birthday—and that brought her + thoughts back definitely to the party. Mother had said that presents were + not expected, that they were getting too big to exchange little presents, + yet she would have liked to carry him some little token. The ramblers and + honeysuckle above her head sniffed at her in fragrant suggestion—why + couldn't she just take him some flowers? + </p> + <p> + Acting on the impulse, Missy jumped up and began breaking off the + loveliest blooms. But after she had gathered a big bunch a swift wave of + self-consciousness swept over her. What would they say at the house? Would + they let her take them? Would they understand? And a strong distaste for + their inevitable questions, for the explanations which she could not + explain definitely even to herself, prompted her not to carry the bouquet + to the house. Instead she ran, got a pitcher of water, carried it back to + the summerhouse and left the flowers temporarily there, hoping to figure + out ways and means later. + </p> + <p> + At the house she discovered that the baby was awake, so she had to hurry + back to take care of him. She always loved to do that; she didn't mind + that a desire to dress up in her party attire had just struck her, for the + baby always entered into the spirit of her performances. While she was + fastening up the pink dotted mull, Poppy walked inquisitively in and sat + down to oversee this special, important event. Missy succeeded with the + greatest difficulty in adjusting the brocaded sash to her satisfaction. + She regretted her unwaved hair, but mother was going to crimp it herself + in the evening. The straight, everyday coiffure marred the picture in the + mirror, yet, aided by her imagination, it was pleasing. She stood with + arms extended in a languid, graceful pose, her head thrown back, gazing + with half-closed eyes at something far, far beyond her own eyes in the + glass. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly she began to dance. She danced with her feet, her arms, her + hands, her soul. She felt within her the grace of stately beauties, the + heartbeat of dew-jewelled fairies, the longings of untrammelled + butterflies—dancing, she could have flown up to heaven at that + moment! A gurgle of sound interrupted her; it was the baby. “Do you like + me, baby?” she cried. “Am I beautiful, baby?” + </p> + <p> + Baby, now, could talk quite presentably in the language of grown-ups. But + in addition he knew all kinds of wise, unintelligible words. Missy knew + that they were wise, even though she could not understand their meaning, + and she was glad the baby chose, this time, to answer in that secret + jargon. + </p> + <p> + She kissed the baby and, in return, the baby smiled his secret smile. + Missy was sure that Poppy then smiled too, a secret smile; so she kissed + Poppy also. How wonderful, how mysterious, were the smiles of baby and + Poppy! What unknown thoughts produced them? + </p> + <p> + At this point her cogitations were interrupted and her playacting spoiled + by the unexpected return of mother and Aunt Nettie. It seemed that certain + of the ladies had obligingly been “out.” + </p> + <p> + “What in the world are you doing, Missy?” asked mother. + </p> + <p> + Missy suddenly felt herself a very foolish-appearing object in her party + finery. She tried to make an answer, but the right words were difficult to + find. + </p> + <p> + “Party!” said Aunt Nettie significantly. + </p> + <p> + Missy, still standing in mute embarrassment, couldn't have explained how + it was not the party entirely. + </p> + <p> + Mother did not scold her for dressing up. + </p> + <p> + “Better get those things off, dear,” she said kindly, “and come in and let + me curl your hair. I'd better do it before supper, before the baby gets + cross.” The crimped coiffure was an immense success; even in her middy + blouse Missy felt transformed. She could have kissed herself in the glass! + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I look pretty, mother?” she asked. “You mustn't think of + such things, dear.” But, as mother stooped to readjust a waving lock, her + fingers felt marvellously tender to Missy's forehead. + </p> + <p> + Evening arrived with a sunset of grandeur and glory. It made everything + look as beautiful as it should look on the occasion of a festival. The + beautiful and festive aspect of the world without, and of, her heart + within, made it difficult to eat supper. And after supper it was hard to + breathe naturally, to control her nervous fingers as she dressed. + </p> + <p> + At last, with the help of mother and Aunt Nettie, her toilet was finished: + the pink-silk stockings and slippers shimmering beneath the lengthened + pink mull; the brocaded pink ribbon now become a huge, pink-winged + butterfly; and, mother's last touch, a pink rosebud holding a tendril—a + curling tendril—artfully above the left ear! Missy felt a stranger + to herself as, like some gracious belle and fairy princess and airy + butterfly all compounded into one, she walked—no, floated down the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” exclaimed father, “behold the Queen of the Ball!” But Missy did + not mind his bantering tone. The expression of his eyes told her that he + thought she looked pretty. + </p> + <p> + Presently Mrs. Allen and Kitty, in the Allens' surrey, stopped by for her. + With them was a boy she had never seen before, a tall, dark boy in a + blue-grey braided coat and white duck trousers—a military cadet! + </p> + <p> + He was introduced as Kitty's cousin, Jim Henley. Missy had heard about + this Cousin Jim who was going to visit Cherryvale some time during the + summer; he had arrived rather unexpectedly that day. + </p> + <p> + Kitty herself—in pink dotted mull, of course—was looking + rather wan. Mrs. Allen explained she had eaten too much of the candy + Cousin Jim had brought her. + </p> + <p> + Cousin Jim, with creaking new shoes, leaped down to help Missy in. She had + received her mother's last admonition, her father's last banter, Aunt + Nettie's last anxious peck at her sash, and was just lifting her foot to + the surrey step when suddenly she said: “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked mother. “Forgotten something?” + </p> + <p> + Missy had forgotten something. But how, with mother's inquiring eyes upon + her, and father's and Aunt Nettie's and Mrs. Allen's and Kitty's and + Cousin Jim's inquiring eyes upon her, could she mention Raymond's bouquet + in the summerhouse? How could she get them? What should she say? And what + would they think? “No,” she answered hesitantly. “I guess not.” But the + bright shining of her pleasure was a little dimmed. She could not forget + those flowers waiting, waiting there in the summerhouse. She worried more + about them, so pitifully abandoned, than she did about Raymond's having to + go without a remembrance. + </p> + <p> + Missy sat in the back seat with Mrs. Allen, Kitty in front with her + cousin. Now and then he threw a remark over his shoulder, and smiled. He + had beautiful white teeth which gleamed out of his dark-skinned face, and + he seemed very nice. But he wasn't as handsome as Raymond, nor as nice—even + if he did wear a uniform. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the Bonners they saw it all illumined for the party. The + Bonners' house was big and square with a porch running round three sides, + the most imposing house in Cherryvale. Already strings of lanterns were + lighted on the lawn, blue and red and yellow orbs. The lights made the + trees and shrubs seem shadowy and remote, mysterious creatures a-whisper + over their own business. + </p> + <p> + Not yet had many guests arrived, but almost immediately they appeared in + such droves that it seemed they must have come up miraculously through the + floor. The folding camp chairs which lined the parlours and porches (the + rented chairs always seen at Cherryvale parties and funerals) were one + moment starkly exposed and the next moment hidden by light-hued skirts and + by stiffly held, Sunday-trousered dark legs. For a while that stiffness + which inevitably introduces a formal gathering of youngsters held them + unnaturally bound. But just as inevitably it wore away, and by the time + the folding chairs were drawn up round the little table where “hearts” + were to be played, voices were babbling, and laughter was to be heard + everywhere for no reason at all. + </p> + <p> + At Missy's table sat Raymond Bonner, looking handsomer than ever with his + golden hair and his eyes like black velvet pansies. There was another boy + who didn't count; and then there was the most striking creature Missy had + ever seen. She was a city girl visiting in town, an older, tall, + red-haired girl, with languishing, long-lashed eyes. She wore a red + chiffon dress, lower cut than was worn in Cherryvale, which looked like a + picture in a fashion magazine. But it was not her chic alone that made her + so striking. It was her manner. Missy was, not sure that she knew what + “sophisticated” meant, but she decided that the visiting girl's air of + self-possession, of calm, almost superior assurance, denoted + sophistication. How eloquent was that languid way of using her fan! + </p> + <p> + In this languishing-eyed presence she herself did not feel at her best; + nor was she made happier by the way Raymond couldn't keep his eyes off the + visitor. She played her hand badly, so that Raymond and his alluring + partner “progressed” to the higher table while she remained with the boy + who didn't count. But, as luck would have it, to take the empty places, + from the head table, vanquished, came Cousin Jim and his partner. Jim now + played opposite her, and laughed over his “dumbness” at the game. + </p> + <p> + “I feel sorry for you!” he told Missy. “I'm a regular dub at this game!” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'm a 'dub' too.” It was impossible not to smile back at that + engaging flash of white teeth in the dark face. + </p> + <p> + This time, however, neither of them proved “dubs.” Together they + “progressed” to the next higher table. Cousin Jim assured her it was all + due to her skill. She almost thought that, perhaps, she was skillful at + “hearts,” and for the first time she liked the silly game. + </p> + <p> + Eventually came time for the prizes—and then dancing. Dancing Missy + liked tremendously. Raymond claimed her for the first waltz. Missy + wondered, a little wistfully, whether now he mightn't be regretting that + pre-engagement, whether he wouldn't rather dance it with the + languishing-eyed girl he was following about. + </p> + <p> + But as soon as the violin and piano, back near the library window, began + to play, Raymond came straight to Missy and made his charming bow. They + danced through the two parlours and then out to the porch and round its + full length; the music carried beautifully through the open windows; it + was heavenly dancing outdoors like that. Too soon it was over. + </p> + <p> + “Will you excuse me?” Raymond asked in his polite way. “Mother wants to + see me about something. I hate to run away, but—” + </p> + <p> + Scarcely had he gone when Mrs. Allen, with Jim in tow, came hurrying up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Missy! I've been looking for you everywhere. Kitty's awfully sick. + She was helping with the refreshments and got hold of some pickles. And on + top of all that candy—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” commiserated Missy. + </p> + <p> + “I've got to get her home at once,” Mrs. Allen went on. “I hate to take + you away just when your good time's beginning, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Why does she have to go?” Jim broke in. “I can take you and Kitty home, + and then come back, and take her home after the party's over.” He gave a + little laugh. “You see that gives me an excuse to see the party through + myself!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Allen eyed Missy a little dubiously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Allen, couldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—I said I'd bring you home myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Allen! Please!” Missy's eyes pleaded even more than her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't see why not,” decided Kitty's mother, anxious to return to + her own daughter. “Jim will take good care of you, and Mrs. Bonner will + send you all home early.” + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Allen, accompanied by her nephew, had hurried away, Missy had an + impulse to wander alone, for a moment, out into the deliciously alluring + night. She loved the night always, but just now it looked indescribably + beautiful. The grounds were deserted, but the lanterns, quivering in the + breeze, seemed to be huge live glow-worms suspended up there in the dark. + It was enchantment. Stepping lightly, holding her breath, sniffing at + unseen scents, hearing laughter and dance music from far away as if in + another world, she penetrated farther and farther into the shadows. An + orange-coloured moon was pushing its way over the horizon, so close she + could surely reach out her hands and touch it! + </p> + <p> + And then, too near to belong to any other world, and quite distinctly, she + heard a voice beyond the rose arbour: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! Words sound well! But the fact remains you didn't ask me for the + first dance.” + </p> + <p> + Missy knew that drawling yet strangely assured voice. Almost, with its + tones, she could see the languorously uplifted eyes, the provoking little + gesture of fan at lips. Before she could move, whether to advance or to + flee, Raymond replied: + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to ask you—you know I wanted to ask you!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you did!” replied the visiting girl ironically. + </p> + <p> + “I did!” protested Raymond. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why didn't you then?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd already asked somebody else. I couldn't!” + </p> + <p> + And then the visiting girl laughed strangely. Missy knew she knew with + whom Raymond had danced that first dance. Why did she laugh? And Raymond—oh, + oh! She had seemed to grow rooted to the ground, unable to get away; her + heart, her breathing, seemed to petrify too; they hurt her. Why had + Raymond danced with her if he didn't want to? And why, why did that girl + laugh? She suddenly felt that she must let them know that she heard them, + that she must ask why! And, in order not to exclaim the question against + her will, she covered her mouth with both hands, and crept silently away + from the rose arbour. + </p> + <p> + Without any definite purpose, borne along by an inner whirlwind of + suppressed sobs and utter despair, Missy finally found herself nearer the + entrance gate, Fortunately there was nobody to see her; everyone—except + those two—was back up there in the glare and noise, laughing and + dancing. Laughing and dancing—oh, oh! What ages ago it seemed when + she too had laughed and danced! + </p> + <p> + Oh, why hadn't she gone home with Mrs. Allen and Kitty before her silly + pleasure had turned to anguish? But, of course, that was what life was: + pain crowding elbows with pleasure always—she had read that + somewhere. She was just inevitably living Life. + </p> + <p> + Consoled a trifle by this reflection and by a certain note of sublimity in + her experience, Missy leaned against the gatepost upon which a lantern was + blinking its last shred of life, and gazed at the slow-rising, splendid + moon. + </p> + <p> + She was still there when Cousin Jim, walking quickly and his shoes + creaking loudly, returned. “Hello!” he said. “What're you doing out here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just watching the moon.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a funny girl,” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Why am I funny?” Her tone was a little wistful. “Why, moon-gazing instead + of dancing, and everything.” + </p> + <p> + “But I like to dance too,” emphasized Missy, as if to defend herself + against a charge. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take you up on that. Come straight in and dance the next dance with + me!” + </p> + <p> + Missy obeyed. And then she knew that she had met the Dancer of the World. + At first she was pleased that her steps fitted his so well, and then she + forgot all about steps and just floated along, on invisible gauzy wings, + unconscious of her will of direction, of his will of direction. There was + nothing in the world but invisible gauzy wings, which were herself and Jim + and the music. And they were a part of the music and the music was a part + of them. It was divine. + </p> + <p> + “Say, you can dance!” said Jim admiringly when the music stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I love to dance.” + </p> + <p> + “I should say you might! You dance better than any girl I ever danced + with!” + </p> + <p> + This, from a military uniform, was praise indeed. Missy blushed and was + moved to hide her exaltation under modesty. + </p> + <p> + “I guess the reason is because I love it so much. I feel as if it's the + music dancing—not me. Do you feel it that way?” “Never thought of it + that way,” answered Jim. “But I don't know but what you're right. Say, you + ARE a funny girl, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + But Missy knew that whatever he meant by her being a “funny girl” he + didn't dislike her for it, because he rushed on: “You must let me have a + lot of dances—every one you can spare.” + </p> + <p> + After that everything was rapture. All the boys liked to dance with Missy + because she was such a good dancer, and Jim kept wanting to cut in to get + an extra dance with her himself. Somehow even the sting of the visiting + girl's laugh and of Raymond's defection seemed to have subsided into + triviality. And when Raymond came up to ask for a dance she experienced a + new and pleasurable thrill in telling him she was already engaged. That + thrill disturbed her a little. Was it possible that she was vindictive, + wicked? But when she saw Jim approaching while Raymond was receiving his + conge, she thrilled again, simultaneously wondering whether she was, after + all, but a heartless coquette. + </p> + <p> + Jim had just been dancing with the visiting girl, so she asked: “Is Miss + Slade a good dancer?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, fair. Not in it with you though.” + </p> + <p> + Missy thrilled again, and felt wicked again—alas, how pleasant is + wickedness! “She's awfully pretty,” vouchsafed Missy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I guess so”—indifferently. + </p> + <p> + Yet another thrill. + </p> + <p> + They took refreshments together, Jim going to get her a second glass of + lemonade and waiting upon her with devotion. Then came the time to go + home. Missy could not hold back a certain sense of triumph as, after + thanking Raymond for a glorious time, she started off, under his + inquisitive eye, arm in arm with Jim. + </p> + <p> + That unwonted arm-in-arm business confused Missy a good deal. She had an + idea it was the proper thing when one is being escorted home, and had put + her arm in his as a matter of course, but before they had reached the gate + she was acutely conscious of the touch of her arm on his. To make matters + worse, a curious wave of embarrassment was creeping over her; she couldn't + think of anything to say, and they had walked nearly a block down + moon-flooded Silver Street, with no sound but Jim's creaking shoes, before + she got out: “How do you like Cherry vale, Mr. Henley?” + </p> + <p> + “Looks good to me,” he responded. + </p> + <p> + Then silence again, save for Jim's shoes. Missy racked her brains. What do + you say to boys who don't know the same people and affairs you do? Back + there at the party things had gone easily, but they were playing cards or + dancing or eating; there had been no need for tete-a-tete conversation. + How do you talk to people you don't know? + </p> + <p> + She liked Jim, but the need to make talk was spoiling everything. She + moved along beside his creaking shoes as in a nightmare, and, as she felt + every atom of her freezing to stupidity, she desperately forced her voice: + “What a beautiful night it is!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's great.” + </p> + <p> + Missy sent him a sidelong glance. He didn't look exactly happy either. Did + he feel awkward too? + </p> + <p> + Creak! creak! creak! said the shoes. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to those shoes—never heard 'em squeak like that before,” he + muttered apologetically. + </p> + <p> + Missy, striving for a proper answer and finding none, kept on moving + through that feeling of nightmare. What was the matter with her tongue, + her brain? Was it because she didn't know Jim well enough to talk to him? + Surely not, for she had met strange boys before and not felt like this. + Was it because it was night? Did you always feel like this when you were + all dressed up and going home from an evening party? + </p> + <p> + Creak! creak! said the shoes. + </p> + <p> + Another block lay behind them. + </p> + <p> + Missy, fighting that sensation of stupidity, in anguished resolution spoke + again: “Just look at the moon—how big it is!” Jim followed her + upward glance. “Yes, it's great,” he agreed. + </p> + <p> + Creak! creak! said the shoes. + </p> + <p> + A heavy, regularly punctuated pause. “Don't you love moonlight nights?” + persisted Missy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—when my shoes don't squeak.” He tried to laugh. + </p> + <p> + Missy tried to laugh too. Creak! creak! said the shoes. + </p> + <p> + Another block lay behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Moonlight always makes me feel—” + </p> + <p> + She paused. What was it moonlight always made her feel? Hardly hearing + what she was saying, she made herself reiterate banalities about the moon. + Her mind flew upward to the moon—Jim's downward to his squeaking + shoes. She lived at the other end of town from Raymond Bonner's house, and + the long walk was made up of endless intermittent perorations on the moon, + on squeaking shoes. But the song of the shoes never ceased. Louder and + louder it waxed. It crashed into the innermost fibres of her frame, + completely deafened her mental processes. Never would she forget it: + creak-creak-creak-creak! + </p> + <p> + And the moon, usually so kind and gentle, grinned down derisively. + </p> + <p> + At last, after eons, they reached the corner of her own yard. How + unchanged, how natural everything looked here! Over there, across the + stretch of white moonlight, sat the summerhouse, symbol of peace and every + day, cloaked in its fragrant ramblers. + </p> + <p> + Ramblers! A sudden remembrance darted through Missy's perturbed brain. Her + poor flowers—were they still out there? She must carry them into the + house with her! On the impulse, without pausing to reflect that her action + might look queer, she exclaimed: “Wait a minute!” and ran fleetly across + the moonlit yard. In a second she had the bouquet out of the pitcher and + was back again beside him, breathless. + </p> + <p> + “I left them out there,” she said. “I—I forgot them. And I didn't + want to leave them out there all night.” + </p> + <p> + Jim bent down and sniffed at the roses. “They smell awfully sweet, don't + they?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, without premeditation, Missy extended them to him. “You may have + them,” she offered. + </p> + <p> + “I?” He received them awkwardly. “That's awfully sweet of you. Say, you + are sweet, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “You may have them if you want them,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + Jim, still holding the bunch awkwardly, had an inspiration. + </p> + <p> + “I do want them. And now, if they're really mine, I want to do with them + what I'd like most to do with them. May I?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to give them to the girl who ought to have flowers more than any + girl I know. I'd like to give them to you!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled at her daringly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” breathed Missy. How poetical he was! + </p> + <p> + “But,” he stipulated, “on one condition. I demand one rose for myself. And + you must put it in my buttonhole for me.” + </p> + <p> + With trembling fingers Missy fixed the rose in place. + </p> + <p> + They walked on up to the gate. Jim said: “In our school town the girls are + all crazy for brass buttons. They make hatpins and things. If you'd like a + button, I'd like to give you one—off my sleeve.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't it spoil your sleeve?” she asked tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can get more”—somewhat airily. “Of course we have to do extra + guard mount and things for punishment. But that's part of the game, and no + fellow minds if he's giving buttons to somebody he likes.” + </p> + <p> + Missy wasn't exactly sure she knew what “subtle” meant, but she felt that + Jim was being subtle. Oh, the romance of it! To give her a brass button he + was willing to suffer punishment. He was like a knight of old! + </p> + <p> + As Jim was severing the button with his penknife, Missy, chancing to + glance upward, noted that the curtain of an upstairs window was being held + back by an invisible hand. That was her mother's window. + </p> + <p> + “I must go in now,” she said hurriedly. “Mother's waiting up for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well I guess I'll see you soon. You're up at Kitty's a lot, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she murmured, one eye on the upstairs window. So many things she + had to say now. A little while ago she hadn't been able to talk. Now, for + no apparent reason, there was much to say, yet no time to say it. How + queer Life was! + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, I expect,” she hurried on. “Good night, Mr. Henley.” “Good + night—Missy.” With his daring, gleaming smile. + </p> + <p> + Inside the hall door, mother, wrapper-clad, met her disapprovingly. + “Missy, where in the world did you get all those flowers?” + </p> + <p> + “Ji—Kitty's cousin gave them to me.” + </p> + <p> + “For the land's sake!” It required a moment for mother to find further + words. Then she continued accusingly: “I thought you were to come home + with Mrs. Allen and Kitty.” + </p> + <p> + “Kitty got sick, and her mother had to take her home.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you come with them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother! I was having such a good time!” For the minute Missy had + forgotten there had been a shred of anything but “good time” in the whole + glorious evening. “And Mrs. Allen said I might stay and come home with Jim + and—” + </p> + <p> + “That will do,” cut in mother severely. “You've taken advantage of me, + Missy. And don't let me hear evening party from you again this summer!” + </p> + <p> + The import of this dreadful dictum did not penetrate fully to Missy's + consciousness. She was too confused in her emotions, just then, to think + clearly of anything. + </p> + <p> + “Go up to bed,” said mother. + </p> + <p> + “May I put my flowers in water first?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but be quick about it.” + </p> + <p> + Missy would have liked to carry the flowers up to her own room, to sleep + there beside her while she slept, but mother wouldn't understand and there + would be questions which she didn't know how to answer. + </p> + <p> + Mother was offended with her. Dimly she felt unhappy about that, but she + was too happy to be definitely unhappy. Anyway, mother followed to + unfasten her dress, to help take down her hair, to plait the + mouse-coloured braids. She wanted to be alone, yet she liked the touch of + mother's hands, unusually gentle and tender. Why was mother gentle and + tender with her when she was offended? + </p> + <p> + At last mother kissed her good night, and she was alone in her little bed. + It was hard to get to sleep. What an eventful party it had been! Since + supper time she seemed to have lived years and years. She had been a + success even though Raymond Bonner had said—that. Anyway, Jim was a + better dancer than Raymond, and handsomer and nicer—besides the + uniform. He was more poetical too—much more. What was it he had said + about liking her?... better dancer than any other... Funny she should feel + so happy after Raymond... Maybe she was just a vain, inconstant, + coquettish... + </p> + <p> + She strove to focus on the possibility of her frailty. She turned her face + to the window. Through the lace curtains shone the moonlight, the gleaming + path along which she had so often flown out to be a fairy. But to-night + she didn't wish to be a fairy; just to be herself... + </p> + <p> + The moonlight flowed in and engulfed her, a great, eternal, golden-white + mystery. And its mystery became her mystery. She was the mystery of the + moon, of the universe, of Life. And the tune in her heart, which could + take on so many bewildering variations, became the Chant of Mystery. How + interesting, how tremendously, ineffably interesting was Life! She slept. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. MISSY TACKLES ROMANCE + </h2> + <p> + Melissa was out in the summerhouse, reading; now and then lifting her eyes + from the big book on her lap to watch the baby at play. With a pail of + sand, a broken lead-pencil and several bits of twig, the baby had + concocted an engrossing game. Melissa smiled indulgently at his absurd + absorption; while the baby, looking up, smiled back as one who would say: + “What a stupid game reading is to waste your time with!” + </p> + <p> + For the standpoint of three-years-old is quite different from that of + fourteen-going-on-fifteen. Missy now felt almost grown-up; it had been + eons since SHE was a baby, and three; even thirteen lay back across a + chasm so wide her thoughts rarely tried to bridge it. Besides, her + thoughts were kept too busy with the present. Every day the world was + presenting itself as a more bewitching place. Cherryvale had always been a + thrilling place to live in; but this was the summer which, surely, would + ever stand out in italics in her mind. For, this summer, she had come + really to know Romance. + </p> + <p> + Her more intimate acquaintance with this enchanting phenomenon had begun + in May, the last month of school, when she learned that Miss Smith, her + Algebra teacher, received a letter every day from an army officer. An army + officer!—and a letter every day! And she knew Miss Smith very well, + indeed! Ecstasy! Miss Smith, who looked too pretty to know so much about + Algebra, made an adorable heroine of Romance. + </p> + <p> + But she was not more adorable-looking than Aunt Isabel. Aunt Isabel was + Uncle Charlie's wife, and lived in Pleasanton; Missy was going to + Pleasanton in just three days, now, and every time she thought of the + visit, she felt delicious little tremors of anticipation. What an + experience that would be! For father and mother and grandpa and grandma + and all the other family grown-ups admitted that Uncle Charlie's marriage + to Aunt Isabel was romantic. Uncle Charlie had been forty-three—very, + very old, even older than father—and a “confirmed bachelor” when, a + year ago last summer, he had married Aunt Isabel. Aunt Isabel was much + younger, only twenty; that was what made the marriage romantic. + </p> + <p> + Like Miss Smith, Aunt Isabel had big violet eyes and curly golden hair. + Most heroines seemed to be like that. The reflection saddened Missy. Her + own eyes were grey instead of violet, her hair straight and mouse-coloured + instead of wavy and golden. + </p> + <p> + Even La Beale Isoud was a blonde, and La Beale Isoud, as she had recently + discovered, was one of the Romantic Queens of all time. She knew this fact + on the authority of grandpa, who was enormously wise. Grandpa said that + the beauteous lady was a heroine in all languages, and her name was + spelled Iseult, and Yseult, and Isolde, and other queer ways; but in “The + Romance of King Arthur” it was spelled La Beale Isoud. “The Romance of + King Arthur” was a fascinating book, and Missy was amazed that, up to this + very summer, she had passed by the rather ponderous volume, which was kept + on the top shelf of the “secretary,” as uninteresting-looking. + Uninteresting! + </p> + <p> + It was “The Romance of King Arthur” that, this July afternoon, lay open on + Missy's lap while she minded the baby in the summerhouse. Already she knew + by heart its “deep” and complicated story, and, now, she was re-reading + the part which told of Sir Tristram de Liones and his ill-fated love for + La Beale Isoud. It was all very sad, yet very beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Sir Tristram was a “worshipful knight” and a “harper passing all other.” + He got wounded, and his uncle, King Mark, “let purvey a fair vessel, well + victualled,” and sent him to Ireland to be healed. There the Irish King's + daughter, La Beale Isoud, “the fairest maid and lady in the world,” nursed + him back to health, while Sir Tristram “learned her to harp.” + </p> + <p> + That last was an odd expression. In Cherryvale it would be considered bad + grammar; but, evidently, grammar rules were different in olden times. The + unusual phraseology of the whole narrative fascinated Missy; even when you + could hardly understand it, it was—inspiring. Yes, that was the + word. In inspiring! That was because it was the true language of Romance. + The language of Love... Missy's thoughts drifted off to ponder the kind of + language the army officer used to Miss Smith; Uncle Charlie to Aunt + Isabel... + </p> + <p> + She came back to the tale of La Beale Isoud. + </p> + <p> + Alas! true love must ever suffer at the hands of might. For the harper's + uncle, old King Mark himself, decided to marry La Beale Isoud; and he + ordered poor Sir Tristram personally to escort her from Ireland. And + Isoud's mother entrusted to two servants a magical drink which they should + give Isoud and King Mark on their wedding-day, so that the married pair + “either should love the other the days of their life.” + </p> + <p> + But, Tristram and La Beale Isoud found that love-drink! Breathing quickly, + Missy read the fateful part: + </p> + <p> + “It happened so that they were thirsty, and it seemed by the colour and + the taste that it was a noble wine. When Sir Tristram took the flasket in + his hand, and said, 'Madam Isoud, here is the best drink that ever ye + drunk, that Dame Braguaine, your maiden, and Gouvernail, my servant, have + kept for themselves.' Then they laughed (laughed—think of it!) and + made good cheer, and either drank to other freely. And they thought never + drink that ever they drank was so sweet nor so good. But by that drink was + in their bodies, they loved either other so well that never their love + departed for weal neither for woe.” (Think of that, too!) + </p> + <p> + Missy gazed at the accompanying illustration: La Beale Isoud slenderly + tall in her straight girdled gown of grey-green velvet, head thrown back + so that her filleted golden hair brushed her shoulders, violet eyes + half-closed, and an “antique”-looking metal goblet clasped in her two slim + hands; and Sir Tristram so imperiously dark and handsome in his crimson, + fur-trimmed doublet, his two hands stretched out and gripping her two + shoulders, his black eyes burning as if to look through her closed lids. + What a tremendous situation! Love that never would depart for weal neither + for woe! + </p> + <p> + Missy sighed. For she had read and re-read what was the fullness of their + woe. And she couldn't help hating King Mark, even if he was Isoud's lawful + lord, because he proved himself such a recreant and false traitor to true + love. Of course, he WAS Isoud's husband; and Missy lived in Cherryvale, + where conventions were not complicated and were strictly adhered to; else + scandal was the result. But she told herself that this situation was + different because it was an unusual kind of love. They couldn't help + themselves. It wasn't their fault. It was the love-drink that did it. + Besides, it happened in the Middle Ages... + </p> + <p> + Suddenly her reverie was blasted by a compelling disaster. The baby, left + to his own devices, had stuck a twig into his eye, and was uttering loud + cries for attention. Missy remorsefully hurried over and kissed his hurt. + As if healed thereby, the baby abruptly ceased crying; even sent her a + little wavering smile. Missy gazed at him and pondered: why do babies cry + over their tiny troubles, and so often laugh over their bigger ones? She + felt an immense yearning over babies—over all things inexplicable. + </p> + <p> + That evening after supper, grandpa and grandma came over for a little + while. They all sat out on the porch and chatted. It was very beautiful + out on the porch,—greying twilight, and young little stars just + coming into being, all aquiver as if frightened. + </p> + <p> + The talk turned to Missy's imminent visit. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you afraid you'll get homesick?” asked grandma. + </p> + <p> + It was Missy's first visit away from Cherryvale without her mother. A year + ago she would have dreaded the separation, but now she was almost + grown-up. Besides, this very summer, in Cherryvale, she had seen how for + some reason, a visiting girl seems to excite more attention than does a + mere home girl. Missy realized that, of course, she wasn't so + “fashionable” as was the sophisticated Miss Slade from Macon City who had + so agitated Cherryvale, yet she was pleased to try the experience for + herself. Moreover, the visit was to be at Uncle Charlie's! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” answered Missy. “Not with Uncle Charlie and Aunt Isabel. She's + so pretty and wears such pretty clothes—remember that grey silk + dress with grey-topped shoes exactly to match?” + </p> + <p> + “I think she has shoes to match everything, even her wrappers,” said + grandma rather drily. “Isabel's very extravagant.” + </p> + <p> + “Extravagance becomes a virtue when Isabel wears the clothes,” commented + grandpa. Grandpa often said “deep” things like that, which were hard to + understand exactly. + </p> + <p> + “She shouldn't squander Charlie's money,” insisted grandma. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie doesn't seem to mind it,” put in mother in her gentle way. “He's + as pleased as Punch buying her pretty things.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—poor Charlie!” agreed grandma. “And there's another thing: + Isabel's always been used to so much attention, I hope she won't give poor + Charlie anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + Why did grandma keep calling him “poor” Charlie? Missy had always + understood that Uncle Charlie wasn't poor at all; he owned the biggest + “general store” in Pleasanton and was, in fact, the “best-fixed” of the + whole Merriam family. + </p> + <p> + But, save for fragments, she soon lost the drift of the family discussion. + She was absorbed in her own trend of thoughts. At Uncle Charlie's she was + sure of encountering Romance. Living-and-breathing Romance. And only two + days more! How could she wait? + </p> + <p> + But the two days flew by in a flurry of mending, and running ribbons, and + polishing all her shoes and wearing old dresses to keep her good ones + clean, and, finally, packing. It was all so exciting that only at the last + minute just before the trunk was shut, did she remember to tuck in “The + Romance of King Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + At the depot in Pleasanton, Aunt Isabel alone met her; Uncle Charlie was + “indisposed.” Missy was sorry to hear that. For she had liked Uncle + Charlie even before he had become Romantic. He was big and silent like + father and grandpa and you had a feeling that, like them, he understood + you more than did most grown-ups. + </p> + <p> + She liked Aunt Isabel, too; she couldn't have helped that, because Aunt + Isabel was so radiantly beautiful. Missy loved all beautiful things. She + loved the heavenly colour of sunlight through the stained-glass windows at + church; the unquenchable blaze of her nasturtium bed under a blanket of + grey mist; the corner street-lamp reflecting on the wet sidewalk; the + smell of clean, sweet linen sheets; the sound of the brass band practicing + at night, blaring but unspeakably sad through the distance; the divine + mystery of faint-tinted rainbows; trees in moonlight turned into great + drifts of fairy-white blossoms. + </p> + <p> + And she loved shining ripples of golden hair; and great blue eyes that + laughed in a sidewise glance and then turned softly pensive in a second; + and a sweet high voice now vivacious and now falling into hushed cadences; + and delicate white hands always restlessly fluttering; and, a drifting, + elusive fragrance, as of wind-swept petals... + </p> + <p> + All of which meant that she loved Aunt Isabel very much; especially in the + frilly, pastel-flowered organdy she was wearing to-day—an + “extravagant” dress, doubtless, but lovely enough to justify that. + Naturally such a person as Aunt Isabel would make her home a beautiful + place. It was a “bungalow.” Missy had often regretted that her own home + had been built before the vogue of the bungalow. And now, when she beheld + Aunt Isabel's enchanting house, the solid, substantial furnishings left + behind in Cherryvale lost all their savour for her, even the old-fashioned + “quaintness” of grandma's house. + </p> + <p> + For Aunt Isabel's house was what Pleasanton termed “artistic.” It had + white-painted woodwork, and built-in bookshelves instead of ordinary + bookcases, and lots of window-seats, and chintz draperies which trailed + flowers or birds or peacocks, which were like a combination of both, and + big wicker chairs with deep cushions—all very bright and cosy and + beautiful. In the living-room were some Chinese embroideries which Missy + liked, especially when the sun came in and shone upon their soft, rich + colours; she had never before seen Chinese embroideries and, thus, + encountered a brand-new love. Then Aunt Isabel was the kind of woman who + keeps big bowls of fresh flowers sitting around in all the rooms, even if + there's no party—a delightful habit. Missy was going to adore + watching Aunt Isabel's pretty, restless hands flutter about as, each + morning, she arranged the fresh flowers in their bowls. + </p> + <p> + Even in Missy's room there was a little bowl of jade-green pottery, a + colour which harmonized admirably with sweet peas, late roses, + nasturtiums, or what-not. And all the furniture in that room was painted + white, while the chintz bloomed with delicate little nosegays. + </p> + <p> + The one inharmonious element was that of Uncle Charlie's indisposition—not + only the fact that he was suffering, but also the nature of his ailment. + For Uncle Charlie, it developed, had been helping move a barrel of + mixed-pickles in the grocery department of his store, and the barrel had + fallen full-weight upon his foot and broken his big toe. Missy realized + that, of course, a tournament with a sword-thrust in the heart, or some + catastrophe like that, would have meant a more dangerous injury; but—a + barrel of pickles! And his big toe! Any toe was unromantic. But the BIG + toe! That was somehow the worst of all. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Charlie, however, spoke quite openly of the cause of his trouble. + Also of its locale. Indeed, he could hardly have concealed the latter, as + his whole foot was bandaged up, and he had to hobble about, very + awkwardly, with the aid of a cane. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Charlie's indisposition kept him from accompanying Missy and Aunt + Isabel to an ice-cream festival which was held on the Congregational + church lawn that first night. Aunt Isabel was a Congregationalist; and, as + mother was a Presbyterian and grandma a Methodist, Missy was beginning to + feel a certain kinship with all religions. + </p> + <p> + This festival proved to be a sort of social gathering, because the + Congregational church in Pleasanton was attended by the town's “best” + people. The women were as stylishly dressed as though they were at a + bridge party—or a tournament. The church lawn looked very + picturesque with red, blue and yellow lanterns—truly a fair lawn and + “well victualled” with its ice-cream tables in the open. Large numbers of + people strolled about, and ate, and chatted and laughed. The floating + voices of people you couldn't see, the flickering light of the lanterns, + the shadows just beyond their swaying range, all made it seem gay and + alluring, so that you almost forgot that it was only a church festival. + </p> + <p> + A big moon rose up from behind the church-tower, a beautiful and + medieval-looking combination. Missy thought of those olden-time feasts + “unto kings and dukes,” when there was revel and play, and “all manner of + noblesse.” And, though none but her suspected it, the little white-covered + tables became long, rough-hewn boards, and the Congregational ladies' + loaned china became antique-looking pewter, and the tumblers of water were + golden flaskets of noble wine. Missy, who was helping Aunt Isabel serve at + one of the tables, attended her worshipful patrons with all manner of + noblesse. She was glad she was wearing her best pink mull with the + brocaded sash. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Isabel's table was well patronized. It seemed to Missy that most of + the men present tried to get “served” here. Perhaps it was because they + admired Aunt Isabel. Missy couldn't have blamed them for that, because + none of the other Congregational ladies was half as pretty. To-night Aunt + Isabel had on a billowy pale-blue organdy, and she looked more like an + angel than ever. An ethereally radiant, laughing, vivacious angel. And + whenever she moved near you, you caught a ghostly whiff of that delicious + perfume. (Missy now knows Aunt Isabel got it from little sachet bags, + tucked away with her clothes, and from an “atomizer” which showered a + delicate, fairy-like spray of fragrance upon her hair.) There was one + young man, who was handsome in a dark, imperious way, who hung about and + ate so much ice-cream that Missy feared lest he should have an “upset” + to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Also, there was another persevering patron for whom she surmised, with + modest palpitation, Aunt Isabel might not be the chief attraction. The joy + of being a visiting girl was begun! This individual was a talkative, + self-confident youth named Raleigh Peters. She loved the name Raleigh—though + for the Peters part she didn't care so much. And albeit, with the dignity + which became her advancing years, she addressed him as “Mr. Peters,” in + her mind she preferred to think of him as “Raleigh.” Raleigh, she learned + (from himself), was the only son of a widowed mother and, though but + little older than Missy, had already started making his own way by + clerking in Uncle Charlie's store. He clerked in the grocery department, + the prosperity of which, she gathered, was largely due to his own + connection with it. Some day, he admitted, he was going to own the biggest + grocery store in the State. He was thrillingly independent and ambitious + and assured. All that seemed admirable, but—if only he hadn't + decided on groceries! “Peters' Grocery Store!” Missy thought of jousting, + of hawking, of harping, customs which noble gentlemen used to follow, and + sighed. + </p> + <p> + But Raleigh, unaware that his suit had been lost before it started, + accompanied them all home. “All” because the dark and imperiously handsome + young man went along, too. His name was Mr. Saunders, and Missy had now + learned he was a “travelling man” who came to Pleasanton to sell Uncle + Charlie merchandise; he was also quite a friend of the family's, she + gathered, and visited them at the house. + </p> + <p> + When they reached home, Mr. Saunders suggested stopping in a minute to see + how Uncle Charlie was. However, Uncle Charlie, it turned out, was already + in bed. + </p> + <p> + “But you needn't go yet, anyway,” said Aunt Isabel. “It's heavenly out + here on the porch.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't the hour wax late?” demurred Mr. Saunders. “Wax late!”—What + quaint, delightful language he used! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's still early. Stay a while, and help shake off the atmosphere of + the festival—those festivals bore me to death!” + </p> + <p> + Odd how women can act one way while they're feeling another way! Missy had + supposed, at the festival, that Aunt Isabel was having a particularly + enjoyable time. + </p> + <p> + “Stay and let's have some music,” Aunt Isabel went on. “You left your + ukelele here last week.” + </p> + <p> + So the handsome Mr. Saunders played the ukelele!—How wonderfully + that suited his type. And it was just the kind of moonlight night for + music. Missy rejoiced when Mr. Saunders decided to stay, and Aunt Isabel + went in the house for the ukelele. It was heavenly when Mr. Saunders began + to play and sing. The others had seated themselves in porch chairs, but he + chose a place on the top step, his head thrown back against a pillar, and + the moon shining full on his dark, imperious face. His bold eyes now gazed + dreamily into distance as, in a golden tenor that seemed to melt into the + moonlight itself, he sang: + </p> + <p> + “They plucked the stars out of the blue, dear, Gave them to you, dear, For + eyes... ” + </p> + <p> + The ukelele under his fingers thrummed out a soft, vibrant, melancholy + accompaniment. It was divine! Here surely was a “harper passing all + other!” Mr. Saunders looked something like a knight, too—all but his + costume. He was so tall and dark and handsome; and his dark eyes were + bold, though now so soft from his own music. + </p> + <p> + The music stopped. Aunt Isabel jumped up from her porch chair, left the + shadows, and seated herself beside him on the moonlit top. + </p> + <p> + “That looks easy,” she said. “Show me how to do it.” + </p> + <p> + She took the ukelele from him. He showed her how to place her fingers—their + fingers got tangled up—they laughed. + </p> + <p> + Missy started to laugh, too, but stopped right in the middle of it. A + sudden thought had struck her, remembrance of another beauteous lady who + had been “learned” to harp. She gazed down on Aunt Isabel—how + beautiful there in the white moonlight! So fair and slight, the + scarf-thing around her shoulders like a shroud of mist, hair like unto + gold, eyes like the stars of heaven. Her eyes were now lifted laughingly + to Mr. Saunders'. She was so close he must catch that faintly sweetness of + her hair. He returned the look and started to sing again; while La Beale—no, + Aunt Isabel— + </p> + <p> + Even the names were alike! + </p> + <p> + Missy drew in a quick, sharp breath. Mr. Saunders, now smiling straight at + Aunt Isabel as she tried to pick the chords, went on: + </p> + <p> + “They plucked the stars out of the blue, dear, Gave them to you, dear, For + eyes...” + </p> + <p> + How expressively he sang those words! Missy became troubled. Of course + Romance was beautiful but those things belonged in ancient times. You + wouldn't want things like that right in your own family, especially when + Uncle Charlie already had a broken big toe... + </p> + <p> + She forgot that the music was beautiful, the night bewitching; she even + forgot to listen to what Raleigh was saying, till he leaned forward and + demanded irately: + </p> + <p> + “Say! you haven't gone to sleep, have you?” + </p> + <p> + Missy gave a start, blinked, and looked self-conscious. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, excuse me,” she murmured. “I guess I was sort of dreaming.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Saunders, overhearing, glanced up at her. + </p> + <p> + “The spell of moon and music, fair maid?” he asked. And, though he smiled, + she didn't feel that he was making fun of her. + </p> + <p> + Again that quaint language! A knight of old might have talked that way! + But Missy, just now, was doubtful as to whether a knight in the flesh was + entirely desirable. + </p> + <p> + It was with rather confused emotions that, after the visitors had departed + and she had told Aunt Isabel good night, Missy went up to the little + white-painted, cretonne-draped room. Life was interesting, but sometimes + it got very queer. + </p> + <p> + After she had undressed and snapped off the light, she leaned out of the + window and looked at the night for a long time. Missy loved the night; the + hordes of friendly little stars which nodded and whispered to one another; + the round silver moon, up there at some enigmatic distance yet able to + transfigure the whole world with fairy-whiteness—turning the dew on + the grass into pearls, the leaves on the trees into trembling silver + butterflies, and the dusty street into a breadth of shimmering silk. At + night, too, the very flowers seemed to give out a sweeter odour; perhaps + that was because you couldn't see them. + </p> + <p> + Missy leaned farther out the window to sniff in that damp, sweet scent of + unseen flowers, to feel the white moonlight on her hand. She had often + wished that, by some magic, the world might be enabled to spin out its + whole time in such a gossamer, irradiant sheen as this—a sort of + moon-haunted night-without-end, keeping you tingling with beautiful, + blurred, indescribable feelings. + </p> + <p> + But to-night, for the first time, Missy felt skeptical as to that earlier + desire. She still found the night beautiful—oh, inexpressibly + beautiful!—but moonlight nights were what made lovers want to look + into each other's eyes, and sing each other love songs “with expression.” + To be sure, she had formerly considered this very tendency an elysian + feature of such nights; but that was when she thought that love always was + right for its own sake, that true lovers never should be thwarted. She + still held by that belief; and yet—she visioned Uncle Charlie, dear + Uncle Charlie, so fond of buying Aunt Isabel extravagant organdies and + slippers to match; so like grandpa and father—and King Mark! + </p> + <p> + Missy had always hated King Mark, the lawful husband, the enemy of true + love. But Romance gets terribly complicated when it threatens to leave the + Middle Ages, pop right in on you when you are visiting in Pleasanton; and + when the lawful husband is your own Uncle Charlie—poor Uncle + Charlie!—lying in there suffering with his broken—well there + was no denying it was his big toe. + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't know that her eyes had filled—tears sometimes came so + unexpectedly nowadays—till a big drop splashed down on her hand. + </p> + <p> + She felt very, very sad. Often she didn't mind being sad. Sometimes she + even enjoyed it in a peculiar way on moonlit nights; found a certain + pleasant poignancy of exaltation in the feeling. But there are different + kinds of sadness. To-night she didn't like it. She forsook the moonlit + vista and crept into bed. + </p> + <p> + The next morning she overslept. Perhaps it was because she wasn't in her + own little east room at home, where the sun and Poppy, her cat, vied to + waken her; or perhaps because it had turned intensely hot and sultry + during the night—the air seemed to glue down her eyelids so as to + make waking up all the harder. + </p> + <p> + It was Sunday, and, when she finally got dressed and downstairs, the house + was still unusually quiet. But she found Uncle Charlie in his “den” with + the papers. He said Aunt Isabel was staying in bed with a headache; and he + himself hobbled into the dining room with Missy, and sat with her while + the maid (Aunt Isabel called her hired girl a “maid”) gave her breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Charlie seemed cheerful despite his—his trouble. And + everything seemed so peaceful and beautiful that Missy could hardly + realize that ever Tragedy might come to this house. Somewhere in the + distance church bells were tranquilly sounding. Out in the kitchen could + be heard the ordinary clatter of dishes. And in the dining room it was + very, very sweet. The sun filtered through the gently swaying curtains, + touching vividly the sweet peas on the breakfast-table. The sweet peas + were arranged to stand upright in a round, shallow bowl, just as if they + were growing up out of a little pool—a marvellously artistic effect. + The china was very artistic, too, Japanese, with curious-looking dragons + in soft old-blue. And, after the orange, she had a finger-bowl with a + little sprig of rose-geranium she could crunch between her fingers till it + sent out a heavenly odour. It was just like Aunt Isabel to have + rose-geranium in her finger-bowls! + </p> + <p> + Her mind was filled with scarcely defined surmises concerning Aunt Isabel, + her unexpected headache, and the too handsome harper. But Uncle Charlie, + unsuspecting, talked on in that cheerful strain. He was teasing Missy + because she liked the ham and eggs and muffins, and took a second helping + of everything. + </p> + <p> + “Good thing I can get groceries at wholesale!” he bantered. “Else I'd + never dare ask you to visit me!” + </p> + <p> + Missy returned his smile, grateful that the matter of her appetite might + serve to keep him jolly a little while longer. Perhaps he didn't even + suspect, yet. DID he suspect? She couldn't forbear a tentative question: + </p> + <p> + “What seems to be the matter with Aunt Isabel, Uncle Charlie?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, didn't I tell you she has a headache?' + </p> + <p> + “Oh! a headache.” She was silent a second; then, as if there was something + strange about this malady, she went on: “Did she SAY she had a headache?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, my dear. It's a pretty bad one. I guess it must be the + weather.” It was hot. Uncle Charlie had taken off his coat and was in his + shirt sleeves—she was pleased to note it was a silken shirt; little + beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and on his head where it + was just beginning to get bald. Somehow, the fact that he looked so hot + had the effect of making her feel even more tender toward him. So, though + she thirsted for information, not for the world would she have aroused his + suspicions by questions. And she made her voice very casual, when she + finally enquired: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, that Mr. Saunders who brought us home is awfully handsome. + Sort of gallant looking, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle Charlie laughed; then shook his finger at her in mock admonition. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Missy! You've fallen, too?” + </p> + <p> + Missy gulped; Uncle Charlie had made an unwitting revelation! But she + tried not to give herself away; still casual, she asked: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! do other people fall?” + </p> + <p> + “All the ladies fall for Saunders,” said Uncle Charlie. + </p> + <p> + Missy hesitated, then hazarded: + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Isabel, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” Uncle Charlie looked pathetically unconcerned. “Aunt Isabel + likes to have him around. He often comes in handy at dances.” + </p> + <p> + It would be just like Mr. Saunders to be a good dancer! + </p> + <p> + “He harps well, too,” she said meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” enquired Uncle Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I mean that thing he plays.” + </p> + <p> + “The ukelele. Yes, Saunders is a wizard with it. But in spite of that he's + a good fellow.” (What did “in spite of that” mean—didn't Uncle + Charlie approve of harpers?) + </p> + <p> + He continued: “He sometimes goes on fishing-trips with me.” + </p> + <p> + Fishing-trips! From father Missy had learned that this was the highest + proof of camaraderie. So Uncle Charlie didn't suspect. He was harbouring + the serpent in his very bosom. Missy crumpled the fragrant rose-geranium + reflectively between her fingers. + </p> + <p> + Then Uncle Charlie suggested that she play something for him on the piano. + And Missy, feeling every minute tenderer toward him because she must keep + to herself the dreadful truths which would hurt him if he knew, hurried to + his side, took away his cane, and put her own arm in its place for him to + lean on. And Uncle Charlie seemed to divine there was something special in + her deed, for he reached down and patted the arm which supported him, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “You're a dear child, Missy.” + </p> + <p> + In the living-room the sun was shining through the charming, cretonne-hung + bay window and upon the soft, rich colours of the Chinese embroideries. + The embroideries were on the wall beyond the piano, so that she could see + them while she played. Uncle Charlie wasn't in her range of vision unless + she turned her head; but she could smell his cigar, and could sense him + sitting there very quiet in a big wicker chair, smoking, his eyes half + closed, his bandaged foot stretched out on a little stool. + </p> + <p> + And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus, and her + rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the embroideries, and the + hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all seemed to intermingle and + pierce to her very soul. She was glad to play the piano. When deeply moved + she loved to play, to pour out her feelings in dreamy melodies and deep + vibrant harmonies with queer minor cadences thrown in—the kind of + music you can play “with expression,” while you vision mysterious, poetic + pictures. + </p> + <p> + After a moment's reflection, she decided on “The Angel's Serenade”; she + knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something + brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she could + almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the silvery + sheen of them astir. And, oddly, all that sheen and stir, all that + sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself—just as if her + own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard. + </p> + <p> + And with Missy, to play “The Angel's Serenade” was to crave playing more + such divine pieces; she drifted on into “Traumerei”; “Simple Confession”; + “One Sweetly Solemn Thought,” with variations. She played them all with + extra “expression,” putting all her loving sympathy for Uncle Charlie into + her finger-tips. And he must have been soothed by it, for he dozed off, + and came to with a start when she finally paused, to tell her how + beautifully she played. + </p> + <p> + Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was like + grandpa—the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep, + unusual things. They talked about music, and the meaning of the pieces + she'd played. Then about reading. He asked her what she was reading + nowadays. + </p> + <p> + “This is your book, isn't it?” he enquired, picking up “The Romances of + King Arthur” from the table beside him. Heavens! how tactless of her to + have brought it down this morning! But there was nothing for her to do, + save to act in a natural, casual manner. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Charlie opened the book. Heavens! it fell open at the illustration + of the two lovers drinking the fateful potion! + </p> + <p> + “Which is your favourite legend?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Missy was too nervous to utter anything but the simple truth. + </p> + <p> + “The story of Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Uncle Charlie. He gazed at the picture she knew so well. What + was he thinking? + </p> + <p> + “Why is it your favourite?” he went on. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—because it's so romantic, I guess. And so sad and + beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” said Uncle Charlie. “You have a feeling for the classic, I see. + You call her 'Isoud'?” + </p> + <p> + That pleased Missy; and, despite her agitation over this malaprop theme, + she couldn't resist the impulse to air her lately acquired learning. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but she has different names in all the different languages, you + know. And she was the most beautiful lady or maiden that ever lived.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so?” said Uncle Charlie. “More beautiful than your Aunt Isabel?” + </p> + <p> + Missy hesitated, confused; the conversation was getting on dangerous + ground. “Why, I guess they're the same type, don't you? I've often thought + Aunt Isabel looks like La Beale Isoud.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle Charlie smiled again at her—an altogether cheerful kind of + smile; no, he didn't suspect any tragic undercurrent beneath this + pleasant-sounding conversation. All he said was: + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Isabel should feel flattered—but I hope she finds a happier + lot.” + </p> + <p> + Ah! + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I hope so,” breathed Missy, rather weakly. + </p> + <p> + Then Uncle Charlie at last closed the book. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Tristram and Isolde,” he said, as if speaking an epitaph. + </p> + <p> + But Missy caught her breath. Uncle Charlie felt sorry for the ill-fated + lovers. Oh, if he only knew! + </p> + <p> + At dinner time (on Sundays they had midday dinner here), Aunt Isabel came + down to the table. She said her head was better, but she looked pale; and + her blue eyes were just like the Blessed Damozel's, “deeper than the depth + of waters stilled at even.” Yet, pale and quiet like this, she seemed even + more beautiful than ever, especially in that adorable lavender negligee—with + slippers to match. Missy regarded her with secret fascination. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, complaining of the heat, Aunt Isabel retired to her room + again. She suggested that Missy take a nap, also. Missy didn't think she + was sleepy, but, desiring to be alone with her bewildered thoughts, she + went upstairs and lay down. The better to think things over, she closed + her eyes; and when she opened them to her amazement there was Aunt Isabel + standing beside the bed—a radiant vision in pink organdy this time—and + saying: + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, sleepy-head! It's nearly six o'clock!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Isabel, her vivacious self once more, with gentle fingers (Oh, hard + not to love Aunt Isabel!) helped Missy get dressed for supper. + </p> + <p> + It was still so hot that, at supper, everyone drank a lot of ice-tea and + ate a lot of ice-cream. Missy felt in a steam all over when they rose from + the table and went out to sit on the porch. It was very serene, for all + the sultriness, out on the porch; and Aunt Isabel was so sweet toward + Uncle Charlie that Missy felt her gathering suspicions had something of + the unreal quality of a nightmare. Aunt Isabel was reading aloud to Uncle + Charlie out of the Sunday paper. Beautiful! The sunset was carrying away + its gold like some bold knight with his captured, streaming-tressed lady. + The fitful breeze whispered in the rhythm of olden ballads. Unseen church + bells sent long-drawn cadences across the evening hush. And the little + stars quivered into being, to peer at the young poignancy of feeling which + cannot know what it contributes to the world... + </p> + <p> + Everything was idyllic—that is, almost idyllic—till, suddenly + Uncle Charlie spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that Saunders coming up the street?” + </p> + <p> + Why, oh why, did Mr. Saunders have to come and spoil everything? + </p> + <p> + But poor Uncle Charlie seemed glad to see him—just as glad as Aunt + Isabel. Mr. Saunders sat up there amongst them, laughing and joking, now + and then directing one of his quaint, romantic-sounding phrases at Missy. + And she pretended to be pleased with him—indeed, she would have + liked Mr. Saunders under any other circumstances. + </p> + <p> + Presently he exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “By my halidome, I'm hot! My kingdom for a long, tall ice-cream soda!” + </p> + <p> + And Uncle Charlie said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, why don't you go and get one? The drug store's just two blocks + around the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “A happy suggestion,” said Mr. Saunders. He turned to Aunt Isabel. “Will + you join me?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will,” she answered. “I'm stifling.” + </p> + <p> + Then Mr. Saunders looked at Missy. + </p> + <p> + “And you, fair maid?” + </p> + <p> + Missy thought a cool soda would taste good. + </p> + <p> + At the drug store, the three of them sat on tall stools before the white + marble counter, and quaffed heavenly cold soda from high glasses in + silver-looking flaskets. “Poor Charlie! He likes soda, so,” remarked Aunt + Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Why not take him some?” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't know you could do that, but the drug store man said it would + be all right. + </p> + <p> + Then they all started home again, Aunt Isabel carrying the silver-looking + flasket. + </p> + <p> + It was when they were about half-way, that Aunt Isabel suddenly exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, I believe I could drink another soda? I feel hotter than + ever—and it looks so good!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not drink it, then?” asked Mr. Saunders. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” said Aunt Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Do,” he insisted. “We can go back and get another.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll take a taste,” she said. + </p> + <p> + On the words, she lifted the flasket to her lips and took a long draught. + Then Mr. Saunders, laughing, caught it from her, and he took a long + draught. + </p> + <p> + Missy felt a wave of icy horror sweep down her spine. She wanted to cry + out in protest. For, even while she stared at them, at Aunt Isabel in pink + organdie and Mr. Saunders in blue serge dividing the flasket of soda + between them, a vision presented itself clearly before her eyes: + </p> + <p> + La Beale Isoud slenderly tall in a straight girdled gown of grey-green + velvet, head thrown back so that her filleted golden hair brushed her + shoulders, violet eyes half-closed, and an “antique”-looking flasket + clasped in her two slim hands; and Sir Tristram so imperiously dark and + handsome in his crimson, fur-trimmed doublet, his two hands stretched out + and gripping her two shoulders, his black eyes burning as if to look + through her closed lids—the magical love-potion... love that never + would depart for weal neither for woe... + </p> + <p> + Missy closed her eyes tight, as if fearing what they might behold in the + flesh. But when she opened them again, Aunt Isabel was only gazing into + the drained flasket with a rueful expression. + </p> + <p> + Then they went back and got another soda for Uncle Charlie. And poor Uncle + Charlie, unsuspecting, seemed to enjoy it. + </p> + <p> + During the remainder of that evening Missy was unusually subdued. She + realized, of course, that there were no love-potions nowadays; that they + existed only in the Middle Ages; and that the silver flasket contained + everyday ice-cream soda. And she wasn't sure she knew exactly what the + word “symbol” meant, but she felt that somehow the ice-cream soda, shared + between them, was symbolic of that famous, fateful drink. She wished + acutely that this second episode, so singularly parallel, hadn't happened. + </p> + <p> + She was still absorbed in gloomy meditations when Mr. Saunders arose to + go. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's early yet,” protested Uncle Charlie—dear, kind, ignorant + Uncle Charlie! + </p> + <p> + “But I've got to catch the ten-thirty-five,” said Mr. Saunders. + </p> + <p> + “Why can't you stay over till to-morrow night,” suggested Aunt Isabel. She + had risen, too, and now put her hand on Mr. Saunders's sleeve; her face + looked quite pleading in the moonlight. “There's to be a dance in Odd + Fellows' Hall.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd certainly love to stay.” He even dared to take hold of her hand + openly. “But I've got to be in Paola in the morning, and Blue Mound next + day.” + </p> + <p> + “The orchestra's coming down from Macon City,” she cajoled. + </p> + <p> + “Now, don't make it any harder for me,” begged Mr. Saunders, smiling down + at her. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Isabel petulantly drew away her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You're selfish! And Charlie laid up and all!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Saunders outspread his hands in a helpless gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know the hard lot of the knight of the road—here to-day, + gone to-morrow, never able to stay where his heart would wish!” + </p> + <p> + Missy caught her breath; how incautiously he talked! + </p> + <p> + After Mr. Saunders was gone, Aunt Isabel sat relapsed in her porch chair, + very quiet. Missy couldn't keep her eyes off of that lovely, apathetic + figure. Once Aunt Isabel put her hand to her head. + </p> + <p> + “Head hitting it up again?” asked Uncle Charlie solicitously. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Isabel nodded. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better get to bed, then,” he said. And, despite his wounded toe, he + wouldn't let her attend to the shutting-up “chores,” but, accompanied by + Missy, hobbled around to all the screen doors himself. Poor Uncle Charlie! + </p> + <p> + It was hard for Missy to get to sleep that night. Her brain was a dark, + seething whirlpool. And the air seemed to grow thicker and thicker; it + rested heavily on her hot eyelids, pressed suffocatingly against her + throat. And when, finally, she escaped her thoughts in sleep, it was only + to encounter them again in troubled dreams. + </p> + <p> + She was awakened abruptly by a terrific noise. Oh, Lord! what was it? She + sat up. It sounded as if the house were falling down. Then the room, the + whole world, turned suddenly a glaring, ghostly white—then a sharp, + spiteful, head-splitting crack of sound—then heavier, staccato + volleys—then a baneful rumble, dying away. + </p> + <p> + A thunder-storm! Oh, Lord! Missy buried her face in her pillow. Nothing in + the world so terrified her as thunder-storms. + </p> + <p> + She seemed to have lain there ages, scarcely breathing, when, in a little + lull, above the fierce swish of rain she thought she heard voices. + Cautiously she lifted her head; listened. She had left her door open for + air and, now, she was sure she heard Uncle Charlie's deep voice. She + couldn't hear what he was saying. Then she heard Aunt Isabel's voice, no + louder than uncle Charlie's but more penetrating; it had a queer note in + it—almost as if she were crying. Suddenly she did cry out!—And + then Uncle Charlie's deep grumble again. + </p> + <p> + Missy's heart nearly stopped beating. Could it be that Uncle Charlie had + found out?—That he was accusing Aunt Isabel and making her cry? But + surely they wouldn't quarrel in a thunder-storm! Lightning might hit the + house, or anything! + </p> + <p> + The conjunction of terrors was too much for Missy to bear. Finally she + crept out of bed and to the door. An unmistakable moan issued from Aunt + Isabel's room. And then she saw Uncle Charlie, in bath-robe and pajamas, + coming down the hall from the bathroom. He was carrying a hot-water + bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what's the matter, Missy?” he asked her. “The storm frighten you?” + </p> + <p> + Missy nodded; she couldn't voice those other horrible fears which were + tormenting her. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the worst is over now,” he said reassuringly. “Run back to bed. + Your aunt's sick again—I've just been filling the hot-water bottle + for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she—very sick?” asked Missy tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty sick,” answered Uncle Charlie. “But there's nothing you can do. + Jump back into bed.” + </p> + <p> + So Missy crept back, and listened to the gradual steadying down of the + rain. She was almost sorry, now, that the whirlwind of frantic elements + had subsided; that had been a sort of terrible complement to the whirlwind + of anguish within herself. + </p> + <p> + She lay there tense, strangling a desperate impulse to sob. La Beale Isoud + had died of love—and now Aunt Isabel was already sickening. She + half-realized that people don't die of love nowadays—that happened + only in the Middle Ages; yet, there in the black stormy night, strange, + horrible fancies overruled the sane convictions of daytime. It was + fearfully significant, Aunt Isabel's sickening so quickly, so + mysteriously. And immediately after Mr. Saunders's departure. That was + exactly what La Beale Isoud always did whenever Sir Tristram was obliged + to leave her; Sir Tristram was continually having to flee away, a kind of + knight of the road, too—to this battle or that tourney or what-not—“here + to-day, gone to-morrow, never able to stay where his heart would wish.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! oh!” + </p> + <p> + At last exhaustion had its way with the taut, quivering little body; the + hot eyelids closed; the burning cheek relaxed on the pillow. Missy slept. + </p> + <p> + When she awoke, the sun, which is so blithely indifferent to sufferings of + earth, was high up in a clear sky. The new-washed air was cool and + sparkling as a tonic. Missy's physical being felt more refreshed than she + cared to admit; for her turmoil of spirit had awakened with her, and she + felt her body should be in keeping. + </p> + <p> + By the time she got dressed and downstairs, Uncle Charlie had breakfasted + and was about to go down town. He said Aunt Isabel was still in bed, but + much better. + </p> + <p> + “She had no business to drink all those sodas,” he said. “Her stomach was + already upset from all that ice-cream and cake the night before—and + the hot weather and all—” + </p> + <p> + Missy was scarcely listening to the last. One phrase had caught her ear: + “Her stomach upset!”—How could Uncle Charlie? + </p> + <p> + But when she went up to Aunt Isabel's room later, the latter reiterated + that unromantic diagnosis. But perhaps she was pretending. That would be + only natural. + </p> + <p> + Missy regarded the convalescent; she seemed quite cheerful now, though + wan. And not so lovely as she generally did. Missy couldn't forbear a + leading remark. + </p> + <p> + “I'm terribly sorry Mr. Saunders had to go away so soon.” She strove for + sympathetic tone, but felt inexpert and self-conscious. “Terribly sorry. I + can't—” + </p> + <p> + And then, suddenly, Aunt Isabel laughed—laughed!—and said a + surprising thing. + </p> + <p> + “What! You, too, Missy? Oh, that's too funny!” + </p> + <p> + Missy stared—reproach, astonishment, bewilderment, contending in her + expression. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Isabel continued that delighted gurgle. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Saunders is a notorious heart-breaker—but I didn't realize he + was capturing yours so speedily!” + </p> + <p> + Striving to keep her dignity, Missy perhaps made her tone more severe than + she intended. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she accused, “didn't he capture yours, Aunt Isabel?” + </p> + <p> + Then Aunt Isabel, still laughing a little, but with a serious shade + creeping into her eyes, reached out for one of Missy's hands and smoothed + it gently between her own. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear; I'm afraid your Uncle Charlie has that too securely tucked + away.” + </p> + <p> + Something in Aunt Isabel's voice, her manner, her eyes, even more than her + words, convinced Missy that she was speaking the real truth. It was all a + kind of wild jumbled day-dream she'd been having. La Beale Aunt Isabel + wasn't in love with Mr. Saunders after all! She was in love with Uncle + Charlie. There had been no romantic undermeaning in all that harp-ukelele + business, in the flasket of ice-cream soda, in the mysterious sickness. + The sickness wasn't even mysterious any longer. Aunt Isabel had only had + an “upset.” + </p> + <p> + Deeply stirred, Missy withdrew her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I think I forgot to open my bed to air,” she said, and hurried away to + her own room. But, oblivious of the bed, she stood for a long time at the + window, staring out at nothing. + </p> + <p> + Yes; Romance had died out in the Middle Ages... + </p> + <p> + She was still standing there when the maid called her to the telephone. It + was Raleigh Peters on the wire, asking to take her to the dance that + night. She accepted, but without enthusiasm. Where were the thrills she + had expected to experience while receiving the homage paid a visiting + girl? He was just a grocery clerk named Peters! + </p> + <p> + Yes; Romance had died out in the Middle Ages... + </p> + <p> + She felt very blase as she hung up the receiver. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. IN THE MANNER OF THE DUCHESS + </h2> + <p> + It was raining—a gentle, trickling summer rain, when, under a heap + of magazines near a heavenly attic window, Missy and Tess came upon the + paper-backed masterpieces of “The Duchess.” + </p> + <p> + The volume Missy chanced first to select for reading was entitled “Airy + Fairy Lilian.” The very first paragraph was arresting: + </p> + <p> + Down the broad oak staircase—through the silent hall—into the + drawing-room runs Lilian, singing as she goes. The room is deserted; + through the half-closed blinds the glad sunshine is rushing, turning to + gold all on which its soft touch lingers, and rendering the large, dull, + handsome apartment almost comfortable... + </p> + <p> + “Broad oak staircase”—“drawing-room”—“large, dull, handsome + apartment”—oh, wonderful! + </p> + <p> + Then on to the description of the alluring heroine: + </p> + <p> + ... the face is more than pretty, it is lovely—the fair, sweet, + childish face, framed in by its yellow hair; her great velvety eyes, now + misty through vain longing, are blue as the skies above her; her nose is + pure Greek; her forehead low, but broad, is partly shrouded by little + wandering threads of gold that every now and then break loose from + bondage, while her lashes, long and dark, curl upward from her eyes, as + though hating to conceal the beauty of the exquisite azure within... There + is a certain haughtiness about her that contrasts curiously but pleasantly + with her youthful expression and laughing, kissable mouth. She is straight + and lissome as a young ash tree; her hands and feet are small and + well-shaped; in a word, she is chic from the crown of her fair head down + to her little arched instep... + </p> + <p> + Missy sighed; how wonderful it must be to be a creature so endowed by the + gods! + </p> + <p> + Missy—Melissa—now, at the advanced age of fifteen, had + supposed she knew all the wonders of books. She had learned to read the + Book of Life: its enchantments, so many and so varied in Cherryvale, had + kept her big grey eyes wide with smiles or wonder or, just occasionally, + darkened with the mystery of sorrow. There was the reiterant magic of + greening spring; and the long, leisurely days of delicious summer; the + companionship of a quaint and infinitely interesting baby brother, and of + her own cat—majesty incarnate on four black legs; and then, just + lately, this exciting new “best friend,” Tess O'Neill. Tess had recently + moved to Cherryvale, and was “different”—different even from Kitty + Allen, though Missy had suffered twinges about letting anyone displace + Kitty. But— + </p> + <p> + And, now, here it was in Tess's adorable attic (full of treasures + discarded by departed tenants of the old Smith place) that Missy turned + one of Life's milestones and met “the Duchess.” + </p> + <p> + Missy had loved to read the Bible (good stories there, and beautiful words + that made you tingle solemnly); and fairy tales never old; and, almost + best of all, the Anthology, full of poetry, that made you feel a strange + live spirit back of the wind and a world of mysteries beyond the curtain + of the sky. + </p> + <p> + But this— + </p> + <p> + The lure of letters was turned loud and seductive as the Blue Danube + played on a golden flute by a boy king with his crown on! + </p> + <p> + Tess glanced up from her reading. + </p> + <p> + “How's your book?” she enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's wonderful,” breathed Missy. + </p> + <p> + “Mine, too. Here's a description that reminds me a little of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Me?” incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It's about the heroine—Phyllis. She's not pretty, but she's + got a strange, underlying charm.” + </p> + <p> + Missy held her breath. She was ashamed to ask Tess to read the description + of the strangely charming heroine, but Tess knew what friendship demanded, + and read: + </p> + <p> + “'I am something over five-feet-two, with brown hair that hangs in rich + chestnut tresses far below my waist.'” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” put in Missy modestly, while her heart palpitated, “my hair is just + mouse-coloured.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” denied Tess authoritatively, “you've got nut-brown locks. And your + eyes, too, are something like Phyllis's eyes—great grey eyes with + subtle depths. Only yours haven't got saucy hints in them.” + </p> + <p> + Missy wished her eyes included the saucy hints. However, she was + enthralled by Tess's comparison, though incomplete. Was it possible Tess + was right? + </p> + <p> + Missy wasn't vain, but she'd heard before that she had “beautiful eyes.” + Perhaps Tess WAS right. Missy blushed and was silent. Just then, even had + she known the proper reply to make, she couldn't have voiced it. As “the + Duchess” might have phrased it, she was “naturally covered with + confusion.” + </p> + <p> + But already Tess had flitted from the delightfully embarrassing theme of + her friend's looks. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't it be grand,” she murmured dreamily, “to live in England?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—grand,” murmured Missy in response. + </p> + <p> + “Everything's so—so baronial over there.” + </p> + <p> + Baronial!—as always, Tess had hit upon the exact word. Missy sighed + again. She had always loved Cherryvale, always been loyal to it; but no + one could accuse Cherryvale of being “baronial.” + </p> + <p> + That evening, when Missy went upstairs to smooth her “nut-brown locks” + before supper, she gazed about her room with an expression of faint + dissatisfaction. It was an adequate, even pretty room, with its flowered + wall-paper and lace curtains and bird's-eye maple “set”; and, by the + window, a little drop-front desk where she could sit and write at the + times when feeling welled in her till it demanded an outlet. + </p> + <p> + But, now, she had an inner confused vision of “lounging-chairs” covered + with pale-blue satin; of velvet, spindle-legged tables hung with priceless + lace and bearing Dresden baskets smothered in flowers. Oh, beautiful! If + only to her, Missy, such habitation might ever befall! + </p> + <p> + However, when she started to “brush up” her hair, she eyed it with a + regard more favourable than usual. “Rich chestnut tresses!” She lingered + to contemplate, in the mirror, the great grey eyes which looked back at + her from their subtle depths. She had a suspicion the act was silly, but + it was satisfying. + </p> + <p> + That evening at the supper-table marked the beginning of a phase in + Missy's life which was to cause her family bewilderment, secret surmise, + amusement and some anxiety. + </p> + <p> + During the meal she talked very little. She had learned long ago to keep + her thoughts to herself, because old people seldom understand you. Often + they ask embarrassing questions and, even if they don't laugh at you, you + have the feeling they may be laughing inside. Her present thoughts were so + delectable and engrossing that Missy did not always hear when she was + spoken to. Toward the end of the meal, just as she caught herself in the + nick of time about to pour vinegar instead of cream over her berries, + mother said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Missy, what's the day-dream this time?” + </p> + <p> + Missy felt her cheeks “crimson with confusion.” Yesterday, at such a + question, she would have made an evasive answer; but now, so much was she + one with the charming creature of her thoughts, she forgot to be cautious. + She cast her mother a pensive glance from her great grey eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—I just feel sort of triste.” + </p> + <p> + “Tristy?” repeated her astonished parent, using Missy's pronunciation. + “Yes—sad, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “My goodness! What makes you sad?” + </p> + <p> + But Missy couldn't answer that. Unexpected questions often bring + unexpected answers, and not till after she'd made use of the effective new + word, did Missy pause to ponder whether she was really sad or not. But, + now, she couldn't very well admit her lack of the emotion, so she repeated + the pensive glance. + </p> + <p> + “Does one ever know why one's sad?” she asked in a bewitchingly appealing + tone.. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I imagine that sometimes one dees,” put in Aunt Nettie, drily. + </p> + <p> + Missy ignored Aunt Nettie; often it was best to ignore Aunt Nettie—she + was mother's old-maid sister, and she “understood” even less than mother + did. + </p> + <p> + Luckily just then, Marguerite, the coloured hired girl, came to clear off + the table. Missy regarded her capable but undistinguished figure. + </p> + <p> + “I wish they had butlers in Cherryvale,” she observed, incautious again. + </p> + <p> + “Butlers!—for mercy's sake!” ejaculated Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “What books have you got out from the library now, Missy?” asked father. + It was an abrupt change of topic, but Missy was glad of the chance to turn + from Aunt Nettie's derisive smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why—let me see. 'David Harum' and 'The History of Ancient + Greece'-that's all I think. And oh, yes—I got a French dictionary on + my way home this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! A French dictionary!” commented father. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't books, Horace,” remarked Aunt Nettie, incomprehensibly. “It's + that O'Neill girl.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that O'Neill girl?” demanded Missy, in a low, suppressed voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you ask me, her head's full of—” + </p> + <p> + But a swift gesture from mother brought Aunt Nettie to a sudden pause. + </p> + <p> + But Missy, suspecting an implied criticism of her friend, began with + hauteur: + </p> + <p> + “I implore you to desist from making any insinuation against Tess O'Neill. + I'm very proud to be epris with her!” (Missy made the climactic word rhyme + with “kiss.”) + </p> + <p> + There was a little hush after this outburst from the usually reserved + Missy. Father and mother stared at her and then at each other. But Aunt + Nettie couldn't refrain from a repetition of the climactic word; + </p> + <p> + “E-priss!” And she actually giggled! + </p> + <p> + At the sound, Missy felt herself growing “deathly mute, even to the lips”, + but she managed to maintain a mien of intense composure. + </p> + <p> + “What does that mean, Missy?” queried father. + </p> + <p> + He was regarding her kindly, with no hint of hidden amusement. Father was + a tall, quiet and very wise man, and Missy had sometimes found it possible + to talk with him about the unusual things that rose up to fascinate her. + She didn't distrust him so much as most grown-ups. + </p> + <p> + So she smiled at him and said informatively: + </p> + <p> + “It means to be in intense sympathy with.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see. Did you find that in the French dictionary?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I see we'll all have to be taking up foreign languages if we're to + have such an accomplished young lady in the house.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled at her in a way that made her almost glad, for a moment, that he + was her father instead of a Duke who might surround her with baronial + magnificence. Mother, too, she couldn't help loving, though, in her neat, + practical gingham dress, she was so unlike Lady Chetwoode, the mother in + “Airy Fairy Lilian.” Lady Chetwoode wore dainty caps, all white lace and + delicate ribbon bows that matched in colour her trailing gown. Her small + and tapering hands were covered with rings. She walked with a slow, rather + stately step, and there was a benignity about her that went straight to + the heart... Well, there was something about mother, too, that went + straight to the heart. Missy wouldn't trade off her mother for the world. + </p> + <p> + But when, later, she wandered into the front parlour, she couldn't help + wishing it were a “drawing-room.” And when she moved on out to the side + porch, she viewed with a certain discontent the peaceful scene before her. + Usually she had loved the side porch at the sunset hour: the close + fragrance of honeysuckles which screened one end, the stretch of slick + green grass and the nasturtium bed aflame like an unstirring fire, the + trees rustling softly in the evening breeze—yes, she loved it all + for the very tranquillity, the poignant tranquillity of it. + </p> + <p> + But that was before she realized there were in the world vast swards that + swept beyond pleasure-grounds (what WERE “pleasure-grounds”?), past + laughing brooklets and gurgling streams, on to the Park where roamed herds + of many-antlered deer and where mighty oaks flung their arms far and wide; + while mayhap, on a topmost branch, a crow swayed and swung as the soft + wind rushed by, making an inky blot upon the brilliant green, as if it + were a patch upon the alabaster cheek of some court belle... + </p> + <p> + Oh, enchanting! + </p> + <p> + But there were no vast swards nor pleasure-grounds nor Parks of antlered + deer in Cherryvale. + </p> + <p> + Then Poppylinda, the majestic black cat, trod up the steps of the porch + and rubbed herself against her mistress's foot, as if saying, “Anyhow, I'm + here!” + </p> + <p> + Missy reached down and lifted Poppy to her lap. She adored Poppy; but she + couldn't help reflecting that a Skye terrier (though she had never seen + one) was a more distinguished kind of pet than a black cat. A black cat + was—well, bourgeois (the last rhyming with “boys”). Airy fairy + Lilian's pet was a Skye. It was named Fifine, and was very frisky. Lilian, + as she sat exchanging sprightly badinage with her many admirers, was wont + to sit with her hand perdu beneath the silky Fifine in her lap. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Fifine! Down, sir!” murmured Missy absently. + </p> + <p> + Poppy, otherwise immobile, blinked upward an inquiring gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Naughty Fifine! You MUST not kiss my fingers, sir!” + </p> + <p> + Poppy blinked again. Who might this invisible Fifine be? Her mistress was + conversing in a very strange manner; and the strangest part of it was that + she was looking straight into Poppy's own eyes. + </p> + <p> + Poppy didn't know it, but her name was no longer Poppylinda. It was + Fifine. + </p> + <p> + That night Missy went to bed in her own little room in Cherryvale; but, + strange as it may seem to you, she spent the hours till waking far across + the sea, in a manor-house in baronial England. + </p> + <p> + After that, for a considerable period, only the body, the husk of her, + resided in Cherryvale; the spirit, the pulsing part of her, was in the + land of her dreams. Events came and passed and left her unmarked. Even the + Evans elopement brought no thrill; the affair of a youth who clerks in a + bank and a girl who works in a post office is tame business to one who has + been participating in the panoplied romances of the high-born. + </p> + <p> + Missy lived, those days, to dream in solitude or to go to Tess's where she + might read of further enchantments. Then, too, at Tess's, she had a + confidante, a kindred spirit, and could speak out of what was filling her + soul. There is nothing more satisfying than to be able to speak out of + what is filling your soul. The two of them got to using a special parlance + when alone. It was freely punctuated with phrases so wonderfully + camouflaged that no Frenchman would have guessed that they were French. + </p> + <p> + “Don't I hear the frou-frou of silken skirts?” inquired Missy one + afternoon when she was in Tess's room, watching her friend comb the golden + tresses which hung in rich profusion about her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “It's the mater,” answered Tess. “She's dressed to pay some visits to the + gentry. Later she's to dine at the vicarage. She's ordered out the trap, I + believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not the governess-cart?” + </p> + <p> + Yes, Tess said it WAS the governess-cart; and her answer was as solemn as + Missy's question. + </p> + <p> + It was that same “dinner” at the “vicarage”—in Cherryvale one dines + at mid-day, and the Presbyterian minister blindly believed he had invited + the O'Neills for supper—that gave Tess one of her most brilliant + inspirations. It came to her quite suddenly, as all true inspirations do. + The Marble Hearts would give a dinner-party! + </p> + <p> + The Marble Hearts were Missy's “crowd,” thus named after Tess had joined + it. Of course, said Tess, they must have a name. A fascinating fount of + ideas was Tess's. She declared, now, that they MUST give a dinner-party, a + regular six o'clock function. Life for the younger set in Cherryvale was + so bourgeois, so ennuye. It devolved upon herself and Missy to elevate it. + So, at the next meeting of the crowd, they would broach the idea. Then + they'd make all the plans; decide on the date and decorations and menu, + and who would furnish what, and where the fete should be held. Perhaps + Missy's house might be a good place. Yes. Missy's dining room was large, + with the porch just outside the windows—a fine place for the + orchestra. + </p> + <p> + Missy listened eagerly to all the earlier features of the scheme—she + knew Tess could carry any point with the crowd; but about the last + suggestion she felt misgivings. Mother had very strange, old-fashioned + notions about some things. She MIGHT be induced to let Missy help give an + evening dinner-party, though she held that fifteen-year-old girls should + have only afternoon parties; but to be persuaded to lend her own house for + the affair—that would be an achievement even for Tess! + </p> + <p> + However miracles continue to happen in this cut-and-dried world. When the + subject was broached to Missy's mother with carefully considered tact, she + bore up with puzzling but heavenly equanimity. She looked thoughtfully at + the two girls in turn, and then gazed out the window. + </p> + <p> + “A six o'clock dinner-party, you say?” she repeated, her eyes apparently + fixed on the nasturtium bed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mrs. Merriam.” It was Tess who answered. Missy's heart, an anxious + lump in her throat, hindered speech. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven's sake! What next?” ejaculated Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Merriam regarded the nasturtiums for a second longer before she + brought her eyes back to the two young faces and broke the tense hush. + </p> + <p> + “What made you think you wanted to give a dinner-party?” + </p> + <p> + Oh, rapture! Missy's heart subsided an inch, and she drew a long breath. + But she wisely let Tess do the replying. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, everything in Cherryvale's so passe' and ennuye'. We want to do + something novel—something really distingue'—if you know what I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I do,” replied Mrs. Merriam gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Dis-tinn-gwy!” repeated Aunt Nettie. “Well, if you ask me—” But + Mrs. Merriam silenced her sister with an unobtrusive gesture. She turned + to the two petitioners. + </p> + <p> + “You think an evening dinner would be—distinngwy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—the way we've planned it out!” affirmed Tess. She, less + diffident than Missy, was less reserved in her disclosures. She went on + eagerly: “We've got it all planned out. Five courses: oyster cocktails; + Waldorf salad; veal loaf, Saratoga chips, devilled eggs, dill pickles, + mixed pickles, chow-chow and peach pickles: heavenly hash; and ice-cream + with three kinds of cake. And small cups of demitasse, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Three kinds of cake?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” explained Tess, “you see Beula and Beth and Kitty all want cake + for their share—they say their mothers won't be bothered with + anything else. We're dividing the menu up between us, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. And what have you allotted to Missy?” + </p> + <p> + Missy herself found courage to answer this question; Mother's grave + inquiries were bringing her intense relief. + </p> + <p> + “I thought maybe I could furnish the heavenly hash, Mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Heavenly hash?” Mother looked perplexed. “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” admitted Missy. “But I liked the name—it's so + alluring. Beulah suggested it—I guess she knows the recipe.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it's all kinds of fruit chopped together,” volunteered Tess. + </p> + <p> + “But aren't you having a great deal of fruit—and pickles?” suggested + Mrs. Merriam mildly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” explained Tess, rather grandly, “at a swell function you don't + have to have many substantial viands, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I nearly forgot—this is to be a swell function.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the real thing,” said Tess proudly. “Potted palms and hand-painted + place-cards and orchestra music and candle shades and everything!” + </p> + <p> + “Candle shades?—won't it be daylight at six o'clock?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, we'll pull down the window shades,” said Tess, undisturbed. + “Candle-light 'll add—” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Nettie, who couldn't keep still any longer, cut in: + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me where you're going to get an orchestra?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Tess, with an air of patience, “we're going to fix the date on + a band-practice night. I guess they'd be willing to practice on your porch + if we gave them some ice-cream and cake.” + </p> + <p> + “My word!” gasped Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “Music always adds so much e'clat to an affair,” pursued Tess, unruffled. + </p> + <p> + “The band practicing 'll add a-clatter, all right,” commented Aunt Nettie, + adding a syllable to Tess's triumphant word. + </p> + <p> + Missy, visioning the seductive scene of Tess's description, did not notice + her aunt's sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + “If only we had a butler!” she murmured dreamily. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Nettie made as if to speak again, but caught an almost imperceptible + signal from her sister. + </p> + <p> + “Surely, Mary,” she began, “you don't mean to say you're—” + </p> + <p> + Another almost imperceptible gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Remember, Nettie, that when there's poison in the system, it is best to + let it out as quickly as possible.” + </p> + <p> + What on earth was Mother talking about? + </p> + <p> + But Missy was too thrilled by the leniency of her mother's attitude to + linger on any side-question—anyway, grown-ups were always making + incomprehensible remarks. She came back swiftly to the important issue. + </p> + <p> + “And may we really have the party here, Mother?” + </p> + <p> + Mother smiled at her, a rather funny kind of smile. + </p> + <p> + “I guess so—the rest of us may as well have the benefit.” + </p> + <p> + What did Mother mean?... + </p> + <p> + But oh, rapture! + </p> + <p> + Tess and Missy wrote the invitations themselves and decided to deliver + them in person, and Missy had no more prevision of all that decision meant + than Juliet had when her mother concluded she would give the ball that + Romeo butted in on. + </p> + <p> + Tess said they must do it with empressement, meaning she would furnish an + equipage for them to make their rounds in. Her father was a doctor, and + had turned the old Smith place into a sanitarium; and, to use the + Cherryvale word, he had several “rigs.” However, when the eventful day for + delivery arrived, Tess discovered that her father had disappeared with the + buggy while her mother had “ordered out” the surrey to take some ladies to + a meeting of the Missionary Society. + </p> + <p> + That left only an anomalous vehicle, built somewhat on the lines of a + victoria, in which Tim, “the coachman” (in Cherryvale argot known as “the + hired man”), was wont to take convalescent patients for an airing. Tess + realized the possible lack of dignity attendant upon having to sit in the + driver's elevated seat; but she had no choice, and consoled herself by + terming it “the box.” + </p> + <p> + A more serious difficulty presented itself in the matter of suitable + steeds. One would have preferred a tandem of bright bays or, failing + these, spirited ponies chafing at the bit and impatiently tossing their + long, waving manes. But one could hardly call old Ben a steed at all, and + he proved the only animal available that afternoon. Ben suffered from a + disability of his right rear leg which caused him to raise his right + haunch spasmodically when moving. The effect was rhythmic but grotesque, + much as if Ben thought he was turkey-trotting. Otherwise, too, Ben was + unlovely. His feet were by no means dainty, his coat was a dirty looking + dappled-white, and his mane so attenuated it needed a toupee. As if + appreciating his defects, Ben wore an apologetic, almost timid, expression + of countenance, which greatly belied his true stubbornness of character. + </p> + <p> + Not yet aware of the turn-out they must put up with, about two o'clock + that afternoon Missy set out for Tess's house. She departed unobtrusively + by the back door and side gate. The reason for this almost surreptitious + leave-taking was in the package she carried under her arm. It held her + mother's best black silk skirt, which boasted a “sweep”; a white waist of + Aunt Nettie's; a piece of Chantilly lace which had once been draped on + mother's skirt but was destined, to-day, to become a “mantilla”; and a + magnificent “willow plume” snipped from Aunt Nettie's Sunday hat. This + plume, when tacked to Missy's broad leghorn, was intended to be + figuratively as well as literally the crowning feature of her costume. + </p> + <p> + Tess, too, had made the most of her mother's absence at the Missionary + Society. Unfortunately Mrs. O'Neill had worn her black silk skirt, but her + blue dimity likewise boasted a “sweep.” A bouquet of artificial poppies + (plucked from a hat of “the mater's”) added a touch of colour to Tess's + corsage. And she, also, had acquired a “willow plume.” + </p> + <p> + Of course it was Tess who had thought to provide burnt matches and an + extra poppy—artificial. The purpose of the former was to give a + “shadowy look” under the eyes; of the latter, moistened, to lend a “rosy + flush” to cheek and lip. + </p> + <p> + Missy was at first averse to these unfamiliar aids to beauty. + </p> + <p> + “Won't it make your face feel sort of queer—like it needed washing?” + she demurred. + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk like a bourgeois,” said Tess. + </p> + <p> + Missy applied the wet poppy. + </p> + <p> + At the barn, “the coachman” was luckily absent, so Tess could harness up + her steed without embarrassing questions. At the sight of the steed of the + occasion, Missy's spirits for a moment sagged a bit; nor did old Ben + present a more impressive appearance when, finally, he began to + turkey-trot down Maple Avenue. His right haunch lifted—fell—lifted—fell, + in irritating rhythm as his bulky feet clumped heavily on the macadam. + Tess had insisted that Missy should occupy the driver's seat with her, + though Missy wanted to recline luxuriously behind, perhaps going by home + to pick up Poppy—that is, Fifine—to hold warm and perdu in her + lap. But practical Tess pointed out that such an act might attract the + attention of Mrs. Merriam and bring the adventure to an end. They + proceeded down Maple Avenue. It was Tess's intention to turn off at Silver + Street, to leave the first carte d'invitation at the home of Mr. Raymond + Bonner. These documents were proudly scented (and incidentally spotted) + from Mrs. O'Neill's cologne bottle. + </p> + <p> + Young Mr. Bonner resided in one of the handsomest houses in Cherryvale, + and was himself the handsomest boy in the crowd. Besides, he had more than + once looked at Missy with soft eyes—the girls “teased” Missy about + Raymond. It was fitting that Raymond should receive the first billet doux. + So, at the corner of Maple and Silver, Tess pulled the rein which should + have turned Ben into the shady street which led to Raymond's domicile. Ben + moved his head impatiently, and turkey-trotted straight ahead. Tess pulled + the rein more vigorously; Ben twitched his head still more like a swear + word and, with a more pronounced shrug of his haunch, went undivertingly + onward. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” asked Missy. “Is Ben a little—wild?” + </p> + <p> + “No—I don't think so,” replied Tess, but her tone was anxious. “I + guess that it's just that he's used to Tim. Then I'm sort of out of + practice driving.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we can just as well stop at Lester's first, and come back by + Raymond's.” + </p> + <p> + But when Tess attempted to manoeuvre Ben into Lester's street, Ben still + showed an inalienable and masterful preference for Maple Avenue. Doggedly + ahead he pursued his turkey-trotting course, un-mindful of tuggings, + coaxings, or threats, till, suddenly, at the point where Maple runs into + the Public Square, he made a turn into Main so abrupt as to send the inner + rear wheel up onto the curb. + </p> + <p> + “My!” gasped Missy, regaining her balance. “He IS wild, isn't he? Do you + think, maybe—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped suddenly. In front of the Post Office and staring at them was + that new boy she had heard about—it must be he; hadn't Kitty Allen + seen him and said he was a brunette? Even in her agitated state she could + but notice that he was of an unusual appearance—striking. He + somewhat resembled Archibald Chesney, one of airy fairy Lilian's suitors. + Like Archibald, the stranger was tall and eminently gloomy in appearance. + His hair was of a rare blackness; his eyes were dark—a little + indolent, a good deal passionate—smouldering eyes! His eyebrows were + arched, which gave him an air of melancholy protest against the world in + general. His nose was of the high-and-mighty order that comes under the + denomination of aquiline, or hooked, as may suit you best. However he did + not shade his well-cut mouth with a heavy, drooping moustache as did + Archibald, for which variation Missy was intensely grateful. Despite + Lilian's evident taste for moustached gentlemen, Missy didn't admire these + “hirsute adornments.” + </p> + <p> + She made all these detailed observations in the second before blond + Raymond Bonner, handsomer but less interesting-looking than the stranger, + came out of the Post Office, crying: + </p> + <p> + “Hello, girls! What's up?—joined the circus?” + </p> + <p> + This bantering tone, these words, were disconcerting. And before, during + their relentless progress down Maple Avenue, the expressions of certain + people sitting out on front porches or walking along the street, had + occasioned uncertainty as to their unshadowed empressement. Still no + doubts concerning her own personal get-up had clouded Missy's mind. And + the dark Stranger was certainly regarding her with a look of interest in + his indolent eyes. Almost you might say he was staring. It must be + admiration of her toilette. She was glad she was looking so well—she + wished he might hear the frou-frou of her silken skirt when she walked! + </p> + <p> + The consciousness of her unusually attractive appearance made Missy's + blood race intoxicatingly. It made her feel unwontedly daring. She did an + unwontedly daring thing. She summoned her courage and returned the Strange + Boy's stare—full. But she was embarrassed when she found herself + looking away suddenly—blushing. Why couldn't she hold that gaze?—why + must she blush? Had he noticed her lack of savoir-faire? More diffidently + she peeped at him again to see whether he had. It seemed to her that his + expression had altered. It was a subtle change; but, somehow, it made her + blush again. And turn her eyes away again—more quickly than before. + But there was a singing in her brain. The dark, interesting-looking + Stranger LIKED her to look at him—LIKED her to blush and look away! + </p> + <p> + She felt oddly light-headed—like someone unknown to herself. She + wanted to laugh and chatter about she knew not what. She wanted to— + </p> + <p> + But here certain external happenings cruelly grabbed her attention. Old + Ben, who had seemed to slow down obligingly upon the girls' greeting of + Raymond, had refused to heed Tess's tugging effort to bring him to a + standstill. To be sure, he moved more slowly, but move he did, and + determinedly; till—merciful heaven!—he came to a dead and + purposeful halt in front of the saloon. Not “a saloon,” but “the saloon!” + </p> + <p> + Now, more frantically than she had urged him to pause, Tess implored Ben + to proceed. No local standards are so hide-bound as those of a small town, + and in Cherryvale it was not deemed decently permissible, but disgraceful, + to have aught to do with liquor. “The saloon” was far from a “respectable” + place even for men to visit; and for two girls to drive up openly—brazenly— + </p> + <p> + “Get up, Ben! Get up!” rang an anguished duet. + </p> + <p> + Missy reached over and helped wallop the rains. Oh, this pain!—this + faintness! She now comprehended the feeling which had so often overcome + the fair ladies of England when enmeshed in some frightful situation. + They, on such upsetting occasions, had usually sunk back and murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Please ring the bell—a glass of wine!” And Missy, while reading, + had been able to vision herself, in some like quandary, also ordering a + “glass of wine”; but, now!... the wine was only too terribly at hand! + </p> + <p> + “Get up!—there's a good old Ben!” + </p> + <p> + “Good old Ben—get up!” + </p> + <p> + But he was not a good old Ben. He was a mean old Ben—mean with + inborn, incredibly vicious stubbornness. How terrible to live to come to + this! But Missy was about to learn what a tangled web Fate weaves, and how + amazingly she deceives sometimes when life looks darkest. Raymond and the + Stranger (Missy knew his name was Ed Brown; alas! but you can't have + everything in this world) started forth to rescue at the same time, + knocked into each other, got to Ben's head simultaneously, and together + tugged and tugged at the bridle. + </p> + <p> + Ben stood planted, with his four huge feet firmly set, defying any force + in heaven or earth to budge them. His head, despite all the boys could do, + maintained a relaxed attitude—a contradiction in terms justified by + the facts—and also with a certain sidewise inclination toward the + saloon. It was almost as if he were watching the saloon door. In truth, + that is exactly what old Ben was doing. He was watching for Tim. Ben had + good reason for knowing Tim's ways since, for a considerable time, no one + save Tim had deigned to drive him. Besides having a natural tendency + toward being “set in his ways,” Ben had now reached the time of life when + one, man or beast, is likely to become a creature of habit. Thus he had + unswervingly followed Tim's route to Tim's invariable first halt; and now + he stood waiting Tim's reappearance through the saloon door. Other + volunteer assistants, in hordes, hordes, and laughing as if this awful + calamity were a huge joke, had joined Raymond and the Other. Missy was + flamingly aware of them, of their laughter, their stares, their jocular + comments. + </p> + <p> + But they all achieved nothing; and relief came only when Ben's supreme + faith was rewarded when Tim, who had been spending his afternoon off in + his favourite club, was attracted from his checker-game in the “back room” + by some hubbub in the street and came inquisitively to the front door. + </p> + <p> + Ben, then, pricked his ears and showed entire willingness to depart. Tim, + after convincing himself that he wasn't drunk and “seeing things,” climbed + up on the “box”; the two girls, “naturally covered with confusion,” were + only too glad to sink down unobtrusively into the back seat. Not till they + were at the sanitarium again, did they remember the undelivered + invitations; but quickly they agreed to put on stamps and let Tim take + them, without empressement, to the Post Office. + </p> + <p> + All afternoon Missy burned and chilled in turn. Oh, it was too dreadful! + What would people say? What would her parents, should they hear, do? And + what, oh what would the interesting-looking Stranger think? Oh, what a + contretemps! + </p> + <p> + If she could have heard what the Stranger actually did say, she would + still have been “covered with confusion”—though of a more + pleasurable kind. He and Raymond were become familiar acquaintances by + this time. “What's the matter with 'em?” he had inquired as the steed Ben + turkey-trotted away. “Doing it on a bet or something?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno,” replied Raymond. “The blonde one's sort of bughouse, anyway. And + the other one, Missy Merriam, gets sorta queer streaks sometimes—you + don't know just what's eating her. She's sorta funny, but she's a peach, + all right.” + </p> + <p> + “She the one with the eyes?” + </p> + <p> + Raymond suddenly turned and stared at the new fellow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he assented, almost reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “Some eyes!” commented the other, gazing after the vanishing equipage. + </p> + <p> + Raymond looked none too pleased. But it was too late, now, to spike Fate's + spinning wheel. Missy was terribly cast down by the afternoon's history; + but not so cast down that she had lost sight of the obligation to invite + to her dinner a boy who had rescued her—anyhow, he had tried to + rescue her, and that was the same thing. So a carte must be issued to “Mr. + Ed Brown.” After all, what's in a name?—hadn't Shakespeare himself + said that? + </p> + <p> + At supper, Missy didn't enjoy her meal. Had father or mother heard? Once + she got a shock: she glanced up suddenly and caught father's eyes on her + with a curious expression. For a second she was sure he knew; but he said + nothing, only looked down again and went on eating his chop. + </p> + <p> + That evening mother suggested that Missy go to bed early. “You didn't eat + your supper, and you look tired out,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + Missy did feel tired—terribly tired; but she wouldn't have admitted + it, for fear of being asked the reason. Did mother, perhaps, know? Missy + had a teasing sense that, under the placid, commonplace conversation, + there was something unspoken. A curious and uncomfortable feeling. But, + then, as one ascertains increasingly with every year one lives, Life is + filled with curious and often uncomfortable feelings. Which, however, one + would hardly change if one could, because all these things make Life so + much more complex, therefore more interesting. The case of Ben was in + point: if he had not “cut up,” it might have been weeks before she got + acquainted with the Dark Stranger! + </p> + <p> + Still pondering these “deep” things, Missy took advantage of her mother's + suggestion and went up to undress. She was glad of the chance to be alone. + </p> + <p> + But she wasn't to be alone for yet a while. Her mother followed her and + insisted on helping unfasten her dress, turning down her bed, bringing + some witch-hazel to bathe her forehead—a dozen little pretexts to + linger. Mother did not always perform these offices. Surely she must + suspect. Yet, if she did suspect, why her kindness? Why didn't she speak + out, and demand explanations? + </p> + <p> + Mothers are sometimes so mystifying! + </p> + <p> + The time for the good night kiss came and went with no revealing word from + either side. The kiss was unusually tender, given and received. Left alone + at last, on her little, moon-whitened bed, Missy reflected on her great + fondness for her mother. No; she wouldn't exchange her dear mother, not + even for the most aristocratic lady in England. + </p> + <p> + Then, as the moon worked its magic on her fluttering lids, the flowered + wall-paper, the bird's-eye maple furniture, all dissolved in air, and in + their place magically stood, faded yet rich, lounges and chairs of velvet; + priceless statuettes; a few bits of bric-a-brac worth their weight in + gold; several portraits of beauties well-known in the London and Paris + worlds, frail as they were fair, false as they were piquante; + tobacco-stands and meerschaum pipes and cigarette-holders; a couple of + dogs snoozing peacefully upon the hearth-rug; a writing-table near the + blazing grate and, seated before it— + </p> + <p> + Yes! It was he! Though the room was Archibald Chesney's “den,” the seated + figure was none other than Ed Brown!... + </p> + <p> + A shadow falls across the paper on which he is writing—he glances up—beholds + an airy fairy vision regarding him with a saucy smile—a slight + graceful creature clothed in shell-pink with daintiest lace frillings at + the throat and wrists, and with a wealth of nut-brown locks brought low on + her white brow, letting only the great grey eyes shine out. + </p> + <p> + “What are you writing, sir?” she demands, sending him a bewitching glance. + </p> + <p> + “Only a response to your gracious invitation, Lady Melissa,” he replies, + springing up to kiss her tapering fingers... The moon seals the closed + eyelids down with a kiss. + </p> + <p> + The day of days arrived. + </p> + <p> + Missy got up while the rest of the household was still sleeping. For once + she did not wait for Poppy's kiss to awaken her. The empty bed surprised + and disconcerted Poppy—that is, Fifine—upon her appearance. + But much, these days, was happening to surprise and disconcert Poppy—that + is, Fifine. + </p> + <p> + Fifine finally located her mistress down in the back parlour, occupied + with shears and a heap of old magazines. Missy was clipping sketches from + certain advertisements, which she might trace upon cardboard squares and + decorate with water-colour. These were to be the “place-cards”—an + artistic commission Missy had put off from day to day till, now, at the + last minute, she was constrained to rise early, with a rushed and + remorseful feeling. A situation familiar to many artists. + </p> + <p> + She succeeded in concentrating herself upon the work with the greatest + difficulty. For, after breakfast, there began a great bustling with brooms + and carpet-sweepers and dusters; and, no sooner was the house swept than + appeared a gay and chattering swarm to garnish it: “Marble Hearts” with + collected “potted palms” and “cut flowers” and cheesecloth draperies of + blue and gold—the “club colours” which, upon the sudden need for + club colours, had been suddenly adopted. + </p> + <p> + Missy betook herself to her room, but it was filled up with two of the + girls and a bolt of cheesecloth; to the dining room, but there was no + inspiration in the sight of Marguerite polishing the spare silver; to the + side porch, but one cannot work where giggling girls sway and shriek on + tall ladders, hanging paper-lanterns; to the summerhouse, but even to this + refuge the Baby followed her, finally upsetting the water-colour box. + </p> + <p> + The day went rushing past. Enticing odours arose from the kitchen. The + grocery wagon came, and came again. The girls went home. A sketchy lunch + was eaten off the kitchen table, and father stayed down town. The girls + reappeared. They overran the kitchen, peeling oranges and pineapples and + bananas for “heavenly hash.” Marguerite grew cross. The Baby, who missed + his nap, grew cross. And Missy, for some reason, grew sort of cross, too; + she resented the other girls' unrestrainable hilarity. They wouldn't be so + hilarious if it were their own households they were setting topsy-turvy; + if they had sixteen “place-cards” yet to finish. In England, the hostess's + entertainments went more smoothly. Things were better arranged there. + </p> + <p> + Gradually the girls drifted home to dress; the house grew quiet. Missy's + head was aching. Flushed and paint-daubed, she bent over the + “place-cards.” + </p> + <p> + Mother came to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn't you better be getting dressed, dear?—it's half-past five.” + </p> + <p> + Half-past five! Heavens! Missy bent more feverishly over the + “place-cards”; there were still two left to colour. + </p> + <p> + “I'll lay out your dotted Swiss for you,” offered mother kindly. + </p> + <p> + At this mention of her “best dress,” Missy found time for a pang of vain + desire. She wished she had a more befitting dinner gown. A black velvet, + perhaps; a “picture dress” with rare old lace, and no other adornment save + diamonds in her hair and ears and round her throat and wrists. + </p> + <p> + But, then, velvet might be too hot for August. She visioned herself in an + airy creation of batiste—very simple, but the colour combination a + ravishing mingling of palest pink and baby-blue, with ribbons fluttering; + delicately tinted long gloves; delicately tinted slippers and silken + stockings on her slender, high-arched feet; a few glittering rings on her + restless fingers; one blush-pink rose in her hair which, simply arranged, + suffered two or three stray rippling locks to wander wantonly across her + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Missy! It's ten minutes to six! And you haven't even combed your hair!” + It was mother at the door again. + </p> + <p> + The first guest arrived before Missy had got her hair “smoothed up”—no + time, tonight, to try any rippling, wanton effects. She could hear the + swelling sound of voices and laughter in the distance—oh, dreadful! + Her fingers became all thumbs as she sought to get into the dotted swiss, + upside down. + </p> + <p> + Mother came in just in time to extricate her, and buttoned the dress with + maddeningly deliberate fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Now, don't fret yourself into a headache, dear,” she said in a voice + meant to be soothing. “The party won't run away—just let yourself + relax.” + </p> + <p> + Relax! + </p> + <p> + The musicians, out on the side porch, were already beginning their blaring + preparations when the hostess, at last, ran down the stairs and into the + front parlour. Her agitation had no chance to subside before they must + file out to the dining room. Missy hadn't had time before to view the + completely embellished dining room and, now, in all its glory and + grandeur, it struck her full force: the potted palms screening the windows + through which floated strains of music, streamers of blue and gold + stretching from the chandelier to the four corners of the room in a sort + of canopy, the long white table with its flowers and gleaming silver— + </p> + <p> + It might almost have been the scene of a function at Chetwoode Manor + itself! + </p> + <p> + In a kind of dream she was wafted to the head of the table; for, since the + function was at her house, Missy had been voted the presiding place of + honour. It is a very great responsibility to sit in the presiding place of + honour. From that conspicuous position one leads the whole table's + activities: conversing to the right, laughing to the left, sharply on the + lookout for any conversational gap, now and then drawing muted + tete-a-tetes into a harmonic unison. She is, as it were, the leader of an + orchestra of which the individual diners are the subsidiary instruments. + Upon her watchful resourcefulness hangs the success of a dinner-party. But + Missy, though a trifle fluttered, had felt no anxiety; she knew so well + just how Lady Chetwoode had managed these things. + </p> + <p> + The hostess must also, of course, direct the nutrimental as well as the + conversational process of the feast. She is served first, and takes + exactly the proper amount of whatever viand in exactly the proper way and + manipulates it with exactly the proper fork or knife or spoon. But Missy + had felt no anticipatory qualms. + </p> + <p> + She was possessed of a strange, almost a lightheaded feeling. Perhaps the + excitement of the day, the rush at the last, had something to do with it. + Perhaps the spectacle of the long, adorned table, the scent of flowers, + the sound of music, the dark eyes of Mr. Edward Brown who was seated at + her right hand. + </p> + <p> + (Dear old faithful Ben!—to think of how his devotion to tippling Tim + had brought Edward Brown into her life!) + </p> + <p> + She felt a stranger to herself. Something in her soared intoxicatingly. + The sound of her own gay chatter came to her from afar—as from a + stranger. Mr. Brown kept on looking at her. + </p> + <p> + The butler appeared, bringing the oyster cocktails (a genteel delicacy + possible in an inland midsummer thanks to the canning industry), and + proceeded to serve them with empressement. + </p> + <p> + The butler was really the climactic triumph of the event. And he was + Missy's own inspiration. She had been racking her brains for some way to + eliminate the undistinguished Marguerite, to conjure through the very + strength of her desire some approach to a proper servitor. If only they + had ONE of those estimable beings in Cherry vale! A butler, preferably + elderly, and “steeped in respectability” up to his port-wine nose; one who + would hover around the table, adjusting this dish affectionately and + straightening that, and who, whenever he left the room, left it with a + velvet step and an almost inaudible sigh of satisfaction... + </p> + <p> + And then, quite suddenly, she had hit upon the idea of “Snowball” + Saunders. Snowball had come to the house to borrow the Merriams' ice-cream + freezer. There was to be an informal “repast” at the Shriners' hall, and + Snowball engineered all the Shriners' gustatory festivities from “repasts” + to “banquets.” Sometimes, at the banquets, he even wore a dress suit. It + was of uncertain lineage and too-certain present estate, yet it was a + dress suit. It was the recollection of the dress suit that had given Missy + her inspiration. To be sure, in England, butlers were seldom “coloured,” + but in Cherry vale one had to make some concessions. + </p> + <p> + The butler was wearing his dress suit as he came bearing the oyster + cocktails. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Snowball!” greeted Raymond Bonner, genially. “Didn't know you were + invited to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Snowball? what a gosherie! With deliberate hauteur Missy spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Saunders, don't forget to fill the glasses with ice-water.” + </p> + <p> + Raymond cast her an astonished look, but, perhaps because he was more + impressed by the formality of the function than he would have admitted, + refrained from any bantering comment. + </p> + <p> + The hostess, then, with a certain righteous complacence, lowered her eyes + to her cocktail glass. + </p> + <p> + Oh, heavens! + </p> + <p> + It was the first time, so carried away had she been with this new, + intoxicating feeling, that she had really noticed what she was eating—how + she was eating it. + </p> + <p> + She was eating her oysters with her after-dinner coffee spoon! + </p> + <p> + The tiny-pronged oyster fork was lying there on the cloth, untouched! + </p> + <p> + Oh, good heavens! + </p> + <p> + An icy chill of mortification crept down her spine, spread out through her + whole being. She had made a mistake—SHE, the hostess! + </p> + <p> + A whirlwind of mortal shame stormed round and round within her. If only + she could faint dead away in her chair! If only she could weep, and summon + mother! Or die! Or even if she could sink down under the table and hide + away from sight. But she didn't know how to faint; and hostesses do not + weep for their mothers; and, in real life, people never die at the crucial + moments; nor do they crawl under tables. All she could do was to force + herself at last, to raise her stricken eyelids and furtively regard her + guests. + </p> + <p> + Oh, dear heaven! + </p> + <p> + They were all—ALL of them—eating their oyster cocktails with + their after-dinner coffee spoons! + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't know why, at that sight, she had to fight off a spasm of + laughter. She felt she must scream out in laughter, or die. + </p> + <p> + All at once she realized that Mr. Brown was speaking to her. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” he was saying. “Want to sneeze?” + </p> + <p> + That struck her so funny that she laughed; and then she felt better. + </p> + <p> + “I was just terribly upset,” she found herself explaining almost + naturally, “because I suddenly found myself eating the oyster cocktail + with the coffee spoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, isn't this the right implement?” queried Mr. Brown, contemplating his + spoon. “Well, if you ask ME, I'm glad you started off with it—this + soupy stuff'd be the mischief to get away with with a fork.” + </p> + <p> + Archibald Chesney wouldn't have talked that way. But, nevertheless, Missy + let her eyelids lift up at him in a smile. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you didn't know it was a mistake,” she murmured. “I was TERRIBLY + mortified.” + </p> + <p> + “Girls are funny,” Mr. Brown replied to that. “Always worrying over + nothing.” He returned her smile. “But YOU needn't ever worry.” + </p> + <p> + What did he mean by that? But something in his dark eyes, gazing at her + full, kept Missy from asking the question, made her swiftly lower her + lashes. + </p> + <p> + “I bet YOU could start eating with a toothpick and get away with it,” he + went on. + </p> + <p> + Did he mean her social savoir-faire—or did he mean— + </p> + <p> + Just then the butler appeared at her left hand to remove the cocktail + course. She felt emboldened to remark, with an air of ease: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Saunders, don't forget to lay the spoons when you serve the + demi-tasses.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Brown laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, say!” he chortled, “you ARE funny when you hand out that highfalutin + stuff!” + </p> + <p> + No; he surely hadn't meant admiration for her savoir-faire; yet, for some + reason, Missy didn't feel disappointed. She blushed, and found it + entrancingly difficult to lift her eyelids. + </p> + <p> + The function, rather stiffly and quite impressively, continued its way + without further contretemps. It was, according to the most aristocratic + standards, highly successful. To be sure, after the guests had filed + solemnly from the table and began to dance on the porches, something of + the empressement died away; but Missy was finding Mr. Brown too good a + dancer to remember to be critical. She forgot altogether, now, to compare + him with the admired Archibald. + </p> + <p> + Missy danced with Mr. Brown so much that Raymond Bonner grew openly sulky. + Missy liked Raymond, and she was sure she would never want to do anything + unkind—yet why, at the obvious ill temper of Raymond Bonner, did she + feel a strange little delicious thrill? + </p> + <p> + Oh, she was having a glorious time! + </p> + <p> + Once she ran across father, lurking unobtrusively in a shadowed corner. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he remarked, “I see that Missy's come back for a breathing-spell.” + </p> + <p> + Just what did father mean by that? + </p> + <p> + But she was having too good a time to wonder long. Too good a time to + remember whether or not it was in the baronial spirit. She was entirely + uncritical when, the time for good nights finally at hand, Mr. Brown said + to her: + </p> + <p> + “Well, a fine time was had by all! I guess I don't have to tell YOU that—what?” + </p> + <p> + Archibald Chesney would never have put it that way. Yet Missy, with Mr. + Brown's eyes upon her in an openly admiring gaze, wouldn't have had him + changed one bit. + </p> + <p> + But, when at last sleep came to her in her little white bed, on the + silvery tide of the moon, it carried a dream to slip up under the + tight-closed eyes... + </p> + <p> + The ball is at its height. The door of the conservatory opens and a fair + young creature steals in. She is fairer than the flowers themselves as, + with a pretty consciousness of her own grace, she advances into the bower. + Her throat is fair and rounded under the diamonds that are no brighter + than her own great grey eyes; her nut-brown locks lie in heavy masses on + her well-shaped head, while across her forehead a few rebellious tresses + wantonly wander. + </p> + <p> + She suddenly sees in the shadows that other figure which has started + perceptibly at her entrance; a tall and eminently gloomy figure, with hair + of a rare blackness, and eyes dark and insouciant but admiring withal. + </p> + <p> + With a silken frou-frou she glides toward him, happy and radiant, for she + is in her airiest mood tonight. + </p> + <p> + “Is not my dress charming, Mr. Brown?” she cries with charming naivete. + “Does it not become me?” + </p> + <p> + “It is as lovely as its wearer,” replied the other, with a suppressed + sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Pouf! What a simile! Who dares compare me with a paltry gown?” + </p> + <p> + Then, laughing at his discomfiture, the coquette, with slow nonchalance, + gathers up her long train. + </p> + <p> + “But I'll forgive you—this once,” she concedes, “for there is + positively no one to take poor little me back to the ballroom.” + </p> + <p> + And Lady Melissa slips her hand beneath Mr. Brown's arm, and glances up at + him with laughing, friendly eyes... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. INFLUENCING ARTHUR + </h2> + <p> + No one in Cherryvale ever got a word from Melissa about the true + inwardness of the spiritual renaissance she experienced the winter that + the Reverend MacGill came to the Methodist church; naturally not her + father nor mother nor Aunt Nettie, because grown-ups, though nice and + well-meaning, with their inability to “understand,” and their tendency to + laugh make one feel shy and reticent about the really deep and vital + things. And not even Tess O'Neill, Missy's chum that year, a lively, + ingenious, and wonderful girl, was in this case clever enough to obtain + complete confidence. + </p> + <p> + Once before Missy had felt the flame divine—a deep, vague kind of + glow all subtly mixed up with “One Sweetly Solemn Thought” and such slow, + stirring, minor harmonies, and with sunlight stealing through the + stained-glass window above the pulpit in colourful beauty that pierced to + her very soul. But that was a long time ago, when she was a little thing—only + ten. Now she was nearly sixteen. Things were different. One now was + conscious of the reality of inward inexperiences: these must influence + life—one's own and, haply, the lives of others. What Missy did not + emphasize in her mind was the mystery of how piety evolved from white fox + furs and white fox furs finally evolved from piety. But she did perceive + that it would be hopeless to try to explain her motives about Arthur as + mixed up with the acquisition of the white fox furs... No; not even Tess + O'Neill could have grasped the true inwardness of it all. + </p> + <p> + It all began, as nearly as one could fix on a concrete beginning, with + Genevieve Hicks's receiving a set of white fox furs for Christmas. The + furs were soft and silky and luxurious, and Genevieve might well have been + excused for wearing them rather triumphantly. Missy wasn't at all envious + by nature and she tried to be fair-minded in this case, but she couldn't + help begrudging Genevieve her regal air. + </p> + <p> + Genevieve had paraded her becoming new finery past the Merriam residence + on several Sunday afternoons, but this wasn't the entire crux of Missy's + discontent. Genevieve and the white fox furs were escorted by Arthur + Summers. + </p> + <p> + Now, Arthur had more than once asked Missy herself to “go walking” on + Sunday afternoons. But Mrs. Merriam had said Missy was too young for such + things. And when Missy, in rebuttal, once pointed out the promenading + Genevieve, Mrs. Merriam had only replied that Genevieve's mother ought to + know better—that Genevieve was a frivolous-minded girl, anyway. + </p> + <p> + Missy, peering through the parlour lace curtains, made no answer; but she + thought: “Bother! Everybody can go walking but me!” + </p> + <p> + Then she thought: + </p> + <p> + “She's laughing awful loud. She is frivolous-minded.” + </p> + <p> + Then: + </p> + <p> + “He looks as if he's having a good time, too; he's laughing back straight + at her. I wonder if he thinks she's very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + And then: + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had some white fox furs.” + </p> + <p> + That evening at the supper-table Missy voiced her desire. There were just + the four of them at the table—father, mother, Aunt Nettie and + herself. Missy sat silent, listening to the talk of the grownups; but + their voices floated to her as detached, far-off sounds, because she was + engrossed in looking at a mental picture; a red-haired, laughing, + admiring-eyed boy walking along beside a girl in white fox furs—and + the girl was not Genevieve Hicks. The delights of the vision must have + reflected in her face because finally her father said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Missy, what's all the smiling about?” + </p> + <p> + Missy blushed as if she'd been caught in mischief; but she answered, + wistfully rather than hopefully: + </p> + <p> + “I was just thinking how nice it would be if I had some white fox furs.” + </p> + <p> + “For heaven's sake!” commented mother. “When you've already got a new set + not two months old!” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't reply to that; she didn't want to seem unappreciative. It was + true she had a new set, warm and serviceable, but—well, a + short-haired, dark-brown collarette hasn't the allure of a fluffy, + snow-white boa. + </p> + <p> + Mother was going on: “That ought to do you two winters at least—if + not three.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what the present generation is coming to,” put in Aunt + Nettie with what seemed to Missy entire irrelevance. Aunt Nettie was a + spinster, even older than Missy's mother, and her lack of understanding + and her tendency to criticize and to laugh was especially dreaded by her + niece. + </p> + <p> + “Nowadays girls still in knee-skirts expect to dress and act like society + belles!” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't expecting the white fox furs,” said Missy defensively. “I was + just thinking how nice it would be to have them.” She was silent a moment, + then added: “I think if I had some white fox furs I'd be the happiest + person in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't strike me as such a large order for complete happiness,” + observed father, smiling at her. + </p> + <p> + Missy smiled back at him. In another these words might have savoured of + irony, but Missy feared irony from her father less than from any other old + person. + </p> + <p> + Father was a big, silent man but he was always kind and particularly + lovable; and he “understood” better than most “old people.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the special merit of these white fox furs?” he went on, and + something in the indulgent quality of his tone, something in the + expression of his eyes, made hope stir timidly to birth in her bosom and + rise to shine from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + But before she could answer, mother spoke. “I can tell you that. That + flighty Hicks girl went by here this afternoon wearing some. That Summers + boy who clerks in Pieker's grocery was with her. He once wanted Missy to + go walking with him and I had to put my foot down. She doesn't seem to + realize she's too young for such things. Her brown furs will do her for + this season—and next season too!” + </p> + <p> + Mother put on a stern, determined kind of look, almost hard. Into the life + of every woman who is a mother there comes a time when she learns, + suddenly, that her little girl is trying not to be a little girl any + longer but to become a woman. It is a hard moment for mothers, and no + wonder that they seem unwarrantedly adamantine. Mrs. Merriam instinctively + knew that wanting furs and wanting boys spelled the same evil. But Missy, + who was fifteen instead of thirty-seven and whose emotions and desires + were still as hazy and uncorrelated as they were acute, stared with + bewildered hurt at this unjust harshness in her usually kind parent. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned large, pleading eyes upon her father; he had shown a + dawning interest in the subject of white fox furs. But Mr. Merriam, now, + seemed to have lost the issue of furs in the newer issue of boys. + </p> + <p> + “What's this about the Summers boy?” he demanded. “It's the first I've + ever heard of this business.” + </p> + <p> + “He only wanted me to go walking, father. All the rest of the girls go + walking with boys.” “Indeed! Well, you won't. Nor for a good many years!” + </p> + <p> + Such unexpected shortness and sharpness from father made her feel suddenly + wretched; he was even worse than mother. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he, anyway?” he exploded further. + </p> + <p> + Missy's lips were twitching inexplicably; she feared to essay speech, but + it was mother who answered. + </p> + <p> + “He's that red-headed boy who clerks in Pieker's grocery.” + </p> + <p> + “Arthur's a nice boy,” Missy then attempted courageously. “I don't think + he ought to be blamed just because he's poor and—” + </p> + <p> + Her defence ended ignominiously in a choking sound. She wasn't one who + cried easily and this unexpected outburst amazed herself; she could not, + to have saved her life, have told why she cried. + </p> + <p> + Her father reached over and patted her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not blaming him because he's poor, daughter. It's just that I don't + want you to start thinking about the boys for a long while yet. Not about + Arthur or any other boy. You're just a little girl.” + </p> + <p> + Missy knew very well that she was not “just a little girl,” but she knew, + too, that parents nourish many absurd ideas. And though father was now + absurd, she couldn't help feeling tender toward him when he called her + “daughter” in that gentle tone. So, sighing a secret little sigh, she + smiled back at him a misty smile which he took for comprehension and a + promise. The subject of white fox furs seemed closed; Missy was reluctant + to re-open it because, in some intangible way, it seemed bound up with the + rather awkward subject of Arthur. + </p> + <p> + After supper father conversed with her about a piece she was reading in + the Sunday Supplement, and seemed anxious to make her feel happy and + contented. So softened was he that, when Tess telephoned and invited Missy + to accompany the O'Neill family to the Methodist church that evening, he + lent permission to the unusual excursion. + </p> + <p> + The unusualness of it—the Merriams performed their Sabbath devotions + at 11 A.M.—served to give Missy a greater thrill than usually + attends going to church. Besides, since the Merriams were Presbyterians, + going to the Methodist church held a certain novelty—savouring of + entertainment—and diversion from the same old congregation, the same + old church choir, and the same old preacher. In literal truth, also, the + new Methodist preacher was not old; he was quite young. Missy had already + heard reports of him. Some of the Methodist girls declared that though + ugly he was perfectly fascinating; and grandpa and grandma Merriam, who + were Methodists (as had been her own father before he married mother, a + Presbyterian), granted that he was human as well as inspired. + </p> + <p> + As Missy entered the Methodist church that evening with the O'Neills, it + didn't occur to her memory that it was in this very edifice she had once + felt the flame divine. It was once when her mother was away visiting and + her less rigidly strict grandparents had let her stay up evenings and + attend revival meetings with them. But all that had happened long ago—five + years ago, when she was a little thing of ten. One forgets much in five + years. So she felt no stir of memory and no presentiment of a coincidence + to come. + </p> + <p> + Reverend MacGill, the new minister, at first disappointed her. He was tall + and gaunt; and his face was long and gaunt, lighted with deep-set, + smouldering, dark eyes and topped with an unruly thatch of dark hair. + Missy thought him terribly ugly until he smiled, and then she wasn't quite + so sure. As the sermon went on and his harsh but flexible voice mounted, + now and then, to an impassioned height, she would feel herself mounting + with it; then when it fell again to calmness, she would feel herself + falling, too. She understood why grandma called him “inspired.” And once + when his smile, on one of its sudden flashes from out that dark gauntness + of his face, seemed aimed directly at her she felt a quick, responsive, + electric thrill. The Methodist girls were right—he was fascinating. + </p> + <p> + She didn't wait until after the service to express her approbation to Tess—anyway, + to a fifteen-year-old surreptitiousness seems to add zest to any + communication. She tore a corner from the hymnal fly-leaf and scribbled + her verdict while the elder O'Neills and most of the old people were + kneeling in prayer. Assuring herself that all nearby heads to be dreaded + were reverentially bent, she passed the missive. As she did so she chanced + to glance up toward the minister. + </p> + <p> + Oh, dear heaven! He was looking straight down at her. He had seen her—the + O'Neill pew was only three rows back. It was too awful. What would he + think of her? An agony of embarrassment and shame swept over her. + </p> + <p> + And then—could she believe her eyes?—right in the midst of his + prayer, his harshly melodious voice rising and falling with never a break—the + Reverend MacGill smiled. Smiled straight at her—there could be no + mistake. And a knowing, sympathetic, understanding kind of smile! Yes, he + was human. + </p> + <p> + She liked him better than she had ever thought it possible to like a + minister—especially an ugly one, and one whom she'd never “met.” + </p> + <p> + But after service she “met” him at the door, where he was standing to + shake hands with the departing worshippers. As Mrs. O'Neill introduced + her, rather unhappily, as “one of Tess's little friends,” he flashed her + another smile which said, quite plainly: “I saw you up to your pranks, + young lady!” But it was not until after Dr. and Mrs. O'Neill had passed on + that he said aloud: “That was all right—all I ask is that you don't + look so innocent when your hands are at mischief.” + </p> + <p> + Oh, she adored his smile! + </p> + <p> + The following Sunday evening she was invited to the O'Neills' for supper, + and the Reverend MacGill was invited too. The knowledge of this + interesting meeting impending made it possible for her to view Genevieve + and Arthur, again out on a Sunday afternoon stroll, with a certain + equanimity. Genevieve, though very striking and vivacious in her white + fox, was indubitably a frivolous-minded girl; she, Missy, was going to eat + supper with the Reverend MacGill. Of course white fox furs were nice, and + Arthur's eyelashes curled up in an attractive way, but there are higher, + more ennobling things in life. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend MacGill did not prove disappointing on closer acquaintance. + Grandpa said he knew everything there is to know about the Bible, but the + Reverend MacGill did not talk about it. In a way this was a pity, as his + talk might have been instructive, but he got Tess and Missy to talking + about themselves instead. Not in the way that makes you feel + uncomfortable, as many older people do, but just easy, chatty, laughing + comradeship. You could talk to him almost as though he were a boy of the + “crowd.” + </p> + <p> + It developed that the Reverend MacGill was planning a revival. He said he + hoped that Tess and Missy would persuade all their young friends to + attend. As Missy agreed to ally herself with his crusade, she felt a sort + of lofty zeal glow up in her. It was a pleasantly superior kind of + feeling. If one can't be fashionable and frivolous one can still be pious. + </p> + <p> + In this noble missionary spirit she managed to be in the kitchen the next + time Arthur delivered the groceries from Pieker's. She asked him to attend + the opening session of the revival the following Sunday night. Arthur + blushed and stammered a little, so that, since Arthur wasn't given to + embarrassment, Missy at once surmised he had a “date.” Trying for an + impersonal yet urbane and hospitable manner, she added: + </p> + <p> + “Of course if you have an engagement, we hope you'll feel free to bring + any of your friends with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” admitted Arthur, “you see the fact is I HAVE got a kind of date. + Of course if I'd KNOWN—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” she cut in with magnificent ease. “I wasn't asking + you to go with me. Reverend MacGill just appointed me on a kind of + informal committee, you know—I'm asking Raymond Bonner and all the + boys of the crowd.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't rub it in—I get you. Swell chance of YOU ever wanting + to make a date!” + </p> + <p> + His sulkiness of tone, for some reason, gratified her. Her own became even + more gracious as she said again: “We hope you can come. And bring any of + your friends you wish.” + </p> + <p> + She was much pleased with this sustained anonymity she had given + Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + When the opening night of the Methodist revival arrived, most of the + “crowd” might have been seen grouped together in one of the rearmost pews + of the church. Arthur and Genevieve were there, Genevieve in her white fox + furs, of course. She was giggling and making eyes as if she were at a + party or a movie show instead of in church. Missy—who had had to do + a great deal of arguing in order to be present with her, so to speak, + guests—preserved a calm, sweet, religious manner; it was far too + relentlessly Christian to take note of waywardness. But the way she hung + on the words of the minister, joined in song, bowed her head in prayer, + should have been rebuke enough to any light conduct. It did seem to + impress Arthur; for, looking at her uplifted face and shining eyes, as in + her high, sweet treble, she sang, “Throw Out the Life-Line,” he lost the + point of one of Genevieve's impromptu jokes and failed to laugh in the + right place. Genevieve noticed his lapse. She also noticed the reason. She + herself was not a whit impressed by Missy's devotions, but she was unduly + quiet for several minutes. Then she stealthily tore a bit of leaf from her + hymnal—the very page on which she and other frail mortals were + adjured to throw out life-lines—and began to fashion it into a + paper-wad. + </p> + <p> + The service had now reached the stage of prayer for repentant sinners. + Reverend MacGill was doing the praying, but members of the congregation + were interjecting, “Glory Hallelujah!” “Praise be His Name!” and the other + worshipful ejaculations which make a sort of running accompaniment on such + occasions. Missy thought the interruptions, though proper and lending an + atmosphere of fervour, rather a pity because they spoiled the effective + rise and fall of the minister's voice. There was one recurrent nasal + falsetto which especially threw you off the religious track. It belonged + to old Mrs. Lemon. Everybody knew she nagged at and overworked and + half-starved that ragged little Sims orphan she'd adopted, but here she + was making the biggest noise of all! + </p> + <p> + However, much as she wished old Mrs. Lemon to stop, Missy could not + approve of what she, just then, saw take place in her own pew. + </p> + <p> + Genevieve was whispering and giggling again. Missy turned to look. + Genevieve pressed a paper-wad into Arthur's hand, whispered and giggled + some more. And then, to Missy's horror, Arthur took surreptitious but + careful aim with the wad. It landed squarely on old Mrs. Lemon's ear, + causing a “Blessed be the Lo—” to part midway in scandalized + astonishment. Missy herself was scandalized. Of course old Mrs. Lemon was + a hypocrite—but to be hit on the ear while the name of the Saviour + was on her lips! Right on the ear! Missy couldn't help mentally noting + Arthur's fine marksmanship, but she felt it her duty to show disapproval + of a deed so utterly profane. + </p> + <p> + She bestowed an openly withering look on the desecrators. + </p> + <p> + “She dared me to,” whispered Arthur—the excuse of the original Adam. + </p> + <p> + Without other comment Missy returned her stern gaze to the pulpit. She + held it there steadfast though she was conscious of Genevieve, undaunted, + urging Arthur to throw another wad. He, however, refused. That pleased + Missy, for it made it easier to fix the blame for the breach of religious + etiquette upon Genevieve alone. Of course, it was Genevieve who was really + to blame. She was a frivolous, light-minded girl. She was a bad influence + for Arthur. + </p> + <p> + Yet, when it came time for the “crowd” to disperse and Arthur told her + good night as though nothing had happened, Missy deemed it only consistent + with dignity to maintain extreme reserve. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, fudge, Missy! Don't be so stand-offish!” Arthur was very appealing + when he looked at you like that—his eyes so mischievous under their + upcurling lashes. But Missy made herself say firmly: + </p> + <p> + “You put me in a rather awkward position, Arthur. You know Reverend + MacGill entrusted me to—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come out of it!” interrupted Arthur, grinning. + </p> + <p> + Missy sighed in her heart. She feared Arthur was utterly unregenerate. + Especially, when as he turned to Genevieve—who was tugging at his + arm—he gave the Reverend MacGill's missionary an open wink. Missy + watched the white fox furs, their light-minded wearer and her quarry all + depart together; commiseration for the victim vied with resentment against + the temptress. Poor Arthur! + </p> + <p> + She herself expected to be taken home by the O'Neills, but to her surprise + she found her father waiting in the church vestibule. He said he had + decided to come and hear the new minister, and Missy never suspected it + was the unrest of a father who sees his little girl trying to become a big + girl that had dragged him from his house-slippers and smoking-jacket this + snowy evening. + </p> + <p> + They walked homeward through the swirling flakes in silence. That was one + reason why Missy enjoyed being with her father—she could be so + companionably silent with him. She trudged along beside him, + half-consciously trying to match his stride, while her thoughts flew far + afield. + </p> + <p> + But presently father spoke. + </p> + <p> + “He's very eloquent, isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “He?—who?” She struggled to get her thoughts back home. + </p> + <p> + Her father peered at her through the feathery gloom. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the preacher—Reverend MacGill.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” She shook herself mentally. “He's perfectly fasci—” she + broke off, remembering she was talking to a grown-up. “He's very + inspired,” she amended. + </p> + <p> + Another pause. Again it was father who spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “Who was the boy who threw the paper-wad?” + </p> + <p> + Involuntarily Missy's hold on his arm loosened. Then father had seen. That + was bad. Doubtless many others had seen—old people who didn't + understand the circumstances. It was very bad for Arthur's reputation. + Poor Arthur! + </p> + <p> + “Threw the paper-wad?” she asked back evasively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the red-headed boy. Wasn't it that Summers fellow?” + </p> + <p> + That Summers fellow!—Arthur's reputation was already gone! + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't it?” persisted father. + </p> + <p> + Evasion was no longer possible. Anyway, it might be best to try to explain + just how it was—to set poor Arthur right. So she replied: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was Arthur—but it wasn't his fault, exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “Not HIS fault? Whose in thunder was it?” + </p> + <p> + Missy hesitated. She didn't like talking scandal of anyone directly—and, + besides, there were likeable traits in Genevieve despite her obvious + failings. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “it's just that Arthur is under a kind of wrong + influence—if you know what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know that influences count for a good deal,” answered father in + the serious way she loved in him. Father DID understand more than most + grown-ups. And Reverend MacGill was like him in that. She found time + fleetingly to wish that Reverend MacGill were in some way related to her. + Too bad that he was a little too young for Aunt Nettie; and, perhaps, too + old for—she caught herself up, blushing in the dark, as father went + on: + </p> + <p> + “Just what kind of influence is undermining this Arthur fellow?” + </p> + <p> + She wished he wouldn't keep speaking of Arthur with that damning kind of + phrase. It was because she wanted to convince him that Arthur didn't + really merit it that she went further in speech than she'd intended. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he runs around with frivolous, light-minded people. People who lead + him on to do things he wouldn't dream of doing if they'd let him alone. It + isn't his fault if he's kind of—kind of dissipated.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, a little awe-stricken herself at this climactic + characterization of poor, misguided Arthur; she couldn't have told herself + just how she had arrived at it. A little confusedly she rushed on: “He + ought to have uplifting, ennobling influences in his life—Arthur's + at heart an awfully nice boy. That's why I wanted mother to let me go + walking with him. Don't you think that—maybe—if she understood—she + might let me?” + </p> + <p> + How in the world had that last question ever popped out? How had she + worked up to it? A little appalled, a little abashed, but withal atingle + at her own daring, she breathlessly, even hopefully, awaited his answer. + </p> + <p> + But father ruthlessly squashed her hopes with two fell sentences and one + terrifying oath. + </p> + <p> + “I should say not! You say he's dissipated and then in the same breath ask + me—for God's sake!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, maybe, he isn't so dissipated, father,” she began quaveringly, + regretting the indiscretion into which eloquence had enticed her. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care a whoop whether he is or not,” said father heartlessly. + “What I want is for you to get it into your head, once for all, that + you're to have NOTHING to do with this fellow or any other boy!” + </p> + <p> + Father's voice, usually so kind, had the doomsday quality that even mother + used only on very rare occasions. It reverberated in the depths of Missy's + being. They walked the last block in unbroken silence. As they passed + through the gate, walked up the front path, shook the snow off their wraps + on the porch, and entered the cosy-lighted precincts of home, Missy felt + that she was the most wretched, lonely, misunderstood being in the world. + </p> + <p> + She said her good nights quickly and got off upstairs to her room. As she + undressed she could hear the dim, faraway sound of her parents' voices. + The sound irritated her. They pretended to love her, but they seemed to + enjoy making things hard for her! Not only did they begrudge her a good + time and white fox furs and everything, but they wouldn't let her try to + be a good influence to the world! What was the use of renouncing earthly + vanities for yourself if you couldn't help others to renounce them, too? + Of course there was a certain pleasure, a kind of calm, peaceful + satisfaction, an ecstasy even, in letting the religious, above-the-world + feeling take possession of you. But it was selfish to keep it all to + yourself. It was your duty to pass it on, to do good works—to throw + out the life-line. And they begrudged her that—it wasn't right. Were + all parents as hard and cruel as hers? + </p> + <p> + She felt like crying; but, just then, she heard them coming up the stairs. + It would be difficult to explain her tears should one of them look into + her room on some pretext; so she jumped quickly into bed. And, sure + enough, she heard the door open. She shut her eyes. She heard her mother's + voice: “Are you asleep, dear?” Impossible to divine that under that tender + voice lay a stony heart! She emitted a little ghost of a snore; she heard + the door close again, very softly. + </p> + <p> + For a while she lay quiet but she felt so unlike sleep that, finally, she + crept out of bed, groped for her blanket wrapper, and went over to the + window. It had stopped snowing and everything shone palely in ghostly + white. The trees were white-armed, gleaming skeletons, the summerhouse an + eerie pagoda or something, the scurrying clouds, breaking now and showing + silver edges from an invisible moon, were at once grand and terrifying. It + was all very beautiful and mysterious and stirring. And something in her + stretched out, out, out—to the driving clouds, to the gleaming, + brandishing boughs, to the summerhouse so like something in a picture. + And, as her soul stretched out to the beauty and grandeur and mystery of + it all, there came over her a feeling of indefinable ecstasy, a vague, + keen yearning to be really good in every way. Good to her Lord, to her + father and mother and Aunt Nettie and little brother, to the Reverend + MacGill with his fascinating smile and good works, to everybody—the + whole town—the whole world. Even to Genevieve Hicks, though she + seemed so self-satisfied with her white fox furs and giggling ways and + utter worldliness—yet, there were many things likeable about + Genevieve if you didn't let yourself get prejudiced. And Missy didn't ever + want to let herself get prejudiced—narrow and harsh and bigoted like + so many Christians. No; she wanted to be a sweet, loving, generous, + helpful kind of Christian. And to Arthur, too, of course. There must be + SOME way of helping Arthur. + </p> + <p> + She found herself, half-pondering, half-praying: + </p> + <p> + “How can I help Arthur, dear Jesus? Please help me find some way—so + that he won't go on being light-minded and liking light-mindedness. How + can I save him from his ways—maybe he IS dissipated. Maybe he smokes + cigarettes! Why does he fall for light-mindedness? Why doesn't he feel the + real beauty of services?—the rumbling throb of the organ, and the + thrill of hearing your own voice singing sublime hymns, and the inspired + swell of Reverend MacGill's voice when he prays with such expression? It + is real ecstasy when you get the right kind of feeling—you're almost + willing to renounce earthly vanities. But Arthur doesn't realize what it + MEANS. How can I show him, dear Jesus? Because they've forbidden me to + have anything to do with him. Would it be right, for the sake of his soul, + for me to disobey them—just a little bit? For the sake of his soul, + you know. And he's really a nice boy at heart. THEY don't understand just + how it is. But I don't think it would be VERY wrong if I talked to him + just a little—do you?” + </p> + <p> + Gradually it came over her that she was chilly; she dragged a comforter + from her bed and resumed her kneeling posture by the window and her + communings with Jesus and her conscience. Then she discovered she was + going off to sleep, so she sprang to her feet and jumped back into bed. A + great change had come over her spirit; no longer was there any + restlessness, bitterness, or ugly rebellion; no; nothing but peace + ineffable. Smiling softly, she slept. + </p> + <p> + The next morning brought confusion to the Merriam household for father was + catching the 8:37 to Macon City on a business trip, Aunt Nettie was going + along with him to do some shopping, mother was in bed with one of her + headaches, and Missy had an inexplicably sore throat. This last calamity + was attributed, in a hurried conclave in mother's darkened room, to + Missy's being out in the snow-storm the night before. Missy knew there was + another contributory cause, but she couldn't easily have explained her + vigil at the window. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't want her to go to church in the first place,” mother lamented. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she won't go any more,” said father darkly. Missy's heart sank; she + looked at him with mutely pleading eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And you needn't look at me like that,” he added firmly. “It won't do you + the least good.” + </p> + <p> + Missy's heart sank deeper. How could she hope to exert a proper religious + influence if she didn't attend services regularly herself? But father + looked terribly adamantine. + </p> + <p> + “I think you'd better stay home from school today,” he continued, “it's + still pretty blustery.” + </p> + <p> + So Missy found herself spending the day comparatively alone in a + preternaturally quiet house—noisy little brother off at school, Aunt + Nettie's busy tongue absent, Marguerite, the hired girl, doing the laundry + down in the basement. And mother's being sick, as always is the case when + a mother is sick, seemed to add an extra heaviness to the pervasive + stillness. The blustery day invited reading, but Missy couldn't find + anything in the house she hadn't already read; and she couldn't go to the + Public Library because of her throat. And couldn't practice because of + mother's head. Time dragged on her hands, and Satan found the mischief—though + Missy devoutly believed that it was the Lord answering her prayer. + </p> + <p> + She was idling at the front-parlour window when she saw Picker's delivery + wagon stop at the gate. She hurried back to the kitchen, telling herself + that Marguerite shouldn't be disturbed at her washtubs. So she herself let + Arthur in. All sprinkled with snow and ruddy-cheeked and mischievous-eyed, + he grinned at her as he emptied his basket on the kitchen table. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he bantered, “did you pray for my sins last night?” + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn't make fun of things like that,” she said rebukingly. + </p> + <p> + Arthur chortled. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, Missy, but you're sure a scream when you get pious!” Then he sobered + and, casually—a little too casually, enquired: “Say, I s'pose you're + going again to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Missy regretfully shook her head. “No, I've got a. sore throat.” She + didn't deem it necessary to say anything about parental objections. Arthur + looked regretful, too. + </p> + <p> + “Say, that's too bad. I was thinking, maybe—” + </p> + <p> + He shuffled from one foot to the other in a way that to Missy clearly + finished his speech's hiatus: He'd been contemplating taking HER home + to-night instead of that frivolous Genevieve Hicks! What a shame! To lose + the chance to be a really good influence—for surely getting Arthur + to church again, even though for the main purpose of seeing her home, was + better than for him not to go to church at all. It is excusable to sort of + inveigle a sinner into righteous paths. What a shame she couldn't grasp at + this chance for service! But she oughtn't to let go of it altogether; + oughtn't to just abandon him, as it were, to his fate. She puckered her + brows meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to church, but—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, thinking hard. Arthur waited. + </p> + <p> + An inspiration came to her. “Anyway, I have to go to the library to-night. + I've got some history references to look up.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur brightened. The library appealed to him as a rendezvous more than + church, anyway. Oh, ye Public Libraries of all the Cherryvales of the + land! Winter-time haunt of young love, rivalling band-concerts in the + Public Square on summer evenings! What unscholastic reminiscences might we + not hear, could book-lined shelves in the shadowy nooks, but speak! + </p> + <p> + “About what time will you be through at the Library?” asked Arthur, still + casual. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, about eight-thirty,” said Missy, not pausing to reflect that it's an + inconsistent sore throat that can venture to the Library but not to + church. + </p> + <p> + “Well, maybe I'll be dropping along that way about that time,” opined + Arthur. “Maybe I'll see you there.” + </p> + <p> + “That would be nice,” said Missy, tingling. + </p> + <p> + She continued to tingle after he had jauntily departed with his basket and + clattered away in his delivery wagon. She had a “date” with Arthur. The + first real “date” she'd ever had! Then, resolutely she squashed her + thrills; she must remember that this meeting was for a Christian cause. + The motive was what made it all right for her to disobey—that is, to + SEEM to disobey—her parents' commands. They didn't “understand.” She + couldn't help feeling a little perturbed over her apparent disobedience + and had to argue, hard with her conscience. + </p> + <p> + Then, another difficulty presented itself to her mind. Mother had set her + foot down on evening visits to the Library—mother seemed to think + girls went there evenings chiefly to meet boys! Mother would never let her + go—especially in such weather and with a sore throat. Missy pondered + long and earnestly. + </p> + <p> + The result was that, after supper, at which mother had appeared, pale and + heavy-eyed, Missy said tentatively: + </p> + <p> + “Can I run up to Kitty's a little while to See what the lessons are for + to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think you'd better, dear,” mother replied listlessly. “It + wouldn't be wise, with that throat.” + </p> + <p> + “But my throat's better. And I've GOT to keep up my lessons, mother! And + just a half a block can't hurt me if I bundle up.” Missy had formulated + her plan well; Kitty Allen had been chosen as an alibi because of her + proximity. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then,” agreed mother. + </p> + <p> + As Missy sped toward the library, conflicting emotions swirled within her + and joined forces with the sharp breathlessness brought on by her haste. + She had never before been out alone at night, and the blackness of + tree-shadows lying across the intense whiteness of the snow struck her in + two places at once—imaginatively in the brain and fearsomely in the + stomach. Nor is a guilty conscience a reassuring companion under such + circumstances. Missy kept telling herself that, if she HAD lied a little + bit, it was really her parents' fault; if they had only let her go to + church, she wouldn't have been driven to sneaking out this way. But her + trip, however fundamentally virtuous—and with whatever subtly + interwoven elements of pleasure at its end—was certainly not an + agreeable one. At the moment Missy resolved never, never to sneak off + alone at night again. + </p> + <p> + In the brightly lighted library her fears faded away; she warmed to + anticipation again. And she found some very enjoyable stories in the new + magazines—she seemed, strangely, to have forgotten about any + “history references.” But, as the hands on the big clock above the + librarian's desk moved toward half-past eight, apprehensions began to rise + again. What if Arthur should fail to come? Could she ever live through + that long, terrible trip home, all alone? + </p> + <p> + Then, just as fear was beginning to turn to panic, Arthur sauntered in, + nonchalantly took a chair at another table, picked up a magazine and + professed to glance through it. And then, while Missy palpitated, he + looked over at her, smiled, and made an interrogative movement with his + eyebrows. More palpitant by the second, she replaced her magazines and got + into her wraps. As she moved toward the door, whither Arthur was also + sauntering, she felt that every eye in the Library must be observing. Hard + to tell whether she was more proud or embarrassed at the public + empressement of her “date.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur, quite at ease, took her arm to help her down the slippery steps. + </p> + <p> + Arthur wore his air of assurance gracefully because he was so used to it. + Admiration from the fair sex was no new thing to him. And Missy knew this. + Perhaps that was one reason she'd been so modestly pleased that he had + wished to bestow his gallantries upon her. She realized that Raymond + Bonner was much handsomer and richer; and that Kitty Allen's cousin Jim + from Macon City, in his uniform of a military cadet, was much more + distinguished-looking; and that Don Jones was much more humbly adoring. + Arthur had red hair, and lived in a boarding-house and drove a + delivery-wagon, and wasn't the least bit humble; but he had an audacious + grin and upcurling lashes and “a way with him.” So Missy accepted his + favour with a certain proud gratitude. + </p> + <p> + She felt herself the heroine of a thrilling situation though their + conversation, as Arthur guided her along the icy sidewalks, was of very + ordinary things: the weather—Missy's sore throat (sweet solicitude + from Arthur)—and gossip of the “crowd”—the weather's + probabilities to-morrow—more gossip—the weather again. + </p> + <p> + The weather was, in fact, in assertive evidence. The wind whipped + chillingly about Missy's shortskirted legs, for they were strolling slowly—the + correct way to walk when one has a “date.” Missy's teeth were chattering + and her legs seemed wooden, but she'd have died rather than suggest + running a block to warm up. Anyway, despite physical discomforts, there + was a certain deliciousness in the situation, even though she found it + difficult to turn the talk into the spiritual trend she had proposed. + Finally Arthur himself mentioned the paper-wad episode, laughing at it as + though it were a sort of joke. + </p> + <p> + That was her opening. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn't be so worldly, Arthur,” she said in a voice of gentle + reproof. + </p> + <p> + “Worldly?” in some surprise. + </p> + <p> + She nodded seriously over her serviceable, unworldly brown collarette. + </p> + <p> + “How am I worldly?” he pursued, in a tone of one not entirely unpleased. + </p> + <p> + “Why—throwing wads in church—lack of respect for religious + things—and things like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see,” said Arthur, his tone dropping a little. “I suppose it was a + silly thing to do,” he added with a touch of stiffness. + </p> + <p> + “It was a profane kind of thing,” she said, sadly. “Don't you see, + Arthur?” + </p> + <p> + “If I'm such a sinner, I don't see why you have anything to do with me.” + </p> + <p> + It stirred her profoundly that he didn't laugh, scoff at her; she had + feared he might. She answered, very gravely: + </p> + <p> + “It's because I like you. You don't think it's a pleasure to me to find + fault with you, do you Arthur?” + </p> + <p> + “Then why find fault?” he asked good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “But if the faults are THERE?” she persevered. + </p> + <p> + “Let's forget about 'em, then,” he answered with cheerful logic. + “Everybody can't be good like YOU, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Missy felt nonplussed, though subtly pleased, in a way. Arthur DID admire + her, thought her “good”—perhaps, in time she could be a good + influence to him. But at a loss just how to answer his personal allusion, + she glanced backward over her shoulder. In the moonlight she saw a tall + man back there in the distance. + </p> + <p> + There was a little pause. + </p> + <p> + “I don't s'pose you'll be going to the Library again to-morrow night?” + suggested Arthur presently. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I don't know—why?” But she knew “why,” and her knowledge gave + her a tingle. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I was just thinking that if you had to look up some references or + something, maybe I might drop around again.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I WILL have to—I don't know just yet,” she murmured, confused + with a sweet kind of confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll just drop by, anyway,” he said. “Maybe you'll be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, maybe.” + </p> + <p> + Another pause. Trying to think of something to say, she glanced again over + her shoulder. Then she clutched at Arthur's arm. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that man back there—following us! He looks something like + father!” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she unconsciously quickened her pace; Arthur consciously + quickened his. He knew—as all of the boys of “the crowd” knew—Mr. + Merriam's stand on the matter of beaux. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Missy under her breath. She fancied that the tall figure had + now accelerated his gait, also. “It IS father! I'll cut across this vacant + lot and get in at the kitchen door—I can beat him home that way!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur started to turn into the vacant lot with her, but she gave him a + little push. + </p> + <p> + “No! no! It's just a little way—I won't be afraid. You'd better run, + Arthur—he might kill you!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur didn't want to be killed. “So long, then—let me know how + things come out!”—and he disappeared fleetly down the block. + </p> + <p> + Missy couldn't make such quick progress; the vacant lot had been a + cornfield, and the stubby ground was frozen into hard, sharp ridges under + the snow. She stumbled, felt her shoes filling with snow, stumbled on, + fell down, felt her stocking tear viciously. She glanced over her shoulder—had + the tall figure back there on the sidewalk slowed down, too, or was it + only imagination? She scrambled to her feet and hurried on—and HE + seemed to be hurrying again. She had no time, now, to be afraid of the + vague terrors of night; her panic was perfectly and terribly tangible. She + MUST get home ahead of father. + </p> + <p> + Blindly she stumbled on. + </p> + <p> + At the kitchen door she paused a moment to regain her breath; then, very + quietly, she entered. There was a light in the kitchen and she could hear + mother doing something in the pantry. She sniffed at the air and called + cheerily: + </p> + <p> + “Been popping corn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” came mother's voice, rather stiffly. “Seems to me you've been a + long time finding out about those lessons!” + </p> + <p> + Not offering to debate that question, nor waiting to appease her sudden + craving for pop-corn, Missy moved toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Get your wet shoes off at once!” called mother. + </p> + <p> + “That's just what I was going to do.” And she hurried up the back stairs, + unbuttoning buttons as she went. + </p> + <p> + Presently, in her night-dress and able to breathe naturally again, she + felt safer. But she decided she'd better crawl into bed. She lay there, + listening. It must have been a half-hour later when she heard a cab stop + in front of the house, and then the slam of the front door and the sound + of father's voice. He had just come in on the 9:23—THAT hadn't been + him, after all! + </p> + <p> + As relief stole over her, drowsiness tugged at her eyelids. But, just as + she was dozing off, she was roused by someone's entering the room, bending + over her. + </p> + <p> + “Asleep?” + </p> + <p> + It was father! Her first sensation was of fear, until she realized his + tone was not one to be feared. And, responding to that tenderness of tone, + sharp compunctions pricked her. Dear father!—it was horrible to have + to deceive him. + </p> + <p> + “I've brought you a little present from town.” He was lighting the gas. + “Here!” + </p> + <p> + Her blinking eyes saw him place a big flat box on the bed. She fumbled at + the cords, accepted his proffered pen-knife, and then—oh, dear + heaven! There, fluffy, snow-white and alluring, reposed a set of white fox + furs! + </p> + <p> + “S-sh!” he admonished, smiling. “Mother doesn't know about them yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father!” She couldn't say any more. And the father, smiling at her, + thought he understood the emotions which tied her tongue, which underlay + her fervent good night kiss. But he could never have guessed all the love, + gratitude, repentance, self-abasement and high resolves at that moment + welling within her. + </p> + <p> + He left her sitting up there in bed, her fingers still caressing the silky + treasure. As soon as he was gone, she climbed out of bed to kneel in + repentant humility. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Jesus,” she prayed, “please forgive me for deceiving my dear father + and mother. If you'll forgive me just this once, I promise never, never to + deceive them again.” + </p> + <p> + Then, feeling better—prayer, when there is real faith, does lift a + load amazingly—she climbed back into bed, with the furs on her + pillow. + </p> + <p> + But she could not sleep. That was natural—so much had happened, and + everything seemed so complicated. Everything had been seeming to go + against her and here, all of a sudden, everything had turned out her way. + She had her white fox furs, much prettier than Genevieve Hicks's—oh, + she DID hope they'd let her go to church next Sunday night so she could + wear them! And she'd had a serious little talk with Arthur—the way + seemed paved for her to exert a really satisfactory influence over him. As + soon as she could see him again—Oh, she wished she might wear the + furs to the Library to-morrow night! She wished Arthur could see her in + them— + </p> + <p> + A sudden thought brought her up sharp: she couldn't meet him to-morrow + night after all—for she never wanted to deceive dear father again. + No, she would never sneak off like that any more. Yet it wouldn't be fair + to Arthur to let him go there and wait in vain. She ought to let him know, + some way. And she ought to let him know, too, that that man wasn't father, + after all. What if he was worrying, this minute, thinking she might have + been caught and punished. It didn't seem right, while SHE was so happy, to + leave poor Arthur worrying like that... Oh, she DID wish he could see her + in the furs... Yes, she OUGHT to tell him she couldn't keep the “date”—it + would be awful for him to sit there in the Library, waiting and waiting... + </p> + <p> + She kept up her disturbed ponderings until the house grew dark and still. + Then, very quietly, she crept out of bed and dressed herself in the dark. + She put on her cloak and hat. After a second's hesitation she added the + white fox furs. Then, holding her breath, she stole down the back stairs + and out the kitchen door. + </p> + <p> + The night seemed more fearsomely spectral than ever—it must be + terribly late; but she sped through the white silence resolutely. She was + glad Arthur's boarding-house was only two blocks away. She knew which was + his window; she stood beneath it and softly gave “the crowd's” whistle. + Waited—whistled again. There was his window going up at last. And + Arthur's tousled head peering out. + </p> + <p> + “I just wanted to let you know I can't come to the Library after all, + Arthur! No!—Don't say anything, now!—I'll explain all about it + when I get a chance. And that wasn't father—it turned out all right. + No, no!—Don't say anything now! Maybe I'll be in the kitchen + to-morrow. Good night!” + </p> + <p> + Then, while Arthur stared after her amazedly, she turned and scurried like + a scared rabbit through the white silence. + </p> + <p> + As she ran she was wondering whether Arthur had got a really good view of + the furs in the moonlight; was resolving to urge him to go to church next + Sunday night even if SHE couldn't; was telling herself she mustn't + ENTIRELY relinquish her hold on him-for his sake... + </p> + <p> + So full were her thoughts that she forgot to be much afraid. And the Lord + must have been with her, for she reached the kitchen door in safety and + regained her own room without detection. In bed once again, a great, soft, + holy peace seemed to enfold her. Everything was right with everybody—with + father and mother and God and Arthur—everybody. + </p> + <p> + At the very time she was going off into smiling slumber—one hand + nestling in the white fox furs on her pillow—it happened that her + father was making half-apologetic explanations to her mother: everything + had seemed to come down on the child in a lump—commands against + walking and against boys and against going out nights and everything. He + couldn't help feeling for the youngster. So he thought he'd bring her the + white fox furs she seemed to have set her heart on. + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Merriam, who could understand a father's indulgent, sympathetic + heart even though—as Missy believed—she wasn't capable of + “understanding” a daughter's, didn't have it in her, then, to spoil his + pleasure by expounding that wanting furs and wanting beaux were really one + and the same evil. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. BUSINESS OF BLUSHING + </h2> + <p> + Missy was embroiled in a catastrophe, a tangle of embarrassments and odd + complications. Aunt Nettie attributed the blame broadly to “that O'Neill + girl”; she asserted that ever since Tess O'Neill had come to live in + Cherryvale Missy had been “up to” just one craziness after another. But + then Aunt Nettie was an old maid—Missy couldn't imagine her as EVER + having been fifteen years old. Mother, who could generally be counted on + for tenderness even when she failed to “understand,” rather unfortunately + centred on the wasp detail—why had Missy just stood there and let it + keep stinging her? And Missy felt shy at trying to explain it was because + the wasp was stinging her LEG. Mother would be sure to remark this sudden + show of modesty in one she'd just been scolding for the lack of it—for + riding the pony astride and showing her— + </p> + <p> + Oh, legs! Missy was in a terrific confusion, as baffled by certain + inconsistencies displayed by her own nature as overwhelmed by her + disgraceful predicament. For she was certainly sincere in her craving to + be as debonairly “athletic” as Tess; yet, during that ghastly moment when + the wasp was... + </p> + <p> + No, she could never explain it to mother. Old people don't understand. Not + even to father could she have talked it all out, though he had patted her + hand and acted like an angel when he paid for the bucket of candy—that + candy which none of them got even a taste of! That Tess and Arthur should + eat up the candy which her own father paid for, made one more snarl in the + whole inconsistent situation. + </p> + <p> + It all began with the day Arthur Simpson “dared” Tess to ride her pony + into Picker's grocery store. Before Tess had come to live in the + sanitarium at the edge of town where her father was head doctor, she had + lived in Macon City and had had superior advantages—city life, to + Missy, a Cherryvalian from birth, sounded exotic and intriguing. Then Tess + in her nature was far from ordinary. She was characterized by a certain + dash and fine flair; was inventive, fearless, and possessed the gift of + leadership. Missy, seeing how eagerly the other girls of “the crowd” + caught up Tess's original ideas, felt enormously flattered when the leader + selected such a comparatively stupid girl as herself as a chum. + </p> + <p> + For Missy thought she must be stupid. She wasn't “smart” in school like + Beulah Crosswhite, nor strikingly pretty like Kitty Allen, nor president + of the Iolanthians like Mabel Dowd, nor conspicuously popular with the + boys like Genevieve Hicks. No, she possessed no distinctive traits anybody + could pick out to label her by—at least that is what she thought. So + she felt on her mettle; she wished to prove herself worthy of Tess's high + regard. + </p> + <p> + It was rather strenuous living up to Tess. Sometimes Missy couldn't help + wishing that her chum were not quite so alert. Being all the while on the + jump, mentally and physically, left you somewhat breathless and dizzy; + then, too, it didn't leave you time to sample certain quieter yet + thrilling enjoyments that came right to hand. For example, now and then, + Missy secretly longed to spend a leisurely hour or so just talking with + Tess's grandmother. Tess's grandmother, though an old lady, seemed to her + a highly romantic figure. Her name was Mrs. Shears and she had lived her + girlhood in a New England seaport town, and her father had been captain of + a vessel which sailed to and from far Eastern shores. He had brought back + from those long-ago voyages bales and bales of splendid Oriental fabrics—stiff + rustling silks and slinky clinging crepes and indescribably brilliant + brocades shot with silver or with gold. For nearly fifty years Mrs. Shears + had worn dresses made from these romantic stuffs and she was wearing them + yet—in Cherryvale! They were all made after the same pattern, + gathered voluminous skirt and fitted bodice and long flowing sleeves; and, + with the small lace cap she always wore on her white hair. Missy thought + the old lady looked as if she'd just stepped from the yellow-tinged pages + of some fascinating old book. She wished her own grandmother dressed like + that; of course she loved Grandma Merriam dearly and really wouldn't have + exchanged her for the world, yet, in contrast, she did seem somewhat + commonplace. + </p> + <p> + It was interesting to sit and look at Grandma Shears and to hear her + recount the Oriental adventures of her father, the sea captain. But Tess + gave Missy little chance to do this. Tess had heard and re-heard the + adventures to the point of boredom and custom had caused her to take her + grandmother's strange garb as a matter of course; Tess's was a nature + which craved—and generally achieved—novelty. + </p> + <p> + Just now her particular interest veered toward athleticism; she had + recently returned from a visit to Macon City and brimmed with colourful + tales of its “Country Club” life—swimming, golf, tennis, horseback + riding, and so forth. These pursuits she straightway set out to introduce + into drowsy, behind-the-times Cherryvale. But in almost every direction + she encountered difficulties: there was in Cherryvale no place to swim + except muddy Bull Creek—and the girls' mothers unanimously vetoed + that; and there were no links for golf; and the girls themselves didn't + enthuse greatly over tennis those broiling afternoons. So Tess centred on + horseback riding, deciding it was the “classiest” sport, after all. But + the old Neds and Nellies of the town, accustomed leisurely to transport + their various family surreys, did not metamorphose into hackneys of such + spirit and dash as filled Tess's dreams. + </p> + <p> + Even so, these steeds were formidable enough to Missy. She feared she + wasn't very athletic. That was an afternoon of frightful chagrin when she + came walking back into Cherryvale, ignominiously following Dr. O'Neill's + Ben. Old Ben, who was lame in his left hind foot, had a curious gait, like + a sort of grotesque turkey trot. Missy outwardly attributed her inability + to keep her seat to Ben's peculiar rocking motion, but in her heart she + knew it was simply because she was afraid. What she was afraid of she + couldn't have specified. Not of old Ben surely, for she knew him to be the + gentlest of horses. When she stood on the ground beside him, stroking his + shaggy, uncurried flanks or feeding him bits of sugar, she felt not the + slightest fear. Yet the minute she climbed up into the saddle she sickened + under the grip of some increasingly heart-stilling panic. Even before Ben + started forward; so it wasn't Ben's rocking, lop-sided gait that was + really at the bottom of her fear—it only accentuated it. Why was she + afraid of Ben up there in the saddle while not in the least afraid when + standing beside him? Fear was very strange. Did everybody harbour some + secret, absurd, unreasonable fear? No, Tess didn't; Tess wasn't afraid of + anything. Tess was cantering along on rawboned Nellie in beautiful + unconcern. Missy admired and envied her dreadfully. + </p> + <p> + Her sense of her own shortcomings became all the more poignant when the + little cavalcade, with Missy still ignominiously footing it in the rear, + had to pass the group of loafers in front of the Post Office. The loafers + called out rude, bantering comments, and Missy burned with shame. + </p> + <p> + Then Arthur Simpson appeared in Pieker's doorway next door and grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Hello! Some steed!” he greeted Tess. “Dare you to ride her in!” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-day, thanks,” retorted Tess insouciantly—that was another + quality Missy envied in her friend, her unfailing insouciance. “Wait till + I get my new pony next week, and then I'll take you up!” + </p> + <p> + “All right. The dare holds good.” Then Arthur turned his grin to Missy. + “What's the matter with YOU? Charger get out of hand?” + </p> + <p> + The loafers in front of the Post Office took time from their chewing and + spitting to guffaw. Missy could have died of mortification. + </p> + <p> + “Want a lift?” asked Arthur, moving forward. + </p> + <p> + Missy shook her head. She longed to retrieve herself in the public gaze, + longed to shine as Tess shone, but not for worlds could she have essayed + that high, dizzy seat again. So she shook her head dumbly and Arthur + grinned at her not unkindly. Missy liked Arthur Simpson. He wore a big + blue-denim apron and had red hair and freckles—not a romantic figure + by any means; but there was a mischievous imp in his eye and a rollicking + lilt in his voice that made you like him, anyway. Missy wished he hadn't + been a witness to her predicament. Not that she felt at all sentimental + toward Arthur. Arthur “went with” Genevieve Hicks, a girl whom Missy + privately deemed frivolous and light-minded. Besides Missy herself was, at + this time, interested in Raymond Bonner, the handsomest boy in “the + crowd.” Missy liked good looks—they appealed to the imagination or + something. And she adored everything that appealed to the imagination: + there was, for instance, the picture of Sir Galahad, in shining armour, + which hung on the wall of her room—for a time she had almost said + her prayers to that picture; and there was a compelling mental image of + the gallant Sir Launcelot in “Idylls of the King” and of the stern, + repressed, silently suffering Guy in “Airy Fairy Lilian.” Also there had + recently come into her possession a magazine clipping of the boy king of + Spain; she couldn't claim that Alphonso was handsome—in truth he was + quite ugly—yet there was something intriguing about him. She + secretly treasured the printed likeness and thought about the original a + great deal: the alluring life he led, the panoply of courts, royal balls + and garden-parties and resplendent military parades, and associating with + princes and princesses all the time. She wondered, with a little sigh, + whether his “crowd” called him by his first name; though a King he was + just a boy—about her own age. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, though Arthur Simpson was neither handsome nor revealed + aught which might stir vague, deep currents of romance, Missy regretted + that even Arthur had seen her in such a sorry plight. She wished he might + see her at a better advantage. For instance, galloping up on a spirited + mount, in a modish riding-habit—a checked one with flaring-skirted + coat and shining boots and daring but swagger breeches, perhaps!—galloping + insouciantly up to take that dare! + </p> + <p> + But she knew it was an empty dream. Even if she had the swagger togs—a + notion mad to absurdity—she could never gallop with insouciance. She + wasn't the athletic sort. + </p> + <p> + At supper she was still somewhat bitterly ruminating her failings. + </p> + <p> + “Missy, you're not eating your omelet,” adjured her mother. + </p> + <p> + Missy's eyes came back from space. + </p> + <p> + “I was just wondering—” then she broke off. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” encouraged mother. Missy's hazy thoughts took a sudden + plunge, direct and startling. + </p> + <p> + “I was wondering if, maybe, you'd give me an old pair of father's + trousers.” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth for, child?” + </p> + <p> + “Just an old pair,” Missy went on, ignoring the question. “Maybe that + pepper-and-salt pair you said you'd have to give to Jeff.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you want of them?” persisted mother. “Jeff needs them + disgracefully—the last time he mowed the yard I blushed every time + he turned his back toward the street.” + </p> + <p> + “I think Mrs. Allen's going to give him a pair of Mr. Allen's—Kitty + said she was. So he won't need the pepper-and-salts.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you want with a pair of PANTS?” Aunt Nettie put in. Missy + wished Aunt Nettie had been invited out to supper; Aunt Nettie was + relentlessly inquisitive. She knew she must give some kind of answer. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just for some fancy-work,” she said. She tried to make her tone + insouciant, but she was conscious of her cheeks getting hot. + </p> + <p> + “Fancy-work—pants for fancy-work! For heaven's sake!” ejaculated + Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + Mother, also, was staring at her in surprise. But father, who was a + darling, put in: “Give 'em to her if she wants 'em, dear. Maybe she'll + make a lambrequin for the piano or an embroidered smoking-jacket for the + old man—a'la your Ladies' Home Companion.” + </p> + <p> + He grinned at her, but Missy didn't mind father's jokes at her expense so + much as most grown-ups'. Besides she was grateful to him for diverting + attention from her secret purpose for the pants. + </p> + <p> + After supper, out in the summerhouse, it was an evening of such swooning + beauty she almost forgot the bothers vexing her life. When you sit and + watch the sun set in a bed of pastel glory, and let the level bars of + thick gold light steal across the soft slick grass to reach to your very + soul, and smell the heavenly sweetness of dew-damp roses, and listen to + the shrill yet mournful even-song of the locusts—when you sit very + still, just letting it all seep into you and through and through you, such + a beatific sense of peace surges over you that, gradually, trivial things + like athletic shortcomings seem superficial and remote. + </p> + <p> + Later, too, up in her room, slowly undressing in the moonlight, she let + herself yield to the sweeter spell. She loved her room, especially when + but dimly lit by soft white strips of the moon through the window. She + loved the dotted Swiss curtains blowing, and the white-valanced little + bed, and the white-valanced little dressing-table all dim and misty save + where a broad shaft of light gave a divine patch of illumination to + undress by. She said her prayers on her knees by the window, where she + could keep open but unsacrilegious eyes on God's handiwork outside—the + divine miracle of everyday things transformed into shimmering glory. + </p> + <p> + A soft brushing against her ankles told her that Poppylinda, her cat, had + come to say good night. She lifted her pet up to the sill. + </p> + <p> + “See the beautiful night, Poppy,” she said. “See!—it's just like a + great, soft, lovely, blue-silver bed!” + </p> + <p> + Poppy gave a gentle purr of acquiescence. Missy was sure it was + acquiescence. She was convinced that Poppy had a fine, appreciative, + discriminating mind. Aunt Nettie scouted at this; she denied that she + disliked Poppy, but said she “liked cats in their place.” Missy knew this + meant, of course, that inwardly she loathed cats; that she regarded them + merely as something which musses up counterpanes and keeps outlandish + hours. Aunt Nettie was perpetually finding fault with Poppy; but Missy had + noted that Aunt Nettie and all the others who emphasized Poppy's + imperfections were people whom Poppy, in her turn, for some reason could + not endure. This point she tried to make once when Poppy had been + convicted of a felonious scratch, but of course the grown-ups couldn't + follow her reasoning. Long since she'd given up trying to make clear the + real merits of her pet; she only knew that Poppy was more loving and + lovable, more sympathetic and comprehending, than the majority of humans. + She could count on Poppy's never jarring on any mood, whether grave or + gay. Poppy adored listening to poetry read aloud, sitting immovable save + for slowly blinking eyes for an hour at a stretch. She even had an + appreciation for music, often remaining in the parlour throughout her + mistress's practice period, and sometimes purring an accompaniment to + tunes she especially liked—such tunes as “The Maiden's Prayer” or + “Old Black Joe with Variations.” There was, too, about her a touch of + something which Missy thought must be mysticism; for Poppy heard sounds + and saw things which no one else could—following these invisible + objects with attentive eyes while Missy saw nothing; then, sometimes, she + would get up suddenly, switching her tail, and watch them as they + evidently disappeared. But Missy never mentioned Poppy's gift of second + sight; she knew the old people would only laugh. + </p> + <p> + Now she cuddled Poppy in her lap, and with a sense of companionship, + enjoyed the landscape of silvered loveliness and peace. A sort of sad + enjoyment, but pleasantly sad. Occasionally she sighed, but it was a sigh + of deep content. Such things as perching dizzily atop a horse's back, even + cantering in graceful insouciance, seemed far, far away. + </p> + <p> + Yet, after she was in her little white bed, in smiling dreams she saw + herself, smartly accoutred in gleaming boots and pepper-and-salt + riding-breeches, galloping up to Pieker's grocery and there, in the + admiring view of the Post Office loafers and of a dumbfounded Arthur, + cantering insouciantly across the sidewalk and into the store! + </p> + <p> + Her dream might have ended there, nothing more than a fleeting phantasm, + had not Tess, the following week, come into possession of Gypsy. + </p> + <p> + Gypsy was a black pony with a white star on her forehead and a long wavy + tail. She was a pony with a personality—from the start Missy + recognized the pony as a person just as she recognized Poppy as a person. + When Gypsy gazed at you out of those soft, bright eyes, or when she + pricked up her ears with an alert listening gesture, or when she turned + her head and switched her tail with nonchalant unconcern—oh, it is + impossible to describe the charm of Gypsy. That was it—“charm”; and + the minute Missy laid eyes on the darling she succumbed to it. She had + thought herself absurdly but deep-rootedly afraid of all horseflesh, but + Gypsy didn't seem a mere horse. She was pert, coquettish, coy, loving, + inquisitive, naughty; both Tess and Missy declared she had really human + intelligence. + </p> + <p> + She began to manifest this the very day of her arrival. After Tess had + ridden round the town and shown off properly, she left the pony in the + sideyard of the sanitarium while she and Missy slipped off to the + summerhouse to enjoy a few stolen chapters from “The Duchess.” There was + high need for secrecy for, most unreasonably, “The Duchess” had been put + under a parental ban; moreover Tess feared there were stockings waiting to + be darned. + </p> + <p> + Presently they heard Mrs. O'Neill calling, but they just sat still, + stifling their giggles. Gypsy, who had sauntered up to the summerhouse + door, poked in an inquisitive nose. Mrs. O'Neill didn't call again, so + Tess whispered: “She thinks we've gone over to your house—we can go + on reading.” + </p> + <p> + After a while Missy glanced up and nudged Tess. “Gypsy's still there—just + standing and looking at us! See her bright eyes—the darling!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, isn't she cute?” agreed Tess. + </p> + <p> + But, just at that, a second shadow fell athwart the sunny sward, a hand + pushed Gypsy's head from the opening, and Mrs. O'Neill's voice said: + </p> + <p> + “If you girls don't want your whereabouts given away, you'd better teach + that pony not to stand with her head poked in the door for a half-hour + without budging!” + </p> + <p> + The ensuing scolding wasn't pleasant, but neither of the miscreants had + the heart to blame Gypsy. She was so cute. + </p> + <p> + She certainly was cute. + </p> + <p> + The second day of her ownership Tess judged it necessary to give Gypsy a + switching; Gypsy declined to be saddled and went circling round and round + the yard in an abandon of playfulness. So Tess snapped off a peach-tree + switch and, finally cornering the pony, proceeded to use it. Missy + pleaded, but Tess stood firm for discipline. However Gypsy revenged + herself; for two hours she wouldn't let Tess come near her—she'd + sidle up and lay her velvet nose against Missy's shoulder until Tess was + within an arm's length, and then, tossing her head spitefully, caper away. + </p> + <p> + No wonder the girls ejaculated at her smartness. + </p> + <p> + Finally she turned gentle as a lamb, soft as silk, and let Tess adjust the + saddle; but scarcely had Tess ridden a block before—wrench!—something + happened to the saddle, and Tess was left seated by the roadside while + Gypsy vanished in a cloud of dust. The imp had deliberately swelled + herself out so that the girth would be loose! + </p> + <p> + Every day brought new revelations of Gypsy's intelligence. Missy took to + spending every spare minute at Tess's. Under this new captivation her own + pet, Poppy, was thoughtlessly neglected. And duties such as practicing, + dusting and darning were deliberately shirked. Even reading had lost much + of its wonted charm: the haunting, soul-swelling rhythms of poetry, or the + oddly phrased medieval romances which somehow carried you back through the + centuries—into the very presence of those queenly heroines who trail + their robes down the golden stairways of legend. But Missy's feet seemed + to have forgotten the familiar route to the Public Library and, instead, + ever turned eagerly toward the O'Neills'—that is, toward the + O'Neills' barn. + </p> + <p> + And, if she had admired Tess before, she worshipped her now for so + generously permitting another to share the wonderful pony—it was + like being a half owner. And the odd thing was that, though Gypsy had + undeniable streaks of wildness, Missy never felt a tremor while on her. On + Gypsy she cantered, she trotted, she galloped, just as naturally and + enjoyably as though she had been born on horseback. Then one epochal day, + emulating Tess's example, she essayed to ride astride. It was wonderful. + She could imagine herself a Centaur princess. And, curiously, she felt not + at all embarrassed. Yet she was glad that, back there in the lot, she was + screened by the big barn from probably critical eyes. + </p> + <p> + But Gypsy made an unexpected dart into the barn-door, through the barn, + and out into the yard, before Missy realized the capricious creature's + intent. And, as luck would have it, the Reverend MacGill was sitting on + the porch, calling on Grandma Shears. If only it had been anybody but Rev. + MacGill! Missy cherished a secret but profound admiration for Rev. + MacGill; he had come recently to Cherryvale and was younger than ministers + usually are and, though not exactly handsome, had fascinating dark glowing + eyes. Now, as his eyes turned toward her, she suddenly prickled with + embarrassment—her legs were showing to her knees! She tried vainly + to pull down her skirt, then tried to head Gypsy toward the barn. But + Grandma Shears, in scandalized tones, called out: + </p> + <p> + “Why, Melissa Merriam! Get down off that horse immediately!” + </p> + <p> + Shamefacedly Missy obeyed, but none too gracefully since her legs were not + yet accustomed to that straddling position. + </p> + <p> + “What in the world will you girls be up to next?” Grandma Shears went on, + looking like an outraged Queen Victoria. “I don't know what this + generation's coming to,” she lamented, turning to the minister. “Young + girls try to act like hoodlums—deliberately TRY! In my day girls + were trained to be—and desired to be—little ladies.” + </p> + <p> + Little ladies!—in the minister's presence, the phrase didn't fall + pleasantly on Missy's ear. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they don't mean any harm,” he replied. “Just a little innocent + frolic.” + </p> + <p> + There was a ghost of a twinkle in his eyes. Missy didn't know whether to + be grateful for his tolerance or only more chagrined because he was + laughing at her. She stood, feeling red as a beet, while Grandma Shears + retorted: + </p> + <p> + “Innocent frolic—nonsense! I'll speak to my daughter!” Then, to + Missy: “Now take that pony back to the lot, please, and let's see no more + such disgraceful exhibitions!” + </p> + <p> + Missy felt as though she'd been whipped. She felt cold all over and + shivered, as she led Gypsy back, though she knew she was blushing + furiously. Concealed behind the barn door, peeping through a crack, was + Tess. + </p> + <p> + “It was awful!” moaned Missy. “I can never face Rev. MacGill again!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's a good sport,” said Tess. + </p> + <p> + “She gave me an awful calling down.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, grandma's an old fogy.” Missy had heard Tess thus pigeonhole her + grandmother often before, but now, for the first time, she didn't feel a + little secret repugnance for the rude classification. + </p> + <p> + Grandma Shears WAS old-fogyish. But it wasn't her old-fogyishness, per se, + that irritated; it was the fact that her old-fogyishness had made her + “call down” Missy—in front of the minister. Just as if Missy were a + child. Fifteen is not a child, to itself. And it can rankle and burn, when + a pair of admired dark eyes are included in the situation, just as + torturesomely as can twice fifteen. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend MacGill was destined to play another unwitting part in + Missy's athletic drama which was so jumbled with ecstasies and + discomfitures. A few days later he was invited to the Merriams' for + supper. Missy heard of his coming with mingled emotions. Of course she + thrilled at the prospect of eating at the same table with him—listening + to a person at table, and watching him eat, gives you a singular sense of + intimacy. But there was that riding astride episode. Would he, maybe, + mention it and cause mother to ask questions? Maybe not, for he was, as + Tess had said, a “good sport.” But all the same he'd probably be thinking + of it; if he should look at her again with that amused twinkle, she felt + she would die of shame. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon she had been out on Gypsy and, chancing to ride by home on + her way back to the sanitarium barn, was hailed by her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Missy! I want you to gather some peaches!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll have to take Gypsy home first.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you won't have time—it's after five already, and I want to make + a deep-dish peach pie. I hear Rev. MacGill's especially fond of it. You + can take Gypsy home after supper. Now hurry up!—I'm behindhand + already.” + </p> + <p> + So Missy led Gypsy into the yard and took the pail her mother brought out + to her. + </p> + <p> + “The peaches aren't quite ripe,” said mother, with a little worried + pucker, “but they'll have to do. They have some lovely peaches at + Picker's, but papa won't hear of my trading at Picker's any more.” + </p> + <p> + Missy thought it silly of her father to have curtailed trading at Picker's—she + missed Arthur's daily visit to the kitchen door with the delivery-basket—merely + because Mr. Picker had beaten father for election on the Board of + Aldermen. Father explained it was a larger issue than party politics; even + had Picker been a Republican he'd have fought him, he said, for everyone + knew Picker was abetting the Waterworks graft. But Missy didn't see why + that should keep him from buying things from Picker's which mother really + needed; mother said it was “cutting off your nose to spite your face.” + </p> + <p> + Philosophizing on the irrationality of old people, she proceeded to get + enough scarcely-ripe peaches for a deep-dish pie. Being horribly afraid of + climbing, she used the simple expedient of grasping the lower limbs of the + tree and shaking down the fruit. + </p> + <p> + “Missy!” called mother's voice from the dining room window. “That horse is + slobbering all over the peaches!” “I can't help it—she follows me + every place.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'll have to tie her up!” + </p> + <p> + “Tess never ties her up in THEIR yard!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I won't have him slobbering over the fruit,” repeated mother + firmly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll—climb the tree,” said Missy desperately. + </p> + <p> + And she did. She was in mortal terror—every second she was sure she + was going to fall—but she couldn't bear the vision of Gypsy's + reproachful eyes above a strangling halter; Gypsy shouldn't think her + hostess, so to speak, less kind than her own mistress. + </p> + <p> + The peach pie came out beautifully and the supper promised to be a great + success. Mother had zealously ascertained Rev. MacGill's favourite dishes, + and was flushed but triumphant; she came of a devout family that loved to + feed preachers well. And everyone was in fine spirits; only Missy, at the + first, had a few bad moments. WOULD he mention it? He might think it his + duty, think that mother should know. It was maybe his duty to tell. + Preachers have a sterner creed of duty than other people, of course. She + regarded him anxiously from under the veil of her lashes, wondering what + would happen if he did tell. Mother would be horribly ashamed, and she + herself would be all the more ashamed because mother was. Aunt Nettie + would be satirically disapproving and say cutting things. Father would + probably just laugh, but later he'd be serious and severe. And not one of + them would ever, ever understand. + </p> + <p> + As the minutes went by, her strain of suspense gradually lessened. Rev. + MacGill was chatting away easily—about the delicious + chicken-stuffing and quince jelly, and the election, and the repairs on + the church steeple, and things like that. Now and then he caught Missy's + eye, but his expression for her was exactly the same as for the others—no + one could suspect there was any secret between them. He WAS a good sport! + </p> + <p> + Once a shadow passed outside the window. Gypsy! Missy saw that he saw, + and, as his glance came back to rest upon herself, for a second her heart + surged. But something in his eyes—she couldn't define exactly what + it was save that it was neither censorious nor quizzical—subtly gave + her reassurance. It was as if he had told her in so many words that + everything was all right, for her not to worry the least little bit. All + of a sudden she felt blissfully at peace. She smiled at him for no reason + at all, and he smiled back—a nice, not at all amused kind of smile. + Oh, he was a perfect brick! And what glorious eyes he had! And that + fascinating habit of flinging his hair back with a quick toss of the head. + How gracefully he used his hands. And what lovely, distinguished table + manners—she must practice that trick of lifting your napkin, + delicately and swiftly, so as to barely touch your lips. She ate her own + food in a kind of trance, unaware of what she was eating; yet it was like + eating supper in heaven. + </p> + <p> + And then, at the very end, something terrible happened. Marguerite had + brought in the pie'ce de re'sistance, the climactic dish toward which + mother had built the whole meal—the deep-dish peach pie, + sugar-coated, fragrant and savory—and placed it on the serving-table + near the open window. There was a bit, of wire loose at the lower end of + the screen, and, in the one second Marguerite's back was turned—just + one second, but just long enough—Missy saw a velvety nose fumble + with the loose wire, saw a sleek neck wedge itself through the crevice, + and a long red tongue lap approvingly over the sugar-coated crust. + </p> + <p> + Missy gasped audibly. Mother followed her eyes, turned, saw, jumped up—but + it was too late. Mrs. Merriam viciously struck at Gypsy's muzzle and + pushed the encroaching head back through the aperture. + </p> + <p> + “Get away from here!” she cried angrily. “You little beast!” + </p> + <p> + “I think the pony shows remarkably good taste,” commented Rev. MacGill, + trying to pass the calamity off as a joke. But his hostess wasn't capable + of an answering smile; she gazed despairingly, tragically, at the + desecrated confection. + </p> + <p> + “I took such pains with it,” she almost wailed. “It was a deep-dish peach + pie—I made it specially for Mr. MacGill.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm not particularly fond of peach pie, anyway,” said the minister, + meaning to be soothing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I know you ARE! Mrs. Allen said that at her house you took two + helpings-that you said it was your favourite dessert.” + </p> + <p> + The minister coughed a little cough—he was caught in a somewhat + delicate situation; then, always tactful, replied: “Perhaps I did say that—her + peach pie was very good. But I'm equally fond of all sweets—I have a + sweet tooth.” + </p> + <p> + At this point Missy gathered her courage to quaver a suggestion. “Couldn't + you just take off the top crust, mother? Gypsy didn't touch the underneath + part. Why can't you just—” + </p> + <p> + But her mother's scandalized look silenced her. She must have made a faux + pas. Father and Rev. MacGill laughed outright, and Aunt Nettie smiled a + withering smile. + </p> + <p> + “That's a brilliant idea,” she said satirically. “Perhaps you'd have us + pick out the untouched bits of the crust, too!” Missy regarded her aunt + reproachfully but helplessly; she was too genuinely upset for any + repartee. Why did Aunt Nettie like to put her “in wrong”? Her suggestion + seemed to her perfectly reasonable. Why didn't they act on it? But of + course they'd ignore it, just making fun of her now but punishing her + afterward. For she divined very accurately that they would hold her + accountable for Gypsy's blunder—even though the blunder was + rectifiable; it was a BIG pie, and most of it as good as ever. They were + unreasonable, unjust. + </p> + <p> + Mother seemed unable to tear herself away from the despoiled masterpiece. + </p> + <p> + “Come, mamma,” said father, “it's nothing to make such a fuss about. Just + trot out some of that apple sauce of yours. Mr. MacGill doesn't get to + taste anything like that every day.” He turned to the minister. “The + world's full of apple sauce—but there's apple sauce and apple sauce. + Now my wife's apple sauce is APPLE SAUCE! I tell her it's a dish for a + king.” + </p> + <p> + And Rev. MacGill, after sampling the impromptu dessert, assured his + hostess that her husband's eulogy had been only too moderate. He vowed he + had never eaten such apple sauce. But Mrs. Merriam still looked bleak. She + knew she could make a better deep-dish peach pie than Mrs. Allen could. + And, then, to give the minister apple sauce and nabiscos!—the first + time he had eaten at her table in two months! + </p> + <p> + Missy, who knew her mother well, couldn't help feeling a deep degree of + sympathy; besides, she wished Rev. MacGill might have had his pie—she + liked Rev. MacGill better than ever. But she dreaded her first moments + after the guest had departed; mother could be terribly stern. + </p> + <p> + Nor did her fears prove groundless. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Missy,” ordered her mother in coldly irate tones, “you take that + horse straight back to Tess. This is the last straw! For days you've been + no earthly use—your practicing neglected, no time for your chores, + just nothing but that everlasting horse!” + </p> + <p> + That everlasting horse! Missy's chin quivered and her eyes filled. But + mother went on inflexibly: “I don't want you ever to bring it here again. + And you can't go on living at Tess's, either! We'll see that you catch up + with your practicing.” + </p> + <p> + “But, mother,” tremulously seeking for an argument, “I oughtn't to give up + such a fine chance to become a horsewoman, ought I?” + </p> + <p> + It was an unlucky phrase, for Aunt Nettie was there to catch it up. + </p> + <p> + “A horsewoman!” and she laughed in sardonic glee. “Well, I must admit + there's one thing horsey enough about you—you always smell of + manure, these days.” + </p> + <p> + Wounded and on the defensive, Missy tried to make her tone chilly. “I wish + you wouldn't be so indelicate, Aunt Nettie,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Nettie wasn't abashed. “A horsewoman!” she chortled again. “I + suppose Missy sees herself riding to hounds! All dressed up in a silk hat + and riding-breeches like pictures of society people back East!” + </p> + <p> + It didn't add to Missy's comfiture to know she had, in truth, harboured + this ridiculed vision of herself. She coloured and stood hesitant. + </p> + <p> + “Someone ought to put pants on that O'Neill girl, anyway,” continued Aunt + Nettie with what seemed to her niece unparallelled malice. “Helen Alison + says the Doctor saw her out in the country riding astraddle. Her mother + ought to spank her.” + </p> + <p> + Mother looked at Missy sharply. “Don't let me ever hear of YOU doing + anything like that!” + </p> + <p> + Missy hung her head, but luckily mother took it for just a general + attitude of dejection. “I can't tolerate tomboys.” she went on. “I can't + imagine what's come over you lately.” + </p> + <p> + “It's that O'Neill girl,” said Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + Mother sighed; Missy couldn't know she was lamenting the loss of her + sweet, shy, old-fashioned little girl. But when she spoke next her accents + were firm. + </p> + <p> + “Now you go and take that horse home. But come straight back and get to + bed so you can get an early start at your practicing in the morning. Right + here I'm going to put my foot down. It isn't because I want to be harsh—but + you never seem to know when to stop a thing. It's all well and good to be + fond of dumb animals, but when it comes to a point where you can think of + nothing else—” + </p> + <p> + The outstanding import of the terrific and unjust tirade was that Missy + should not go near the sanitarium or the pony for a week. + </p> + <p> + When mother “put her foot down” like that, hope was gone, indeed. And a + whole week! That was a long, long time when hope is deferred—especially + when one is fifteen and all days are long. At first Missy didn't see how + she was ever to live through the endless period, but, strangely enough, + the dragging days brought to her a change of mood. It is odd how the + colour of our mood, so to speak, can utterly change; how one day we can + desire one kind of thing acutely and then, the very next day, crave + something quite different. + </p> + <p> + One morning Missy awoke to a dawn of mildest sifted light and bediamonded + dew upon the grass; soft plumes of silver, through the mist, seemed to + trim the vines of the summerhouse and made her catch her breath in + ecstasy. All of a sudden she wanted nothing so much as to get a book and + steal off alone somewhere. The right kind of a book, of course—something + sort of strange and sad that would make your strange, sad feelings mount + up and up inside you till you could almost die of your beautiful sorrow. + </p> + <p> + As soon as her routine of duties was finished she gained permission to go + to the Library. As she walked slowly, musingly, down Maple Avenue, her + emotions were fallow ground for every touch of Nature: the slick + greensward of all the lawns, glistening under the torrid azure of the + great arched sky, made walking along the shady sidewalk inexpressibly + sweet; the many-hued flowers in all the flowerbeds seemed to sing out + their vying colours; the strong hard wind passed almost visible fingers + through the thick, rustling mane of the trees. Oh, she hoped she would + find the right kind of book! + </p> + <p> + Mother, back on the porch, looked up from her sewing to watch the + disappearing figure, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “We have our little girl back again,” she observed to Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “I wish that O'Neill girl'd move away,” Aunt Nettie said. “Missy's a + regular chameleon.” + </p> + <p> + It's a pity Missy couldn't hear her new classification; it would have + interested her tremendously; she was always interested in the perplexing + vagaries of her own nature. However, at the Library, she was quite happy: + for she found two books, each the right kind, though different. One was + called “Famous Heroines of Medieval Legend.” They all had names of strange + beauty and splendour—Guinevere—Elaine—Vivien—names + which softly rustled in syllables of silken brocade. The other book was no + less satisfying. It was a book of poems—wonderful poems, by a man + named Swinburne—lilting, haunting things of beauty which washed + through her soul like the waves of a sun-bejewelled sea. She read the + choicest verses over and over till she knew them by heart: + </p> + <p> + Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief with + her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran... + </p> + <p> + and, equally lovely: + </p> + <p> + From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank with + brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; that + dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river winds somewhere safe + to sea... + </p> + <p> + The verses brought her beautiful, stirring thoughts to weave into verses + of her own when she should find a quiet hour in the summerhouse; or to + incorporate into soul-soothing improvisings at the piano. + </p> + <p> + Next morning, after her hour's stint at finger exercises, she improvised + and it went beautifully. She knew it was a success both because of her + exalted feelings and because Poppy meowed out in discordant disapproval + only once; the rest of the time Poppy purred as appreciatively as for “The + Maiden's Prayer.” Dear Poppy! Missy felt suddenly contrite for her + defection from faithful Poppy. And Poppy was getting old—Aunt Nettie + said she'd already lived much longer than most cats. She might die soon. + Through a swift blur of tears Missy looked out toward the summerhouse + where, beneath the ramblers, she decided Poppy should be buried. Poor + Poppy! The tears came so fast she couldn't wipe them away. She didn't + dream that Swinburne was primarily responsible for those tears. + </p> + <p> + Yet even her sadness held a strange, poignant element of bliss. It struck + her, oddly, that she was almost enjoying her week of punishment—that + she WAS enjoying it. Why was she enjoying it, since, when mother first + banned athletic pursuits, she had felt like a martyr? It was queer. She + pondered the mysterious complexity of her nature. + </p> + <p> + There passed two more days of this inexplicable content. Then came the + thunder-storm. It was, perhaps, the thunder-storm that really deserves the + blame for Missy's climactic athletic catastrophe. No lightning-bolt + struck, yet that thunder-storm indubitably played its part in Missy's + athletic destiny. It was the causation of renewed turmoil after time of + peace. + </p> + <p> + Tess had telephoned that morning and asked Missy to accompany her to the + Library. But Missy had to practice. In her heart she didn't really care to + go, for, after her stint was finished, she was contemplating some new + improvisings. However, the morning didn't go well. It was close and sultry + and, though she tried to make her fingers march and trot and gallop as the + exercises dictated, something in the oppressive air set her nerves to + tingling. Besides it grew so dark she couldn't see the notes distinctly. + Finally she abandoned her lesson; but even improvising failed of its + wonted charm. Her fingers kept striking the wrong keys. Then a sudden, + ear-splitting thunder-clap hurled her onto a shrieking discord. + </p> + <p> + She jumped up from the piano; she was horribly afraid of thunder-storms—mother + wouldn't mind if she stopped till the storm was over. She longed to go and + sit close to mother, to feel the protection of her presence; but, despite + the general softening of her mood, she had maintained a certain stiffness + toward the family. So she crouched on a sofa in the darkest corner of the + room, hiding her eyes, stopping her ears. + </p> + <p> + Then a sudden thought brought her bolt upright. Gypsy! Tess had said Gypsy + was afraid of thunder-storms—awfully afraid. And Gypsy was all alone + in that big, gloomy barn—Tess blocks away at the Library. + </p> + <p> + She tried to hide amongst the cushions again, but visions of Gypsy, with + her bright inquisitive eyes, her funny little petulances, her endearing + cajoleries, kept rising before her. She felt a stab of remorse; that she + could have let even the delights of reading and improvising compensate for + separation from such a darling pony. She had been selfish, selfcentred. + And now Gypsy was alone in that old barn, trembling and neighing... + </p> + <p> + Finally, unable to endure the picture longer, she crept out to the hall. + She could hear mother and Aunt Nettie in the sitting-room—she + couldn't get an umbrella from the closet. So, without umbrella or hat, she + stole out the front door. Above was a continuous network of flame as + though someone were scratching immense matches all over the surface of + heaven, but doggedly she ran on. The downpour caught her, but on she sped + though rain and hail hammered her head, blinded her eyes, and drove her + drenched garments against her flesh. + </p> + <p> + She found Gypsy huddled quivering and taut in a corner of the stall. She + put her arms round the satiny neck, and they mutely comforted each other. + It was thus that Tess discovered them; she, too, had run to Gypsy though + it had taken longer as she had farther to go; but she was not so wet as + Missy, having borrowed an umbrella at the Library. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> didn't wait to get an umbrella,” Missy couldn't forebear + commenting, slightly slurring the truth. + </p> + <p> + Tess seemed a bit annoyed. “Well, you didn't HAVE to go out in the rain + anyway. Guess I can be depended on to look out for my own pony, can't I?” + </p> + <p> + But Missy's tactful rejoinder that she'd only feared Tess mightn't be able + to accomplish the longer distance, served to dissipate the shadow of + jealousy. Before the summer storm had impetuously spent itself, the + friends were crowded companionably in the feed-box, feeding the reassured + Gypsy peppermint sticks—Tess had met Arthur Simpson on her way to + the Library—and talking earnestly. + </p> + <p> + The earnest talk was born of an illustration Tess had seen in a magazine + at the Library. It was a society story and the illustration showed the + heroine in riding costume. + </p> + <p> + “She looked awfully swagger,” related Tess. “Flicking her crop against her + boot, and a derby hat and stock-collar and riding-breeches. I think + breeches are a lot more swagger than habits.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think they're a little bit—indelicate?” ventured Missy, + remembering her mother's recent invective against tomboys. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” denied Tess disdainfully. “Valerie Jones in Macon City + wears 'em and she's awfully swell. Her father's a banker. She's in the + thick of things at the Country Club. It's depasse to ride side-saddle, + anyway.” + </p> + <p> + Missy was silent; even when she felt herself misunderstood by her family + and maltreated, she had a bothersome conscience. + </p> + <p> + “There's no real class to riding horseback,” Tess went on, “unless you're + up to date. You got to be up to date. Of course Cherryvale's slow, but + that's no reason we've got to be slow, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No-o,” agreed Missy hesitantly. But she was emboldened to mention her + father's discarded pepper-and-salt trousers. At the first she didn't + intend really to appropriate them, but Tess caught up the idea + enthusiastically. She immediately began making concrete plans and, soon, + Missy caught her fervour. That picture of herself as a dashing, fearless + horsewoman had come to life again. + </p> + <p> + When she got home, mother, looking worried, was waiting for her. + </p> + <p> + “Where on earth have you been? Look at that straggly hair! And that dress, + fresh just this morning—limp as a dish-rag!” + </p> + <p> + Missy tried to explain, but the anxiety between mother's eyes deepened to + lines of crossness. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven's sake! To go rushing off like that without a rain-coat or + even an umbrella! And you pretend to be afraid of thunder-storms! Now, + Missy, it isn't because you've ruined your dress or likely caught your + death of cold—but to think you'd wilfully disobey me! What on earth + AM I to do with you?” + </p> + <p> + She made Missy feel like an unregenerate sinner. And Missy liked her + stinging, smarting sensations no better because she felt she didn't + deserve them. That heavy sense of injustice somewhat deadened any pricks + of guilt when, later, she stealthily removed the pepper-and-salts from the + upstairs store-closet. + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Nettie's eagle eyes chanced to see her. She went to Mrs. Merriam. + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose Missy wants of those old pepper-and-salt pants?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Nettie. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “She's just sneaked 'em off to her room. When she saw me coming up the + stairs, she scampered as if Satan was after her. What DO you suppose she + wants of them?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't imagine,” repeated Mrs. Merriam. “Maybe she hardly knows herself—girls + that age are like a boiling tea-kettle; you know; their imagination keeps + bubbling up and spilling over, and then disappears into vapour. I + sometimes think we bother Missy too much with questions—she doesn't + know the answers herself.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Merriam was probably feeling the compunctions mothers often feel + after they have scolded. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Nettie sniffed a little, but Missy wasn't questioned. And now the + scene of our story may shift to a sunny morning, a few days later, and to + the comparative seclusion of the sanitarium barn. There has been, for an + hour or more, a suppressed sound of giggles, and Gypsy, sensing excitement + in the air, stands with pricked-up ears and bright, inquisitive eyes. + Luckily there has been no intruder—just the three of them, Gypsy and + Missy and Tess. + </p> + <p> + “You're wonderful—simply wonderful! It's simply too swagger for + words!” It was Tess speaking. + </p> + <p> + Missy gazed down at herself. It WAS swagger, she assured herself. It must + be swagger—Tess said so. Almost as swagger, Tess asseverated, as the + riding outfit worn by Miss Valerie Jones who was the swaggerest member of + Macon City's swaggerest young set. Yet, despite her assurance of + swaggerness, she was conscious of a certain uneasiness. She knew she + shouldn't feel embarrassed; she should feel only swagger. But she couldn't + help a sense of awkwardness, almost of distaste; her legs felt—and + LOOKED—so queer! So conspicuous! The upper halves of them were + clothed in two separate envelopments of pepper-and-salt material, gathered + very full and puffy over the hips but drawn in tightly toward the knee in + a particularly swagger fashion. Below the knee the swagger tight effect + was sustained by a pair of long buttoned “leggings.” + </p> + <p> + “You're sure these leggings look all right?” she demanded anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Of course they look all right! They look fine!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish we had some boots,” with a smothered sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they don't ALWAYS wear boots. Lots of 'em in Macon City only wore + puttees. And puttees are only a kind of leggings.” + </p> + <p> + “They're so tight,” complained the horsewoman. “My legs have got a lot + fatter since—” + </p> + <p> + Thrusting out one of the mentioned members in a tentative kick, she was + interrupted by the popping of an already overstrained button. + </p> + <p> + “SEE!” she finished despondently. “I SAID they were too tight.” + </p> + <p> + “You oughtn't to kick around that way,” reproved Tess. “No wonder it + popped off. Now, I'll have to hunt for a safety-pin—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want a safety-pin!—I'd rather let it flop.” + </p> + <p> + The horsewoman continued to survey herself dubiously, took in the bright + scarlet sweater which formed the top part of her costume. The girls had + first sought a more tailored variety of coat, but peres Merriam and + O'Neill were both, selfishly, very large men; Tess had brilliantly + bethought the sweater—the English always wore scarlet for hunting, + anyway. Missy then had warmly applauded the inspiration, but now her + warmth was literal rather than figurative; it was a hot day and the + sweater was knitted of heavy wool. She fingered her stock collar—one + of Mrs. O'Neill's guest towels—and tried to adjust her derby more + securely. + </p> + <p> + “Your father has an awfully big head,” she commented. “Oh, they always + wear their hats way down over their ears.” Then, a little vexed at this + necessity for repeated reassurance, Tess broke out irritably: + </p> + <p> + “If you don't want to wear the get-up, say so! I'LL wear it! I only let + you wear it first trying to be nice to you!” + </p> + <p> + Then Missy, who had been genuinely moved by Tess's decision that the first + wearing of the costume should make up for her chum's week of punishment, + pulled herself together. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I want to wear it,” she declared. “I think it's just fine of + you to let me wear it first.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke sincerely; yet, within the hour, she was plotting to return her + friend's sacrifice with a sort of mean trick. Perhaps it was fit and just + that the trick turned topsy-turvy on herself as it did. Yet the notion did + not come to her in the guise of a trick on Tess. No; it came just as a + daring, dashing, splendid feat in which she herself should triumphantly + figure—she scarcely thought of Tess at all. + </p> + <p> + It came upon her, in all its dazzling possibilities, while she was + cantering along the old road which runs back of Smith's woods. She and + Tess had agreed it would be best, till they'd “broke in” Cherryvale to the + novelty of breeches, to keep to unfrequented roads. But it was the + inconspicuousness of the route, the lack of an admiring audience, which + gave birth to Missy's startling Idea. Back in the barn she'd felt + self-conscious. But now she was getting used to her exposed legs. And + doing really splendidly on Dr. O'Neill's saddle. Sitting there astride, + swaying in gentle rhythm with Gypsy's springing motion she began to feel + truly dashing, supremely swagger. She seemed lifted out of herself, no + longer timid, commonplace, unathletic Missy Merriam, but exalted into a + sort of free-and-easy, Princess Royal of Swaggerdom. She began to wish + someone might see her... + </p> + <p> + Then startling, compelling, tantalizing, came the Idea. Why not ride + openly back into Cherryvale, right up Main Street, right by the Post + Office? All those old loafers would see her who'd laughed the day she + tumbled off of Ned. Well, they'd laugh the other way, now. And Arthur + Simpson, too. Maybe she'd even ride into Pieker's store!—that + certainly would surprise Arthur. True it was Tess he'd “dared,” but of + course he had not dreamed SHE, Missy, would ever take it up. He considered + her unathletic—sort of ridiculous. Wouldn't it be great to “show” + him? She visioned the amazement, the admiration, the respect, which would + shine in his eyes as, insouciantly and yet with dash, she deftly + manoeuvred Gypsy's reins and cantered right into the store! + </p> + <p> + Afterwards she admitted that a sort of madness must have seized her; yet, + as she raced back toward the town, gently swaying in unison with her + mount, her pepper-and-salt legs pressing the pony's sides with authority, + she felt complacently, exultantly sane. + </p> + <p> + And still so when, blithe and debonair, she galloped up Main Street, past + piazzas she pleasurably sensed were not unpeopled nor unimpressed; past + the Court House whence a group of men were emerging and stopped dead to + stare; past the Post Office where a crowd awaiting the noon mail swelled + the usual bunch of loafers; on to Pieker's where, sure enough, Arthur + stood in the door! + </p> + <p> + “Holy cats!” he ejaculated. “Where in the world did—” + </p> + <p> + “Dare me to ride in the store?” demanded Missy, flicking the air with her + crop and speaking insouciantly. She was scarcely aware of the excited + sounds from the Post Office, for as yet her madness was upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't think you could get her in!—You'd better not try!” + </p> + <p> + Missy exulted—he looked as if actually afraid she might attempt it! + As a matter of fact Arthur was afraid; he was afraid Missy Merriam had + suddenly gone out of her head. There was a queer look in her eyes—she + didn't look herself at all. He was afraid she might really do that crazy + stunt; and he was afraid the boss might return from lunch any second, and + catch her doing it and blame HIM! Yes, Arthur Simpson was afraid; and + Missy's blood sang at the spectacle of happy-go-lucky Arthur reduced to + manifest anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “CAN'T get her in?” she retorted derisively. “Just watch me!” + </p> + <p> + And, patting Gypsy's glossy neck, she headed her mount directly toward the + sidewalk and clattered straight into Pieker's store. + </p> + <p> + Arthur had barely time to jump out of the way. “Holy cats!” he again + invoked fervently. Then: “Head her out!—She's slobbering over that + bucket of candy!” + </p> + <p> + True enough; Gypsy's inquisitive nose had led her to a bewildering + profusion of the sweets she adored; not just meagre little bits, doled out + to her stingily bite by bite. And, as if these delectables had been set + out for a special and royal feast, Gypsy tasted this corner and sampled + that, in gourmandish abandon. + </p> + <p> + “For Pete's sake!” implored Arthur, feverishly tugging at the bridle. “Get + her out! The old man's liable to get back any minute!—He won't do a + thing to me!” + </p> + <p> + Missy, then, catching some of his perturbation, slapped with the reins, + stroked Gypsy's neck, exhorted her with endearments and then with threats. + But Gypsy wouldn't budge; she was having, unexpectedly but ecstatically, + the time of her career. Missy climbed down; urged and cajoled, joined + Arthur in tugging at the bridle. Gypsy only planted her dainty forefeet + and continued her repast in a manner not dainty at all. Missy began to + feel a little desperate; that former fine frenzy, that divine madness, + that magnificent tingle of aplomb and dash, was dwindling away. She was + conscious of a crowd collecting in the doorway; there suddenly seemed to + be millions of people in the store—rude, pushing, chortling phantoms + as in some dreadful nightmare. Hot, prickling waves began to wash over + her. They were laughing at her. Spurred by the vulgar guffaws she gave + another frantic tug— + </p> + <p> + Oh, dear heaven! The upper air suddenly thickened with sounds of buzzing + conflict—a family of mud-wasps, roused by the excitement, were + circling round and round! She saw them in terrified fascination—they + were scattering!—zizzing horribly, threateningly as they swooped + this way and that! Heavens!—that one brushed her hand. She tried to + shrink back—then gave an anguished squeal. + </p> + <p> + WHAT WAS THAT? But she knew what it was. In petrified panic she stood + stock-still, rooted. She was afraid to move lest it sting her more + viciously. She could feel it exploring around—up near her hip now, + now crawling downward, now for a second lost in some voluminous fold. She + found time to return thanks that her breeches had been cut with that smart + bouffance. Then she cringed as she felt it again. How had It got in there? + The realization that she must have torn her pepper-and-salts, for a breath + brought embarrassment acutely to the fore; then, as that tickling + promenade over her anatomy was resumed, she froze under paramount fear. + </p> + <p> + “For Pete's sake!” shouted Arthur. “Don't just stand there!—can't + you do SOMETHING?” + </p> + <p> + But Missy could do nothing. Removing Gypsy was no longer the paramount + issue. Ready to die of shame but at the same time engripped by deadly + terror, she stood, legs wide apart, for her life's sake unable to move. + She had lost count of time, but was agonizedly aware of its passage; she + seemed to stand there in that anguished stupor for centuries. In reality + it was but a second before she heard Arthur's voice again: + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake!” he muttered, calamity's approach intensifying his + abjurgations. “There's the old man!” + </p> + <p> + Apprehensively, abasedly, but with legs still stolidly apart, Missy looked + up. Yes, there was Mr. Picker, elbowing his way through the crowd. Then an + icy trickle chilled her spine; following Mr. Picker, carrying his noon + mail, was Rev. MacGill. + </p> + <p> + “Here!—What's this?” demanded Mr. Picker. + </p> + <p> + Then she heard Arthur, that craven-hearted, traitor-souled being she had + once called “friend,” that she had even desired to impress,—she + heard him saying: + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Mr. Picker. She just came riding in—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Picker strode to the centre of the stage and, by a simple expedient + strangely unthought-of before—by merely pulling away the bucket, + separated Gypsy from the candy. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned to Missy and eyed her disapprovingly. + </p> + <p> + “I think you'd better be taking the back cut home. If I was your mamma, + I'd give you a good spanking and put you to bed.” + </p> + <p> + Spanking! Oh, shades of insouciance and swagger! And with Rev. MacGill + standing there hearing—and seeing! Tears rolled down over her + blushes. + </p> + <p> + “Here, I'll help you get her out,” said Rev. MacGill, kindly. Missy + blessed him for his kindness, yet, just then, she felt she'd rather have + been stung to death than to have had him there. But he was there, and he + led Gypsy, quite tractable now the candy was gone, and herself looking + actually embarrassed, through the crowd and back to the street. + </p> + <p> + High moments have a way, sometimes, of resolving their prime and + unreducible factors, all of a sudden, to disconcertingly simple terms. + Here was Gypsy, whose stubbornness had begun it all, suddenly soft as + silk; and there was the wasp, who had brought on the horrendous climax, + suddenly and mysteriously vanished. Of course Missy was glad the wasp was + gone—otherwise she might have stood there, dying of shame, till she + did die of shame—yet the sudden solution of her dilemma made her + feel in another way absurd. + </p> + <p> + But there was little room for such a paltry emotion as absurdity. Rev. + MacGill volunteered to deliver Gypsy to her stall—oh, he was + wonderful, though she almost wished he'd have to leave town unexpectedly; + she didn't see how she'd ever face him again—but she knew there was + a reckoning waiting at home. + </p> + <p> + It was a painful and unforgettable scene. Mother had heard already; father + had telephoned from the office. Missy supposed all Cherryvale was + telephoning but she deferred thoughts of her wider disgrace; at present + mother was enough. Mother was fearfully angry—Missy knew she would + never understand. She said harsher things than she'd ever said before. + Making such a spectacle of herself!—her own daughter, whom she'd + tried to train to be a lady! This feature of the situation seemed to stir + mother almost more violently than the flagrant disobedience. + </p> + <p> + “It's all that O'Neill girl,” said Aunt Nettie. “Ever since she came here + to live, Missy's been up to just one craziness after another.” + </p> + <p> + Mother looked out the window and sighed. Missy was suddenly conscious that + she loved her mother very much; despite the fact that mother had just said + harsh things, that she was going to punish her, that she never understood. + A longing welled up in her to fling her arms round mother's neck and + assure her that she never MEANT to be a spectacle, that she had only— + </p> + <p> + But what was the use of trying to explain? Mother wouldn't understand and + she couldn't explain it in words, anyway—not even to herself. So she + stood first on one foot and then on the other, and felt perfectly + inadequate and miserable. + </p> + <p> + At last, wanting frightfully to say something that would ameliorate her + conduct somewhat in mother's eyes, she said: + </p> + <p> + “I guess it WAS an awful thing to do, mother. And I'm AWFULLY sorry. But + it wouldn't have come out quite so bad—I could have managed Gypsy + better, I think—if it hadn't been for that old wasp.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasp?” questioned mother. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there was a lot of mud-wasps got to flying around and one some way + got inside of my—my breeches. And you know how scared to death I am + of wasps. I KNOW I could have managed Gypsy, but when I felt that wasp + crawling around—” She broke off; tried again. “Don't think I + couldn't manage her—but when I felt that—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if the wasp was all that was the matter,” queried mother, “why + didn't you go after it?” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't reply. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you just stand there and let it keep stinging you?” + </p> + <p> + Missy opened her lips but quickly closed them again. She realized there + was something inconsistent in her explanation. Mother had accused her of + immodesty: riding astride and wearing those scandalous pepper-and-salts + and showing her legs. If mother was right, if she WAS brazen, somehow it + didn't tie up to claim confusion because her— + </p> + <p> + Oh, legs! + </p> + <p> + She didn't try to explain. With hanging head she went meekly to her room. + Mother had ruled she must stay there, in disgrace, till father came home + and a proper punishment was decided upon. + </p> + <p> + It was not a short or glad afternoon. + </p> + <p> + At supper father came up to see her. He was disapproving, of course, + though she felt that his heart wasn't entirely unsympathetic. Even though + he told her Mr. Picker had made him pay for the bucket of candy. Missy + knew it must have gone hard with him to be put in the wrong by Mr. Picker. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father, I'm sorry!—I really am!” + </p> + <p> + Father patted her hand. He was an angel. + </p> + <p> + “Did you bring it home?” brightening at a thought. + </p> + <p> + “Bring what home?” asked father. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the candy.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why, if you had to pay for it. The bottom part wasn't hurt at + all.” + </p> + <p> + Father laughed then, actually laughed. She was glad to see the serious + look removed from his face; but she still begrudged all that candy. + </p> + <p> + Nor was that the end of the part played by the candy. That night, as she + was kneeling in her nightgown by the window, gazing out at the white + moonlight and trying to summon the lovely thoughts the night's magic used + to bring, the door opened softly and mother came tiptoeing in. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be in bed, dear,” she said. No, Missy reflected, she could + never, never be really cross with mother. She climbed into bed and, with a + certain degree of comfort, watched mother smooth up the sheet and fold the + counterpane carefully over the foot-rail. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. O'Neill just phoned,” mother said. “Tess is very sick. It seems she + and Arthur got hold of that bucket of candy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Missy. + </p> + <p> + That was all she said, all she felt capable of saying. The twisted + thoughts, emotions and revulsions which surge in us as we watch the + inexplicable workings of Fate are often difficult of expression. But, + after mother had kissed her good night and gone, she lay pondering for a + long time. Life is curiously unfair. That Tess and Arthur should have got + the candy for which SHE suffered, that the very hours she'd been shut up + with shame and disgrace THEY were gorging themselves, seemed her climactic + crown of sorrow. + </p> + <p> + Yes, life was queer... + </p> + <p> + Almost not worth while to try to be athletic-she didn't really like being + athletic, anyway... she hoped they'd had the ordinary human decency to + give Gypsy just a little bit... Gypsy was a darling... that wavy tail and + those bright soft eyes and the white star.. . but you don't have to be + really athletic to ride a pony—you don't have to wear breeches and + do things like that... Arthur wasn't so much, anyway—he had freckles + and red hair and there was nothing romantic about him... Sir Galahad would + never have been so scared of Mr. Picker—he wouldn't have shoved the + blame off onto a maiden in distress... No, and she didn't think the King + of Spain would, either... Or Rev. MacGill... There were lots of things + just as good as being athletic... there were... lots of things... + </p> + <p> + A moonbeam crept up the white sheet, to kiss the eyelids closed in sleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. A HAPPY DOWNFALL + </h2> + <p> + Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?—A fitful tongue of fickle flame. + And what is prominence to me, When a brown bird sings in the apple-tree? + Ah, mortal downfalls lose their sting When World and Heart hear the call + of Spring! You ask me why mere friendship so Outweighs all else that but + comes to go?... A truce, a truce to questioning: “We two are friends,” + tells everything. I think it vile to pigeon-hole The pros and cons of a + kindred soul. (From Melissa's Improvement on Certain Older Poets.) + </p> + <p> + The year Melissa was a high school Junior was fated to be an unforgettable + epoch. In the space of a few short months, all mysteriously interwoven + with their causes and effects, their trials turning to glory, their + disappointments and surcease inexplicable, came revelations, swift and + shifting, or what is really worth while in life. Oh, Life! And oh, when + one is sixteen years old! That is an age, as many of us can remember, one + begins really to know Life—a complex and absorbing epoch. + </p> + <p> + The first of these new vistas to unspread itself before Missy's eyes was + nothing less dazzling than Travel. She had never been farther away from + home than Macon City, the local metropolis, or Pleasanton, where Uncle + Charlie and Aunt Isabel lived and which wasn't even as big as Cherryvale; + and neither place was a two-hours' train ride away. The most picturesque + scenery she knew was at Rocky Ford; it was far from the place where the + melons grow, but water, a ford and rocks were there, and it had always + shone in that prairie land and in Missy's eyes as a haunt of nymphs, + water-babies, the Great Spirit, and Nature's poetics generally—the + Great Spirit was naturally associated with its inevitable legendary Indian + love story. But when Aunt Isabel carelessly suggested that Missy, next + summer, go to Colorado with her, how the local metropolis dwindled; how + little and simple, though pretty, of course, appeared Rocky Ford. + </p> + <p> + Colorado quivered before her in images supernal. Colorado! Enchantment in + the very name! And mountains, and eternal snow upon the peaks, and + spraying waterfalls, and bright-painted gardens of the gods—oh, + ecstasy! + </p> + <p> + And going with Aunt Isabel! Aunt Isabel was young, beautiful, and + delightful. Aunt Isabel went to Colorado every summer! + </p> + <p> + But a whole year! That is, in truth, a long time and can bring forth much + that is unforeseen, amazing, revolutionizing. Especially when one is + sixteen and beginning really to know life. + </p> + <p> + Missy had always found life in Cherryvale absorbing. The past had been + predominantly tinged with the rainbow hues of dreams; with the fine, + vague, beautiful thoughts that “reading” brings, and with such delicious + plays of fancy as lend witchery to a high white moon, an arched blue sky, + or rolling prairies-even to the tranquil town and the happenings of every + day. Nothing could put magic into the humdrum life of school, and here she + must struggle through another whole year of it before she might reach + Colorado. That was a cloud, indeed, for one who wasn't “smart” like Beulah + Crosswhite. Mathematics Missy found an inexplicable, unalloyed torture; + history for all its pleasingly suggestive glimpses of a spacious past, + laid heavy taxes on one not good at remembering dates. But Missy was about + to learn to take a more modern view of high school possibilities. Shortly + before school opened Cousin Pete came to see his grandparents in + Cherryvale. Perhaps Pete's filial devotion was due to the fact that Polly + Currier resided in Cherryvale; Polly was attending the State University + where Pete was a “Post-Grad.” Missy listened to Cousin Pete's talk of + college life with respect, admiration, and some unconscious envy. There + was one word that rose, like cream on milk, or oil on water, or fat on + soup, inevitably to the surface of his conversation. “Does Polly Currier + like college?” once inquired Missy, moved by politeness to broach what + Pete must find an agreeable subject. “Naturally,” replied Pete, with the + languor of an admittedly superior being. “She's prominent.” The word, + “prominent,” as uttered by him had more than impressiveness and finality. + It was magnificent. It was as though one might remark languidly: “She? Oh, + she's the Queen of Sheba”—or, “Oh, she's Mary Pickford.” + </p> + <p> + Missy pondered a second, then asked: + </p> + <p> + “Prominent? How is a-what makes a person prominent?” + </p> + <p> + Pete elucidated in the large, patronizing manner of a kindly-disposed + elder. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, being pretty—if you're a girl—and a good sport, and + active in some line. A leader.” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't yet exactly see. She decided to make the problem specific. + </p> + <p> + “What makes Polly prominent?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she's the prettiest girl on the hill,” Pete replied indulgently. + “And some dancer. And crack basket-ball forward—Glee Club—Dramatic + Club. Polly's got it over 'em forty ways running.” + </p> + <p> + So ended the first lesson. The second occurred at the chance mention of + one Charlie White, a Cherryvale youth likewise a student at the + University. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's not very prominent,” commented Pete, and his tone damned poor + Charlie for all eternity. + </p> + <p> + “Why isn't he?” asked Missy interestedly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know—he's just a dub.” + </p> + <p> + “A dub?” + </p> + <p> + “Yep, a dub.” Pete had just made a “date” with Polly, so he beamed on her + benignantly as he explained further: “A gun—a dig-a greasy grind.” + </p> + <p> + “But isn't a smart person ever prominent?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sometimes. It all depends.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Polly Currier a grind?” + </p> + <p> + “I should hope not!” as if defending the lady from an insulting charge. + </p> + <p> + Missy looked puzzled; then asked: + </p> + <p> + “Does she ever pass?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, now and then. Sometimes she flunks. Polly should worry!” + </p> + <p> + Here was strange news. One could be smart, devote oneself to study—be + a “greasy grind”—and yet fail of prominence; and one could fail to + pass—“flunk”—and yet climb to the pinnacle of prominence. + Evidently smartness and studiousness had nothing to do with it, and Missy + felt a pleasurable thrill. Formerly she had envied Beulah Crosswhite, who + wore glasses and was preternaturally wise. But maybe Beulah Crosswhite was + not so much. Manifestly it was more important to be prominent than smart. + </p> + <p> + Oh, if she herself could be prominent! + </p> + <p> + To be sure, she wasn't pretty like Polly Currier, or even like her own + contemporary, Kitty Allen—though she had reason to believe that + Raymond Bonner had said something to one of the other boys that sounded as + if her eyes were a little nice. “Big Eyes” he had called her, as if that + were a joke; but maybe it meant something pleasant. But the High School + did not have a Glee Club or Dramatic Society offering one the chance to + display leadership gifts. There was a basket-ball team, but Missy didn't + “take to” athletics. Missy brooded through long, secret hours. + </p> + <p> + The first week of September school opened, classes enrolled, and the + business of learning again got under way. By the second week the various + offshoots of educational life began to sprout, and notices were posted of + the annual elections of the two “literary societies,” Iolanthe and Mount + Parnassus. The “programmes” of these bodies were held in the auditorium + every other Friday, and each pupil was due for at least one performance a + semester. Missy, who was an Iolanthian, generally chose to render a piano + solo or an original essay. But everybody in school did that much—they + had to—and only a few rose to the estate of being “officers.” + </p> + <p> + The Iolanthians had two tickets up for election: the scholastic, headed by + Beulah Crosswhite for president, and an opposition framed by some boys who + complained that the honours always went to girls and that it was time + men's rights were recognized. The latter faction put up Raymond Bonner as + their candidate. Raymond was as handsome and gay as Beulah Crosswhite was + learned. + </p> + <p> + It was a notable fight. When the day of election arrived, the Chemistry + room in which the Iolanthians were gathered was electric with restrained + excitement. On the first ballot Raymond and Beulah stood even. There was a + second ballot—a third—a fourth. And still the deadlock, the + atmosphere of tensity growing more vibrant every second. Finally a group + of boys put their heads together. Then Raymond Bonner arose. + </p> + <p> + “In view of the deadlock which it seems impossible to break,” he began, in + the rather stilted manner which befits such assemblages, “I propose that + we put up a substitute candidate. I propose the name of Miss Melissa + Merriam.” + </p> + <p> + Oh, dear heaven! For a second Missy was afraid she was going to cry—she + didn't know why. But she caught Raymond's eye on her, smiling + encouragement, and she mistily glowed back at him. And on the very first + vote she was elected. Yes. Miss Melissa Merriam was president of Iolanthe. + She was prominent. + </p> + <p> + And Raymond? Of course Raymond had been prominent before, though she had + never noticed it, and now he had helped her up to this noble elevation! He + must think she would adorn it. Adorn!—it was a lovely word that + Missy had just captured. Though she had achieved her eminence by a fluke. + </p> + <p> + Missy took fortune at the flood like one born for success. She mazed the + whole school world by a meteoric display of unsuspected capacities. + Herself she amazed most of all; she felt as if she were making the + acquaintance of a stranger, an increasingly fascinating kind of stranger. + How wonderful to find herself perusing over a “meeting” from the teacher's + desk in the Latin room, or over a “programme” in the auditorium, with calm + and superior dignity! + </p> + <p> + Missy, aflame with a new fire, was not content with the old hackneyed + variety of “programme.” It was she who conceived the idea of giving the + first minstrel show ever presented upon the auditorium boards. It is a + tribute to Missy's persuasiveness when at white heat that the faculty + permitted the show to go beyond its first rehearsal. The rehearsals Missy + personally conducted, with Raymond aiding as her first lieutenant-and he + would not have played second fiddle like that to another girl in the + class-he said so. She herself chose the cast, contrived the “scenery”; and + she and Raymond together wrote the dialogue and lyrics. It was wonderful + how they could do things together! Missy felt she never could get into + such a glow and find such lovely rhymes popping right up in her mind if + she were working alone. And Raymond said the same. It was very strange. It + was as if a mystic bond fired them both with new talents-Missy looked on + mixed metaphors as objectionable only to Professor Sutton. + </p> + <p> + Her reputation-and Raymond's-soared, soared. Her literary talent placed + her on a much higher plane than if she were merely “smart”—made her in the + most perfect sense “prominent.” + </p> + <p> + After the minstrel triumph it was no surprise when, at class elections, + Melissa Merriam became president of the Juniors. A few months before Missy + would have been overwhelmed at the turn of things, but now she casually + mounted her new height, with assurance supreme. It was as though always + had the name of Melissa Merriam been a force. Raymond said no one else had + a look-in. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the term prominence brought its reward: Missy failed in + Geometry and was conditioned in Latin. Father looked grave over her report + card. + </p> + <p> + “This is pretty bad, isn't it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Missy fidgeted. It gave her a guilty feeling to bring that expression to + her indulgent father's face. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, father. I know I'm not smart, but-” She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + Father took off his glasses and thoughtfully regarded her. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't complaining of your not being 'smart'—'smart' people are + often pests. The trouble's that this is worse than it's ever been. And + today I got a letter from Professor Sutton. He says you evince no interest + whatever in your work.” + </p> + <p> + Missy felt a little indignant flare within her. + </p> + <p> + “He knows what responsibilities I have!” + </p> + <p> + “Responsibilities?” repeated father. + </p> + <p> + Here mother, who had been sitting quietly by, also with a disapproving + expression, entered the discussion: + </p> + <p> + “I knew all that Iolanthe and class flummery would get her into trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Flummery! + </p> + <p> + Missy's voice quavered. “That's a very important part of school life, + mother! Class spirit and all—you don't understand!” “I suppose + parents are seldom able to keep up with the understanding of their + children,” replied mother, with unfamiliar sarcasm. “However, right here's + where I presume to set my foot down. If you fail again, in the spring + examinations, you'll have to study and make it up this summer. You can't + go with Aunt Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + Lose the Colorado trip! The wonderful trip she had already lived through, + in vivid prospect, a hundred times! Oh, mother couldn't be so cruel! But + Missy's face dropped alarmingly. + </p> + <p> + “Now, mamma,” began father, “I wouldn't-” + </p> + <p> + “I mean every word of it,” reaffirmed mother with the voice of doom. “No + grades, no holiday. Missy's got to learn balance and moderation. She lets + any wild enthusiasm carry her off her feet. She's got to learn, before + it's too late, to think and control herself.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's heavy pause, then mother went on, significantly: + </p> + <p> + “And I don't know that you ought to buy that car this spring, papa.” + </p> + <p> + The parents exchanged a brief glance, and Missy's heart dropped even + lower. For months she had been teasing father to buy a car, as so many of + the girls' fathers were doing. He had said, “Wait till spring,” and + now-the universe was draped in gloom. + </p> + <p> + However, there was a certain sombre satisfaction in reflecting that her + traits of frailty should call forth such enthrallingly sinister comments. + “Lets any wild enthusiasm carry her off her feet”—“before, it's too + late”—“must learn to control herself—” + </p> + <p> + Human nature is an interesting study, and especially one's own nature when + one stands off and regards it as a problem Allen, mysterious and + complicated. Missy stared at the endangered recesses of her soul—and + wondered what Raymond thought about these perils-for any girl. He liked + her of course, but did he think she was too enthusiastic? + </p> + <p> + Yet such speculations did not, at the time, tie up with views about the + Colorado trip. That was still the guiding star of all her hopes. She must + study harder during the spring term and stave off the threatened and + unspeakable calamity. It was a hard resolution to put through, especially + when she conceived a marvellous idea-a “farce” like one Polly Currier told + her about when she was home for her Easter vacation. Missy wrestled with + temptation like some Biblical martyr of old, but the thought of Colorado + kept her strong. And she couldn't help feeling a little noble when, + mentioning to mother the discarded inspiration-without allusion to + Colorado-she was praised for her adherence to duty. + </p> + <p> + The sense of nobility aided her against various tantalizing chances to + prove anew her gifts of leadership, through latter March, through April, + through early May—lengthening, balmy, burgeoning days when Spring + brings all her brightly languid witchery in assault upon drab endeavour. + </p> + <p> + The weather must share the blame for what befell that fateful Friday of + the second week in May. Blame? Of course there was plenty of blame from + adults that must be laid somewhere; but as for Missy, a floating kind of + ecstasy was what that day woke in her first, and after the worst had + happened—But let us see what did come to pass. + </p> + <p> + It was a day made for poets to sing about. A day for the young man to + forget the waiting ledger on his desk and gaze out the window at skies so + blue and deep as to invite the building of castles; for even his father to + see visions of golf-course or fishing-boat flickering in the translucent + air; for old Jeff to get out his lawn-mower and lazily add a metallic song + to the hum of the universe. And for him or her who must sit at schoolroom + desk, it was a day to follow the processes of blackboard or printed page + with the eyes but not the mind, while the encaged spirit beat past the + bars of dull routine to wing away in the blue. + </p> + <p> + Missy, sitting near an open window of the “study room” during the “second + period,” let dreamy eyes wander from the fatiguing Q. E. D.'s of the + afternoon's Geometry lesson; the ugly tan walls, the sober array of + national patriots hanging above the encircling blackboard, the sea of + heads restlessly swaying over receding rows of desks, all faded hazily + away. Her soul flitted out through the window, and suffused itself in the + bit of bright, bright blue showing beyond the stand-pipe, in the soft, + soft air that stole in to kiss her cheek, in the elusive fragrance of + young, green, growing things, in the drowsy, drowsy sound of Mrs. + Clifton's chickens across the way... + </p> + <p> + Precious minutes were speeding by; she would not have her Geometry lesson. + But Missy didn't bring herself back to think of that; would not have + cared, anyway. She let her soul stretch out, out, out. + </p> + <p> + Such is the sweet, subtle, compelling madness a day of Spring can bring + one. + </p> + <p> + Missy had often felt the ecstasy of being swept out on the yearning demand + for a new experience. Generally because of something suggestive in + “reading” or in heavenly colour combinations or in sad music at twilight; + but, now, for no definable reason at all, she felt her soul welling up and + up in vague but poignant craving. She asked permission to get a drink of + water. But instead of quenching her thirst, she wandered to the entry of + the room occupied by Mathematics III A—Missy's own class, from which + she was now sequestered by the cruel bar termed “failure-to-pass.” + Something was afoot in there; Missy put her ear to the keyhole; then she + boldly opened the door. + </p> + <p> + A tempest of paper-wads, badinage and giggles greeted her. The teacher's + desk was vacant. Miss Smith was at home sick, and the principal had put + Mathematics III A on their honour. For a time Missy joined in their + honourable pursuit of giggles and badinage. But Raymond had welcomed her + as if the fun must mount to something yet higher when she came; she felt a + “secret, deep, interior urge” to show what she could do. The seductive May + air stole into her blood, a stealthy, intoxicating elixir, and finally the + Inspiration came, with such tumultuous swiftness that she could never have + told whence or how. Passed on to her fellows, it was caught up with an + ardour equally mad and unreckoning. One minute the unpastored flock of + Mathematics III A were leaning out the windows, sniffing in the lilac + scents wafted over from Mrs. Clifton's yard; the next they were scurrying, + tip-toe, flushed, laughing, jostling, breathless, out through the + cloak-room, down the stairs, through the side-door, across the stretch of + school-yard, toward a haven beyond Mrs. Clifton's lilac hedge. + </p> + <p> + Where were they going? They did not know. Why had they started? They did + not know. What the next step? They did not know. No thought nor reason in + that, onward rush; only one vast, enveloping, incoherent, tumultuous + impulse—away! away! Away from dark walls into the open; away from + the old into the new; away from the usual into the you-don't-know-what; + away from “you must not” into “you may.” The wild, free, bright, heedless + urge of Spring! + </p> + <p> + Behind their fragrant rampart they paused, for a second, to spin about in + a kind of mental and spiritual whirlpool. Some began breaking off floral + sprays to decorate hat-band or shirt-waist. But Missy, feeling her + responsibility as a leader, glanced back, through leafy crevices, at those + prison-windows open and ominously near. + </p> + <p> + “We mustn't stay here!” she admonished. “We'll get caught!” + </p> + <p> + As if an embodiment of warning, just then Mrs. Clifton emerged out on her + front porch; she looked as if she might be going to shout at them. But + Raymond waited to break off a lilac cluster for Missy. He was so cool + about it; it just showed how much he was like the Black Prince—though + of course no one would “understand” if you said such a thing. + </p> + <p> + The fragrantly beplumed company sped across the green Clifton yard, + ruthlessly over the Clifton vegetable garden, to the comparative retreat + of Silver Street, beyond. But they were not yet safe—away! away! + Missy urged them westward, for no defined reason save that this direction + might increase their distance from the danger zone of the High School. + </p> + <p> + Still without notion of whither bound, the runaways, moist and + dishevelled, found themselves down by the railroad tracks. There, in front + of the Pacific depot, stood the 10:43 “accommodation” for Osawatomie and + other points south. Another idea out of the blue! + </p> + <p> + “Let's go to Osawatomie!” cried Missy. + </p> + <p> + The accommodation was puffing laboriously into action as the last Junior + clambered pantingly on. But they'd all got on! They were on their way! + </p> + <p> + But not on their way to Osawatomie. + </p> + <p> + For before they had all found satisfactory places on the red plush seats + where it was hard to sit still with that bright balminess streaming in + through the open windows—hard to sit still, or to think, or to do + anything but flutter up and down and laugh and chatter about nothing at + all—the conductor appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Tickets, please!” + </p> + <p> + A trite and commonplace phrase, but potent to plunge errant, winging + fancies down to earth. The chattering ceased short. No one had thought of + tickets, nor even of money. The girls of the party looked appalled—in + Cherryvale the girls never dreamed of carrying money to school; then + furtively they glanced at the boys. Just as furtively the boys were + exploring into pockets, but though they brought forth a plentiful salvage + of the anomalous treasure usually to be found in school-boys' pockets, the + display of “change” was pathetic. Raymond had a quarter, and that was more + than anyone else turned out. + </p> + <p> + The conductor impatiently repeated: + </p> + <p> + “Tickets, please!” + </p> + <p> + Then Missy, feeling that financial responsibility must be recognized in a + class president, began to put her case with a formal dignity that + impressed every one but the conductor. + </p> + <p> + “We're the Junior class of the Cherryvale High School—we wish to go + to Osawatomie. Couldn't we—maybe—?” + </p> + <p> + Formal dignity broke down, her voice stuck in her throat, but her eyes + ought to have been enough. They were big and shining eyes, and when she + made them appealing they had been known to work wonders with father and + mother and other grown-ups, even with the austere Professor Sutton. But + this burly figure in the baggy blue uniform had a face more like a wooden + Indian than a human grown-up—and an old, dyspeptic wooden Indian at + that. Missy's eyes were to avail her nothing that hour. + </p> + <p> + “Off you get at the watering-tank,” he ordained. “The whole pack of you.” + </p> + <p> + And at the watering-tank off they got. + </p> + <p> + And then, as often follows a mood of high adventure, there fell upon the + festive group a moment of pause, of unnatural quiet, of “let down.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what're we going to do now?” queried somebody. + </p> + <p> + “We'll do whatever Missy says,” said Raymond, just as if he were Sir + Walter Raleigh speaking of the Virgin Queen. It was a wonder someone + didn't start teasing him about her; but everyone was too taken up waiting + for Missy to proclaim. She set her very soul vibrating; shut her eyes + tightly a moment to think; and, as if in proof that Providence helps them + who must help others, almost instantly she opened them again. + </p> + <p> + “Rocky Ford!” + </p> + <p> + Just like that, out of the blue, a quick, unfaltering, almost unconscious + cry of the inspired. And, with resounding acclaim, her followers caught it + up: + </p> + <p> + “Rocky Ford! Rocky Ford!”—“That's the ticket!”—“We'll have a + picnic'.”—“Rocky Ford! Rocky Ford!” + </p> + <p> + Rocky Ford, home of nymphs, water-babies and Indian legend, was only half + a mile away. Again it shone in all its old-time romantic loveliness on + Missy's inward eye. And for a fact it was a good Maytime picnic place. + </p> + <p> + That day everything about the spot seemed invested with a special kind of + beauty, the kind of beauty you feel so poignantly in stories and pictures + but seldom meet face to face in real life. The Indian maiden became a + memory you must believe in: she had loved someone and they were parted + somehow and she was turned into a swan or something. Off on either side + the creek, the woods stretched dim and mysterious; but nearby, on the + banks, the little new leaves stirred and sparkled in the sun like green + jewels; and the water dribbled and sparkled over the flat white stones of + the ford like a million swishing diamonds; and off in the distance there + were sounds which may have been birds—or, perhaps, the legendary + maiden singing; and, farther away, somewhere, a faint clanging music which + must be cow-bells, only they had a remote heavenly quality rare in + cow-bells. + </p> + <p> + And, all the while, the sun beaming down on the ford, intensely soft and + bright. Why is it that the sun can seem so much softer and brighter in + some places than in others? + </p> + <p> + Missy felt that soft brightness penetrating deeper and deeper into her + being. It seemed a sort of limpid, shining tide flowing through to her + very soul; it made her blood tingle, and her soul quiver. And, in some + mysterious way, the presence, of Raymond Bonner, consciousness of Raymond—Raymond + himself—began to seem all mixed up with this ineffable, surging + effulgence. Missy recognized that she had long experienced a secret, + strange, shy kind of feeling toward Raymond. He was so handsome and so + gay, and his dark eyes told her so plainly that he liked her, and he + carried her books home for her despite the fact that the other boys teased + him. The other girls had teased Missy, too, so that sometimes she didn't + know whether she was more happy or embarrassed over Raymond's admiration. + </p> + <p> + But, to-day, everyone seemed lifted above such childish rudeness. When + Missy had first led off from the watering-tank toward Rocky Ford, Raymond + had taken his place by her side, and he maintained it there masterfully + though two or three other boys tried to include themselves in the class + president's group—“buttinskys,” Raymond termed them. + </p> + <p> + Once, as they walked together along the road, Raymond took hold of her + hand. He had done that much before, but this was different. Those other + times did not count. She knew that this was different and that he, too, + knew it was different. They glanced at each other, and then quickly away. + </p> + <p> + Then, when they turned off into a field, to avoid meeting people who might + ask questions, Raymond held together the barbed wires of the fence very + carefully, so she could creep under without mishap. And when they neared + the woods, he kicked all the twigs from her path, and lifted aside the + underbrush lest it touch her face. And at each opportunity for this + delicious solicitude they would look at each other, and then quickly away. + </p> + <p> + That was in many ways an unforgettable picnic; many were the unheard-of + things carried out as soon as thought of. For example, the matter of + lunch. What need to go hungry when there were eggs in a farmer's henhouse + not a half-mile away, and potatoes in the farmer's store-house, and sundry + other edibles all spread out, as if waiting, in the farmer's cellar? + (Blessings on the farmer's wife for going a-visiting that day!) + </p> + <p> + The boys made an ingenious oven of stones and a glorious fire of brush; + and the girls made cunning dishes out of big, clean-washed leaves. Then, + when the potatoes and eggs were ready, all was devoured with a zest that + paid its own tribute to the fair young cooks; and the health of the fair + young cooks was drunk in Swan Creek water, cupped in sturdy masculine + hands; and even the girls tried to drink from those same cups, laughing so + they almost strangled. A mad, merry and supremely delightful feast. + </p> + <p> + After she had eaten, for some reason Missy felt a craving to wander off + somewhere and sit still a while. She would have loved to stretch out in + the grass, and half-close her eyes, and gaze up at the bits of shining, + infinite blue of the sky, and dream. But there was Raymond at her elbow—and + she wanted, even more than she wanted to be alone and dream, Raymond to be + there at her elbow. + </p> + <p> + Then, too, there were all the others. Someone shouted: + </p> + <p> + “What'll we do now? What'll we do, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + So the class president dutifully set her wits to work. Around the flat + white stones of the ford the water was dribbling, warm, soft, enticing. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go wading!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + Wading! + </p> + <p> + Usually Missy would have shrunk from appearing before boys in bare feet. + But this was a special kind of day which held no room for embarrassment; + and, more quickly than it takes to tell it, shoes and stockings were off + and the new game was on. Missy stood on a stepping-stone, suddenly + diffident; the water now looked colder and deeper, the whispering + cascadelets seemed to roar like breakers on a beach. The girls were all + letting out little squeals as the water chilled their ankles, and the boys + made feints of chasing them into deeper water. + </p> + <p> + Raymond pursued Missy, squealing and skipping from stone to stone till, + unexpectedly, she lost her slippery footing and went sprawling into the + shallow stream. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Missy! I'm sorry!” She felt his arms tugging at her. Then she found + herself standing on the bank, red-faced and dripping, feeling very + wretched and very happy at the same time—wretched because Raymond + should see her in such plight; happy because he was making such a fuss + over her notwithstanding. + </p> + <p> + He didn't seem to mind her appearance, but took his hat and began + energetically to fan her draggled hair. + </p> + <p> + “I wish my hair was curly like Kitty Allen's,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I like it this way,” said Raymond, unplaiting the long braids so as to + fan them better. + </p> + <p> + “But hers curls up all the prettier when it's wet. Mine strings.” + </p> + <p> + “Straight hair's the nicest,” he said with finality. + </p> + <p> + He liked straight hair best! A wave of celestial bliss stole over her. It + was wonderful: the big, fleecy clouds so serenely beautiful up in the + enigmatic blue; the sun pouring warmly down and drying her dress in uneven + patches; the whisperings of the green-jewelled leaves and the swishing of + the diamond-bubbles on the stones; the drowsy, mysterious sounds from far + away in the woods, and fragrance everywhere; and everything seeming + delightfully remote; even the other boys and girls—everything and + everybody save Raymond, standing there so patiently fanning the straight + hair he admired. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the whole place was entrancing, entrancing in a new way; and her + sensations, too, were entrancing in a new way. Even when Raymond, as he + manipulated her hair, inadvertently pulled the roots, the prickly pains + seemed to tingle on down through her being in little tremors of pure + ecstasy. + </p> + <p> + Raymond went on fanning her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Curly hair's messy looking,” he observed after a considerable pause + during which, evidently, his thoughts had remained centred on this + pleasing theme. + </p> + <p> + And then, all of a sudden, Missy found herself saying an inexplicable, + unheard-of thing: + </p> + <p> + “You can have a lock-if you want to.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced up, and then quickly down. And she felt herself blushing + again; she didn't exactly like to blush—yet—yet— + </p> + <p> + “Do I want it?” + </p> + <p> + Already Raymond had dropped his improvised fan and was fumbling for his + knife. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Missy shivered deliciously at the imminence of that bright steel blade; + what if he should let it slip?—but, just then, even mutilation, + provided it be at Raymond's hand, didn't seem too terrible. + </p> + <p> + “Wherever you want,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “All right—I'll take a snip here where it twines round your ear—it + looks so sort of affectionate.” + </p> + <p> + She giggled with him. Of course it was all terribly silly—and yet— + </p> + <p> + Then there followed a palpitant moment while she held her breath and shut + her eyes. A derisive shout caused her to open them quickly. There stood + Don Jones, grinning. + </p> + <p> + “Missy gave Raymond a lock of her hair! Missy gave Raymond a lock of her + hair!” + </p> + <p> + Missy's face grew hot; blushing was not now a pleasure; she looked up, + then down; she didn't know where to look. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme one, too! You got to play fair, Missy—gimme one, too!” + </p> + <p> + Then, in that confusion of spirit, she heard her voice, which didn't seem + to be her own voice but a stranger's, saying: + </p> + <p> + “All right, you can have one, too, if you want it, Don.” + </p> + <p> + Don forthwith advanced. Missy couldn't forebear a timid glance toward + Raymond. Raymond was not looking pleased. She wished she might assure him + she didn't really want to give the lock to Don, and yet, at the same time, + she felt strangely thrilled at that lowering look on Raymond's face. It + was curious. She wanted Raymond to be happy, yet she didn't mind his being + just a little bit unhappy—this way. Oh, how complicated and + fascinating life can be! + </p> + <p> + During the remainder of their stay at the ford Missy was preoccupied with + this new revelation of herself and with a furtive study of Raymond whose + continued sulkiness was the cause of it. Raymond didn't once come to her + side during all that endless three-mile tramp back to Cherryvale; but she + was conscious of his eye on her as she trudged along beside Don Jones. She + didn't feel like talking to Don Jones. Nor was the rest of the crowd, now, + a lively band; it was harder to laugh than it had been in the morning; + harder even to talk. And when they did talk, little unsuspected + irritabilities began to gleam out. For now, when weary feet must somehow + cover those three miles, thoughts of the journey's end began to rise up in + the truants' minds. During the exalted moments of adventure they hadn't + thought of consequences. That's a characteristic of exalted moments. But + now, so to speak, the ball was over, the roses all shattered and faded, + and the weary dancers must face the aftermath of to-morrow... + </p> + <p> + And Missy, trudging along the dusty road beside Don Jones who didn't + count, felt all kinds of shadows rising up to eclipse brightness in her + soul. What would Professor Sutton do?—he was fearfully strict. And + father and mother would never understand... + </p> + <p> + If only Don Jones would stop babbling to her! Why did he persist in + walking beside her, anyway? That lock of hair didn't mean anything! She + wished she hadn't given it to him; why had she, anyway? She herself + couldn't comprehend why, and Raymond would never, never comprehend. + </p> + <p> + The farther she walked, the less she saw the pleasanter aspects of + Raymond's jealousy and the more what might be the outcome of it. Perhaps + he'd never have anything to do with her again. That would be terrible! And + she'd have such a short time to try making it up. For in less than a month + she'd have to go with Aunt Isabel to Colorado; and, then, she wouldn't see + Raymond for weeks and weeks. Colorado! It was like talking of going to the + moon, a dreary, dead, far-off moon, with no one in it to speak to. Aunt + Isabel? Aunt Isabel was sweet, but she was so old—nearly thirty! How + could she, Missy, go and leave Raymond misunderstanding her so? + </p> + <p> + But who can tell how Fate may work to confound rewards and punishments! + </p> + <p> + It was to become a legend in the Cherryvale High School how, once on a day + in May, a daring band ran away from classes and how the truant class, in + toto, was suspended for the two closing weeks of the semester, with no + privilege of “making up” the grades. And the legend runs that one girl, + and the most prominent girl in the class at that, by reason of this + sentence fell just below the minimum grade required to “pass.” + </p> + <p> + Yes; Missy failed again. Of course that was very bad. And taking her + disgrace home—indeed, that was horrid. As she faced homeward she + felt so heavy inside that she knew she could never eat her dinner. + Besides, she was walking alone—Raymond hadn't walked home with her + since the wretched picnic. She sighed a sigh that was not connected with + the grade card in her pocket. For one trouble dwarfs another in this + world; and friendship is more than honours—a sacred thing, + friendship! Only Raymond was so unreasonable over Don's lock of hair; yet, + for all the painfulness of Raymond's crossness, Missy smiled the littlest + kind of a down-eyed, secret sort of smile as she thought of it... It was + so wonderful and foolish and interesting how much he cared that Missy + began to question what he'd do if she got Don to give her a lock of his + hair. + </p> + <p> + Then she sobered suddenly, as you do at a funeral after you have forgotten + where you are and then remember. That card was an unpleasant thing to take + home!... Just what did Raymond mean by giving Kitty Allen a lock of his + hair? And doing it before Missy herself—“Kitty, here's that lock I + promised you”—just like that. Then he had laughed and joked as if + nothing unusual had happened—only was he watching her out of the + corner of his eye when he thought she wasn't looking? That was the real + question. The idea of Raymond trying to make her jealous! How + simple-minded boys are! + </p> + <p> + But, after all, what a dear, true friend he had proved himself in the past—before + she offended him. And how much more is friendship than mere pleasures like + travel—like going to Colorado. + </p> + <p> + But was he jealous? If he was—Missy felt an inexplicable kind of + bubbling in her heart at that idea. But if he wasn't—well, of course + it was natural she should wonder whether Raymond looked on friendship as a + light, come-and-go thing, and on locks of hair as meaning nothing at all. + For he had never been intimate with Kitty Allen; and he had said he didn't + like curly hair. Yet, probably, he had one of Kitty Allen's ringlets... + Missy felt a new, hideous weight pulling down her heart. + </p> + <p> + Of course she had given that straight wisp to Don Jones—but what + else could she do to keep him from telling? Oh, life is a muddle! And + here, in less than a week, Aunt Isabel would come by and whisk her off to + the ends of the earth; and she might have to go without really knowing + what Raymond meant... + </p> + <p> + And oh, yes—that old card! How dreary life can be as one grows + older. + </p> + <p> + Missy waited to show the card till her father came home to supper—she + knew it was terribly hard for father to be stern. But when Missy, all mute + appeal, extended him the report, he looked it over in silence and then + passed it on to mother. Mother, too, examined it with maddening care. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she commented at last. “I see you've failed again.” + </p> + <p> + “It was all the fault of those two weeks' grades,” the culprit tried to + explain. “If it hadn't been for that—” + </p> + <p> + “But there was 'that.'” Mother's tone was terribly unsympathetic. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't think of grades—then.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that's the trouble. I've warned you, Missy. You've got to learn to + think. You'll have to stay home and make up those grades this summer. + You'd better write to Aunt Isabel at once, so she won't be + inconvenienced.” + </p> + <p> + Mother's voice had the quiet ring of doom. + </p> + <p> + Tender-hearted father looked away, out the window, so as not to see the + disappointment on his daughter's face. But Missy was gazing down her nose + to hide eyes that were shining. Soon she made an excuse to get away. + </p> + <p> + Out in the summerhouse it was celestially beautiful and peaceful. And, + magically, all this peace and beauty seemed to penetrate into her and + become a part of herself. The glory of the pinkish-mauve sunset stole in + and delicately tinged her so; the scent of the budding ramblers, and of + the freshly-mowed lawn, became her own fragrant odour; the soft song of + the breeze rocking the leaves became her own soul's lullaby. Oh, it was a + heavenly world, and the future bloomed with enchantments! She could stay + in Cherryvale this summer! Dear Cherryvale! Green prairies were so much + nicer than snow-covered mountains, and gently sloping hills than + sharp-pointing peaks; and much, much nicer than tempestuous waterfalls was + the sweet placidity of Swan Creek. Dear Swan Creek... + </p> + <p> + The idea of Raymond's trying to make her jealous! How simple-minded boys + are! But what a dear, true friend he was, and how much more is friendship + than mere pleasures like travel—or prominence or fine grades or + anything... + </p> + <p> + It was at this point in her cogitations that Missy, seeing her Anthology—an + intimate poetic companion—where she'd left it on a bench, dreamily + picked it up, turned a few pages, and then was moved to write. We have + borrowed her product to head this story. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, back in the house, her father might have been heard commenting + on the noble behaviour of his daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't let out a single whimper—brave little thing! We must see to + it that she has a good time at home—poor young one! I think we'd + better get the car this summer, after all.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. DOBSON SAVES THE DAY + </h2> + <p> + It was two years after the Spanish war; and she was seventeen years old + and about to graduate. + </p> + <p> + On the Senior class roster of the Cherryvale High School she was + catalogued as Melissa Merriam, well down—in scholarship's token—toward + the tail-end of twenty-odd other names. To the teachers the list meant + only the last young folks added to a backreaching line of girls and boys + who for years and years had been coming to “Commencement” with “credits” + few or many, large expectant eyes fixed on the future, and highly + uncertain habits of behaviour; but, to the twenty-odd, such dead prosiness + about themselves would have been inconceivable even in teachers. + </p> + <p> + And Missy? + </p> + <p> + Well, there were prettier girls in the class, and smarter girls-and boys, + too; yet she was the one from all that twenty-odd who had been chosen to + deliver the Valedictory. Did there ever exist a maid who did not thrill to + proof that she was popular with her mates? And when that tribute carries + with it all the possibilities of a Valedictory—double, treble the + exultation. + </p> + <p> + The Valedictory! When Missy sat in the classroom, exhausted with the + lassitudinous warmth of spring and with the painful uncertainty of whether + she'd be called to translate the Vergil passage she hadn't mastered, + visions of that coming glory would rise to brighten weary hours; and the + last thing at night, in falling asleep, as the moon stole in tenderly to + touch her smiling face, she took them to her dreams. She saw a slender + girl in white, standing alone on a lighted stage, gazing with luminous + eyes out on a darkened auditorium. Sometimes they had poky old lectures in + that Opera House. Somebody named Ridgely Holman Dobson was billed to + lecture there now—before Commencement; but Missy hated lectures; her + vision was of something lifted far above such dismal, useful + communications. She saw a house as hushed as when little Eva dies—all + the people listening to the girl up there illumined: the lift and fall of + her voice, the sentiments fine and noble and inspiring. They followed the + slow grace of her arms and hands—it was, indeed, as if she held them + in the hollow of her hand. And then, finally, when she had come to the + last undulating cadence, the last vibrantly sustained phrase, as she + paused and bowed, there was a moment of hush—and then the applause + began. Oh, what applause! And then, slowly, graciously, modestly but with + a certain queenly pride, the shining figure in white turned and left the + stage. + </p> + <p> + She could see it all: the way her “waved” hair would fluff out and catch + the light like a kind of halo, and each one of the nine organdie ruffles + that were going to trim the bottom of her dress; she could even see the + glossy, dark green background of potted palms—mother had promised to + lend her two biggest ones. Yes, she could see it and hear it to the utmost + completeness—save for one slight detail: that was the words of the + girlish and queenly speaker. It seemed all wrong that she, who wasn't + going to be a dull lecturer, should have to use words, and so many of + them! You see, Missy hadn't yet written the Valedictory. + </p> + <p> + But that didn't spoil her enjoyment of the vision; it would all come to + her in time. Missy believed in Inspiration. Mother did not. + </p> + <p> + Mother had worried all through the four years of her daughter's high + school career—over “grades” or “exams” or “themes” or whatnot. She + had fretted and urged and made Missy get up early to study; had even + punished her. And, now, she was sure Missy would let time slide by and + never get the Valedictory written on time. The two had already “had words” + over it. Mother was dear and tender and sweet, and Missy would rather have + her for mother than any other woman in Cherryvale, but now and then she + was to be feared somewhat. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes she would utter an ugly, upsetting phrase: + </p> + <p> + “How can you dilly-dally so, Missy? You put everything off!—put off—put + off! Now, go and try to get that thesis started!” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing for Missy to do but go and try to obey. She took tablet + and pencil out to the summerhouse, where it was always inspiringly quiet + and beautiful; she also took along the big blue-bound Anthology from the + living-room table—an oft-tapped fount; but even reading poetry + didn't seem able to lift her to the creative mood. And you have to be in + the mood before you can create, don't you? Missy felt this necessity + vaguely but strongly; but she couldn't get it across to mother. + </p> + <p> + And even worse than mother's reproaches was when father finally gave her a + “talking to”; father was a big, wise, but usually silent man, so that when + he did speak his words seemed to carry a double force. Missy's young + friends were apt to show a little awe of father, but she knew he was + enormously kind and sympathetic. Long ago—oh, years before—when + she was a little girl, she used to find it easier to talk to him than to + most grown-ups; about all kinds of unusual things—the strange, + mysterious, fascinating thoughts that come to one. But lately, for some + reason, she had felt more shy with father. There was much she feared he + mightn't understand—or, perhaps, she feared he might understand. + </p> + <p> + So, in this rather unsympathetic domestic environment, the class + Valedictorian, with the kindling of her soul all laid, so to speak, + uneasily awaited the divine spark. It was hard to maintain an easy + assumption that all was well; especially after the affair of the hats got + under way. + </p> + <p> + Late in April Miss Ackerman, the Domestic Science teacher, had organized a + special night class in millinery which met, in turns, at the homes of the + various members. The girls got no “credit” for this work, but they seemed + to be more than compensated by the joy of creating, with their own + fingers, new spring hats which won them praise and admiration. Kitty + Allen's hat was particularly successful. It was a white straw “flat,” + faced and garlanded with blue. Missy looked at its picturesque effect, + posed above her “best friend's” piquantly pretty face, with an envy which + was augmented by the pardonable note of pride in Kitty's voice as she'd + say: “Oh, do you really like it?—I made it myself, you know.” + </p> + <p> + If only she, Missy, might taste of this new kind of joy! She was not a + Domestic Science girl; but, finally, she went to Miss Ackermanand—oh,rapture!—obtained + permission to enter the millinery class. + </p> + <p> + However, there was still the more difficult matter of winning mother's + consent. As Missy feared, Mrs. Merriam at once put on her disapproving + look. + </p> + <p> + “No, Missy. You've already got your hands full. Have you started the + thesis yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother!—I'll get the thesis done all right! And this is such a + fine chance!—all the girls are learning how to make their own hats. + And I thought, maybe, after I'd learned how on my own, that maybe I could + make you one. Do you remember that adorable violet straw you used to have + when I was a little girl?—poke shape and with the pink rose? I + remember father always said it was the most becoming hat you ever had. And + I was thinking, maybe, I could make one something like that!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I've outgrown pink roses, dear.” But mother was smiling a + soft, reminiscent little shadow of a smile. + </p> + <p> + “But you haven't outgrown the poke shape—and violet! Oh, mother!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps—we'll see. But you mustn't let it run away with you. + You must get that thesis started.” + </p> + <p> + Not for nothing had Missy been endowed with eyes that could shine and a + voice that could quaver; yes, and with an instinct for just the right + argument to play upon the heart-strings. + </p> + <p> + She joined the special night class in millinery. She learned to manipulate + troublesome coils of wire and pincers, and to evolve a strange, ghostly + skeleton—thing called a “frame,” but when this was finally covered + with crinoline and tedious rows-on-rows of straw braid, drab drudgery was + over and the deliciousness began. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the pure rapture of “trimming”! Missy's first venture was a wide, + drooping affair, something the shape of Kitty Allen's, only her own had a + much subtler, more soul-satisfying colour scheme. The straw was a subtle + blue shade—the colour Raymond Bonner, who was a classmate and almost + a “beau,” wore so much in neckties—and the facing shell-pink, a + delicate harmony; but the supreme ecstasy came with placing the little + silken flowers, pink and mauve and deeper subtle-blue, in effective + composition upon that heavenly background; and, in just the one place, a + glimpse of subtle-blue ribbon, a sheen as gracious as achieved by the + great Creator when, with a master's eye, on a landscape he places a + climactic stroke of shining blue water. Indeed, He Himself surely can view + His handiwork with no more sense o gratification than did Missy, regarding + that miracle of colour which was her own creation. + </p> + <p> + Oh, to create! To feel a blind, vague, ineffable urge within you, stealing + out to tangibility in colour and form! Earth—nor Heaven, either—can + produce no finer rapture. + </p> + <p> + Missy's hat was duly admired. Miss Ackerman said she was a “real artist”; + when she wore it to Sunday-school everybody looked at her so much she + found it hard to hold down a sense of unsabbatical pride; father jocosely + said she'd better relinquish her dreams of literary fame else she'd + deprive the world of a fine milliner; and even mother admitted that Mrs. + Anna Stubbs, the leading milliner, couldn't have done better. However, she + amended: “Now, don't forget your school work, dear. Have you decided on + the subject of your thesis yet?” + </p> + <p> + Missy had not. But, by this time, the hat business was moving so rapidly + that she had even less time to worry over anything still remote, like the + thesis—plenty of time to think of that; now, she was dreaming of how + the rose would look blooming radiantly from this soft bed of violet + straw;... and, now, how becoming to Aunt Nettie would be this misty green, + with cool-looking leaves and wired silver gauze very pure and bright like + angels' wings—dear Aunt Nettie didn't have much “taste,” and Missy + indulged in a certain righteous glow in thus providing her with a really + becoming, artistic hat. Then, after Aunt Nettie's, she planned one for + Marguerite. Marguerite was the hired girl, mulatto, and had the racial + passion for strong colour. So Missy conceived for her a creation that + would be at once satisfying to wearer and beholder. How wonderful with + one's own hands to be able to dispense pleasure! Missy, working, felt a + peculiarly blended joy; it is a gratification, indeed, when a pleasing + occupation is seasoned with the fine flavour of noble altruism. + </p> + <p> + She hadn't yet thought of a theme for the Valedictory, and mother was + beginning to make disturbing comments about “this hat mania,” when, by the + most fortuitous chance, while she was working on Marguerite's very hat—in + fact, because she was working on it—she hit upon a brilliantly + possible idea for the Valedictory. + </p> + <p> + She was rummaging in a box of discarded odds and ends for “trimmings.” The + box was in mother's store-closet, and Missy happened to observe a pile of + books up on the shelf. Books always interested her, and even with a hat on + her mind she paused a moment to look over the titles. The top volume was + “Ships That Pass in the Night”—she had read that a year or so ago—a + delightful book, though she'd forgotten just what about. She took it down + and opened it, casually, at the title page. And there, in fine print + beneath the title, she read: + </p> + <p> + Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a + signal shewn, and a distant voice in the darkness; So, on the ocean of + life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice—then + darkness again, and a silence. + </p> + <p> + Standing there in the closet door, Missy read the stanza a second time—a + third. And, back again at her work, fingers dawdled while eyes took on a + dreamy, preoccupied expression. For phrases were still flitting through + her head: “we pass and speak one another”.. . “then darkness again, and a + silence”... + </p> + <p> + Very far away it took you—very far, right out on the vast, surging, + mysterious sea of Life! + </p> + <p> + The sea of Life!... People, like ships, always meeting one another—only + a look and a voice—and then passing on into the silence... + </p> + <p> + Oh, that was an idea! Not just a shallow, sentimental pretense, but a real + idea, “deep,” stirring and fine. What a glorious Valedictory that would + make! + </p> + <p> + And presently, when she was summoned to supper, she felt no desire to + talk; it was so pleasant just to listen to those phrases faintly and + suggestively resounding. All the talk around her came dimly and, + sometimes, so lost was she in hazy delight that she didn't hear a direct + question. + </p> + <p> + Finally father asked: + </p> + <p> + “What's the day-dream, Missy?—thinking up a hat for me?” + </p> + <p> + Missy started, and forgot to note that his enquiry was facetious. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered quite seriously, “I haven't finished Marguerite's yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” cut in mother, in the tone of reproach so often heard these days, + “she's been frittering away the whole afternoon. And not a glimmer for the + thesis yet!” + </p> + <p> + At that Missy, without thinking, unwarily said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I have, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said her mother interestedly. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Missy suddenly remembered and blushed—grown-ups seldom understand + unless you're definite. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she amended diffidently, “I've got the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” persisted mother. + </p> + <p> + Everybody was looking at Missy. She poured the cream over her berries, + took a mouthful; but they all kept looking at her, waiting. + </p> + <p> + “'Ships That Pass in the Night,'” she had to answer. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake!” ejaculated Aunt Nettie. “What're you going to write + about that?” + </p> + <p> + This was the question Missy had been dreading. She dreaded it because she + herself didn't know just what she was going to write about it. Everything + was still in the first vague, delightful state of just feeling it—without + any words as yet; and grown-ups don't seem to understand about this. But + they were all staring at her, so she must say something. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I haven't worked it out exactly—it's just sort of pouring in + over me.” + </p> + <p> + “What's pouring over you?” demanded Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “Why—the sea of Life,” replied Missy desperately. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake!” commented Aunt Nettie again. + </p> + <p> + “It sounds vague; very vague,” said father. Was he smiling or frowning?—he + had such a queer look in his eyes. But, as he left the table, he paused + behind her chair and laid a very gentle hand on her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Like to go out for a spin in the car?” + </p> + <p> + But mother declined for her swiftly. “No, Missy must work on her thesis + this evening.” + </p> + <p> + So, after supper, Missy took tablet and pencil once more to the + summerhouse. It was unusually beautiful out there—just the kind of + evening to harmonize with her uplifted mood. Day was ending in still and + brilliant serenity. The western sky an immensity of benign light, and + draped with clouds of faintly tinted gauze. + </p> + <p> + “Another day is dying,” Missy began to write; then stopped. + </p> + <p> + The sun sank lower and lower, a reddening ball of sacred fire and, as if + to catch from it a spark, Missy sat gazing at it as she chewed her pencil; + but no words came to be caught down in pencilled tangibility. Oh, it hurt!—all + this aching sweetness in her, surging through and through, and not able to + bring out one word! + </p> + <p> + “Well?” enquired mother when, finally, she went back to the house. + </p> + <p> + Missy shook her head. Mother sighed; and Missy felt the sigh echoing in + her own heart. Why were words, relatively so much less than inspiration, + yet so important for inspiration's expression? And why were they so + maddeningly elusive? + </p> + <p> + For a while, in her little white bed, she lay and stared hopelessly out at + the street lamp down at the corner; the glow brought out a beautiful + diffusive haze, a misty halo. “Only a signal shewn”... + </p> + <p> + The winking street lamp seemed to gaze back at her... “Sometimes a signal + flashes from out the darkness”... “Only a look”... “But who can comprehend + the unfathomable influence of a look?—It may come to a soul wounded + and despairing—a soul caught in a wide-sweeping tempest—a soul + sad and weary, longing to give up the struggle...” + </p> + <p> + Where did those words, ringing faintly in her consciousness, come from? + She didn't know, was now too sleepy to ponder deeply. But they had come; + that was a promising token. To-morrow more would come; the Valedictory + would flow on out of her soul—or into her soul, whichever way it was—in + phrases serene, majestic, ineffable. + </p> + <p> + Missy's eyelids fluttered; the street lamp's halo grew more and more + irradiant; gleamed out to illumine, resplendently, a slender girl in white + standing on a lighted stage, gazing with luminous eyes out on a darkened + auditorium, a house as hushed as when little Eva dies. All the people were + listening to the girl up there speaking—the rhythmic lift and fall + of her voice, the sentiments fine and noble and inspiring: + </p> + <p> + “Ships that pass in the night and speak each other in passing... So, on + the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another... Only a look and a + voice... But who can comprehend the unfathomable influence of a look?... + which may come to a soul sad and weary, longing to give up the + struggle...” + </p> + <p> + When she awoke next morning raindrops were beating a reiterative plaint + against the window, and the sound seemed very beautiful. She liked lying + in bed, staring out at the upper reaches of sombre sky. She liked it to be + rainy when she woke up—there was something about leaden colour + everywhere and falling rain that made you fit for nothing but placid + staring, yet, at the same time, pleasantly meditative. Then was the time + that the strange big things which filter through your dreams linger + evanescently in your mind to ponder over. + </p> + <p> + “Only a look and a voice—but who can comprehend the—the—the + unfathomable influence of a look? It may come to a soul—may come to + a soul—” + </p> + <p> + Bother! How did that go? + </p> + <p> + Missy shut her eyes and tried to resummon the vision, to rehear those + rhythmic words so fraught with wisdom. But all she saw was a sort of + heterogeneous mass of whirling colours, and her thoughts, too, seemed to + be just a confused and meaningless jumble. Only her FEELING seemed to + remain. She could hardly bear it; why is it that you can feel with that + intolerably fecund kind of ache while THOUGHTS refuse to come? + </p> + <p> + She finally gave it up, and rose and dressed. It was one of those mornings + when clothes seem possessed of some demon so that they refuse to go on + right. At breakfast she was unwontedly cross, and “talked back” to Aunt + Nettie so that mother made her apologize. At that moment she hated Aunt + Nettie, and even almost disliked mother. Then she discovered that Nicky, + her little brother, had mischievously hidden her strap of books and, all + of a sudden, she did an unheard-of thing: she slapped him! Nicky was so + astonished he didn't cry; he didn't even run and tell mother, but Missy, + seeing that hurt, bewildered look on his face, felt greater remorse than + any punishment could have evoked. She loved Nicky dearly; how could she + have done such a thing? But she remembered having read that Poe and Byron + and other geniuses often got irritable when in creative mood. Perhaps that + was it. The reflection brought a certain consolation. + </p> + <p> + But, at school, things kept on going wrong. In the Geometry class she was + assigned the very “proposition” she'd been praying to elude; and, then, + she was warned by the teacher—and not too privately—that if + she wasn't careful she'd fail to pass; and that, of course, would mean she + couldn't graduate. At the last minute to fail!—after Miss Simpson + had started making her dress, and the invitations already sent to the + relatives, and all! + </p> + <p> + And finally, just before she started home, Professor Sutton, the + principal, had to call her into his office for a report on her thesis. The + manuscript had to be handed in for approval, and was already past due. + Professor Sutton was very stern with her; he said some kind of an outline, + anyway, had to be in by the end of the week. Of course, being a grown-up + and a teacher besides, he believed everything should be done on time, and + it would be useless to try to explain to him even if one could. + </p> + <p> + Raymond Bonner was waiting to walk home with her. Raymond often walked + home with her and Missy was usually pleased with his devotion; he was the + handsomest and most popular boy in the class. But, to-day, even Raymond + jarred on her. He kept talking, talking, and it was difficult for her + preoccupied mind to find the right answer in the right place. He was + talking about the celebrity who was to give the “Lyceum Course” lecture + that evening. The lecturer's name was Dobson. Oh uninspiring name!—Ridgeley + Holman Dobson. He was a celebrity because he'd done something-or-other + heroic in the Spanish war. Missy didn't know just what it was, not being + particularly interested in newspapers and current events, and remote + things that didn't matter. But Raymond evidently knew something about + Dobson aside from his being just prominent. + </p> + <p> + “I only hope he kisses old Miss Lightner!” he said, chortling. + </p> + <p> + “Kisses her?” repeated Missy, roused from her reveries. Why on earth + should a lecturer kiss anybody, above all Miss Lightner, who was an old + maid and not attractive despite local gossip about her being “man-crazy”? + “Why would he kiss Miss Lightner?” + </p> + <p> + Raymond looked at her in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Why, haven't you heard about him?” + </p> + <p> + Missy shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he's always in the papers! Everywhere he goes, women knock each + other down to kiss him! The papers are full of it—don't say you've + never heard of it!” + </p> + <p> + But Missy shook her head again, an expression of distaste on her face. A + man that let women knock each other down to kiss him! Missy had ideals + about kissing. She had never been kissed by any one but her immediate + relatives and some of her girl friends, but she had her dreams of kisses—kisses + such as the poets wrote about. Kissing was something fine, beautiful, + sacred! As sacred as getting married. But there was nothing sacred about + kissing whole bunches of people who knocked each other down—people + you didn't even know. Missy felt a surge of revulsion against this Dobson + who could so profane a holy thing. + </p> + <p> + “I think it's disgusting,” she said. + </p> + <p> + At the unexpected harshness of her tone Raymond glanced at her in some + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “And they call him a hero!” she went on scathingly. “Oh, I guess he's all + right,” replied Raymond, who was secretly much impressed by the dash of + Dobson. “It's just that women make fools of themselves over him.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean he makes a fool of himself! I think he's disgusting. I wouldn't + go to hear him speak for worlds!” + </p> + <p> + Raymond wisely changed the subject. And Missy soon enough forgot the + disgusting Dobson in the press of nearer trials. She must get at that + outline; she wanted to do it, and yet she shrank from beginning. As often + happens when the mind is restless, she had an acute desire to do something + with her hands. She wanted to go ahead with Marguerite's hat, but mother, + who had a headache and was cross, put her foot down. “Not another minute + of dawdling till you write that thesis!” she said, and she might as well + have been Gabriel—or whoever it is who trumpets on the day of doom. + </p> + <p> + So Missy once more took up tablet and pencil. But what's the use + commanding your mind, “Now, write!” Your mind can't write, can it?—till + it knows what it's going to write about. No matter how much the rest of + you wants to write. + </p> + <p> + At supper-time Missy had no appetite. Mother was too ill to be at the + table, but father noticed it. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't caught mamma's headache, have you?” he asked solicitously. + </p> + <p> + Missy shook her head; she wished she could tell father it was her soul + that ached. Perhaps father sensed something of this for, after glancing at + her two or three times, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Tell you what!—Suppose you go to the lecture with me to-night. + Mamma says she won't feel able. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't care a whit to hear the disgusting Dobson, but she felt the + reason for her reluctance mightn't be understood—might even arouse + hateful merriment, for Aunt Nettie was sitting there listening. So she + said evasively: + </p> + <p> + “I think mother wants me to work on my thesis.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can fix it with mother all right,” said father. + </p> + <p> + Missy started to demur further but, so listless was her spirit, she + decided it would be easier to go than to try getting out of it. She + wouldn't have to pay attention to the detestable Dobson; and she always + loved to go places with father. + </p> + <p> + And it was pleasant, after he had “fixed it” with mother, to walk along + the dusky streets with him, her arm tucked through his as if she were a + grown-up. Walking with him thus, not talking very much but feeling the + placidity and sense of safety that always came over her in father's + society, she almost forgot the offensive celebrity awaiting them in the + Opera House. + </p> + <p> + Afterward Missy often thought of her reluctance to go to that lecture, of + how narrowly she had missed seeing Dobson. The narrow margins of fate! + What if she hadn't gone! Oh, life is thrillingly uncertain and interwoven + and mysterious! + </p> + <p> + The Opera House was crowded. There were a lot of women there, the majority + of them staid Cherryvale matrons who were regular subscribers to the + Lyceum Course, but Missy, regarding them severely, wondered if they were + there hoping to get kissed. + </p> + <p> + Presently Mr. Siddons, who dealt in “Real Estate and Loans” and passed the + plate at the Presbyterian church, came out on the platform with another + man. Mr. Siddons was little and wiry and dark and not handsome; Missy + didn't much care for him as it is not possible to admire a man who looks + as if he ought to run up a tree and chatter and swing from a limb by a + tail; besides he was well known to be “stingy.” But his soul must be all + right, since he was a deacon; and he was a leading citizen, and generally + introduced speakers at the Lyceum Course. He began his familiar little + mincing preamble: “It gives me great pleasure to have the privilege of + introducing to you a citizen so distinguished and esteemed—” + </p> + <p> + Esteemed! + </p> + <p> + Then the other man walked forward and stood beside the little table with + the glass and pitcher of water on it. Missy felt constrained to cast a + look at the Honourable Ridgeley Holman Dobson. + </p> + <p> + Well, he was rather handsome, in a way—one had to admit that; he was + younger than you expect lecturers to be, and tall and slender, with + awfully goodlooking clothes, and had dark eyes and a noticeable smile—too + noticeable to be entirely sincere and spontaneous, Missy decided. + </p> + <p> + He began to speak, about something that didn't seem particularly + interesting to Missy; so she didn't pay much attention to what he was + saying, but just sat there listening to the pleasing flow of his voice and + noting the graceful sweep of his hands—she must remember that + effective gesture of the palm held outward and up. And she liked the way, + now and then, he threw his head back and paused and smiled. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she caught herself smiling, almost as if in response, and quickly + put on a sternly grave look. This woman-kissing siren!—or whatever + you call men that are like women sirens. Well, she, for one, wouldn't fall + for his charms! She wouldn't rush up and knock other women down to kiss + him! + </p> + <p> + She was flaunting her disapproval before her as a sort of banner when, + finally, the lecturer came to an end and the audience began their noisy + business of getting out of their seats. Missy glanced about, suspicious + yet alertly inquisitive. Would the women rush up and kiss him? Her eyes + rested on prim Mrs. Siddons, on silly Miss Lightner, on fat, motherly Mrs. + Allen, Kitty's mother. Poor Kitty, if her mother should so disgrace + herself!—Missy felt a moment's thankfulness that her own mother was + safely home in bed. + </p> + <p> + A lot of people were pushing forward up the aisle toward the lecturer; + some were already shaking hands with him—men as well as women. + </p> + <p> + Then Missy heard herself uttering an amazing, unpremeditated thing: + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to go up and shake hands with Mr. Dobson, father?” + </p> + <p> + The moment after, she was horrified at herself. Why had she said that? She + didn't want to shake hands with a repulsive siren! + </p> + <p> + But father was answering: + </p> + <p> + “What? You, too!” + </p> + <p> + Just what did he mean by that? And by that quizzical sort of smile? She + felt her cheeks growing hot, and wanted to look away. But, now, there was + nothing to do but carry it through in a casual kind of way. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, “I just thought, maybe, it might be interesting to shake + hands with such a celebrity.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said father. He was still smiling but, taking hold of her arm, he + began to elbow a slow progress toward the platform. + </p> + <p> + Just before they reached it, Missy felt a sudden panicky flutter in her + heart. She shrank back. + </p> + <p> + “You go first,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + So father went first and shook hands with Mr. Dobson. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “This is my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + Not able to lift her eyes, Missy held out her hand; she observed that Mr. + Dobson's was long and slender but had hair on the back of it—he + ought to do something about that; but even as she thought this, the hand + was enclosing hers in a clasp beautifully warm and strong; and a voice, + wonderfully deep and pleasant and vibrant, was heard saying: + </p> + <p> + “Your daughter?—you're a man to be envied, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Then Missy forced her eyes upward; Mr. Dobson's were waiting to meet them + squarely—bright dark eyes with a laugh in the back of them. And, + then, the queerest thing happened. As he looked at her, that half-veiled + laugh in his eyes seemed to take on a special quality, something personal + and intimate and kindred—as if saying: “You and I understand, don't + we?” + </p> + <p> + Missy's heart gave a swift, tumultuous dive and flight. + </p> + <p> + Then he let go her hand, and patiently turned his eyes to the next comer; + but not with the same expression—Missy was sure of that. She walked + on after her father in a kind of daze. The whole thing had taken scarcely + a second; but, oh! what can be encompassed in a second! + </p> + <p> + Missy was very silent during the homeward journey; she intensely wanted to + be silent. Once father said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, the man's certainly magnetic—but he seems a decent kind of + fellow. I suppose a lot has been exaggerated.” He chuckled. “But I'll bet + some of the Cherryvale ladies are a little disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that!” Missy felt a hot flame of indignation flare up inside her. “He + wouldn't act that way! anybody could tell. I think it's a crime to talk so + about him!” + </p> + <p> + Father gave another chuckle, very low; but Missy was too engrossed with + her resentment and with other vague, jumbled emotions to notice it. + </p> + <p> + That night she had difficulty in getting to sleep. And, for the first time + in weeks, visions of Commencement failed to waft her off to dreams. She + was hearing over and over, in a kind of lullaby, a deep, melodious voice: + “Your daughter?—you're a man to be envied, sir!”—was seeing a + pair of dark bright eyes, smiling into her own with a beam of kinship + ineffable. + </p> + <p> + Next day, at school, she must listen to an aftermath of gossipy surmise + anent the disappointing osculatory hero. At last she could stand it no + longer. + </p> + <p> + “I think it's horrid to talk that way! Anybody can see he's not that kind + of man!” + </p> + <p> + Raymond Bonner stared. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I thought you said he was disgusting!” + </p> + <p> + But Missy, giving him a withering look, turned and walked away, leaving + him to ponder the baffling contrarieties of the feminine sex. + </p> + <p> + A new form of listlessness now took hold of Missy. That afternoon she + didn't want to study, didn't want to go over to Kitty Allen's when her + friend telephoned, didn't even want to work on hats; this last was a + curious turn, indeed, and to a wise observer might have been significant. + She had only a desire to be alone, and was grateful for the excuse her + thesis provided her; though it must be admitted precious little was + inscribed, that bright May afternoon, on the patient tablet which kept + Missy company in the summerhouse. + </p> + <p> + At supper, while the talk pivoted inevitably round the departed Dobson, + she sat immersed in preoccupation so deep as to be conspicuous even in + Missy. Aunt Nettie, smiling, once started to make a comment but, unseen by + his dreaming daughter, was silenced by Mr. Merriam. And immediately after + the meal she'd eaten without seeing, the faithful tablet again in hand, + Missy wandered back to the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + It was simply heavenly out there now. The whole western sky clear to the + zenith was laid over with a solid colour of opaque saffron rose; and, + almost halfway up and a little to the left, in exactly the right place, of + deepest turquoise blue, rested one mountain of cloud; it was the shape of + Fujiyama, the sacred mount of Japan, which was pictured in Aunt Isabel's + book of Japanese prints. Missy wished she might see Japan—Mr. Dobson + had probably been there—lecturers usually were great travellers. + He'd probably been everywhere—led a thrilling sort of life—the + sort of life that makes one interesting. Oh, if only she could talk to him—just + once. She sighed. Why didn't interesting people like that ever come to + Cherryvale to live? Everybody in Cherryvale was so—so commonplace. + Like Bill Cummings, the red-haired bank teller, who thought a trip to St. + Louis an adventure to talk about for months! Or like old Mr. Siddons, or + Professor Sutton, or the clerks in Mr. Bonner's store. In Cherryvale there + was only this settled, humdrum kind of people. Of course there were the + boys; Raymond was nice—but you can't expect mere boys to be + interesting. She recalled that smiling, subtly intimate glance from Mr. + Dobson's eyes. Oh, if he would stay in Cherryvale just a week! If only + he'd come back just once! If only— + </p> + <p> + “Missy! The dew's falling! You'll catch your death of cold! Come in the + house at once!” + </p> + <p> + Bother! there was mother calling. But mothers must be obeyed, and Missy + had to trudge dutifully indoors—with a tablet still blank. + </p> + <p> + Next morning mother's warning about catching cold fulfilled itself. Missy + awoke with a head that felt as big as a washtub, painfully laborious + breath, and a wild impulse to sneeze every other minute. Mother, who was + an ardent advocate of “taking things in time,” ordered a holiday from + school and a footbath of hot mustard water. + </p> + <p> + “This all comes from your mooning out there in the summerhouse so late,” + she chided as, with one tentative finger, she made a final test of the + water for her daughter's feet. + </p> + <p> + She started to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother!” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Rather impatiently Mrs. Merriam turned in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind handing me my tablet and pencil?” + </p> + <p> + “What, there in the bath?” + </p> + <p> + “I just thought”—Missy paused to sneeze—“maybe I might get an + inspiration or something, and couldn't get out to write it down.” + </p> + <p> + “You're an absurd child.” But when she brought the tablet and pencil, Mrs. + Merriam lingered to pull the shawl round Missy's shoulders a little + closer; Missy always loved mother to do things like this it was at such + times she felt most keenly that her mother loved her. + </p> + <p> + Yet she was glad to be left alone. + </p> + <p> + For a time her eyes were on her bare, scarlet feet in the yellow mustard + water. But that unbeautiful colour combination did not disturb her. She + did not even see her feet. She was seeing a pair of bright dark eyes + smiling intimately into her own. Presently, with a dreamy, abstracted + smile, she opened the tablet, poised the pencil, and began to write. But + she was scarcely conscious of any of this, of directing her pencil even; + it was almost as if the pencil, miraculously, guided itself. And it wrote. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ready to take your feet out now, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + Missy raised her head impatiently. It was Aunt Nettie in the door. What + was she talking about—feet?—feet? How could Aunt Nettie? + </p> + <p> + ...... “Oh! go away, won't you, please?” she cried vehemently. + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you ever?” gasped Aunt Nettie. She stood in the doorway a + minute; then tiptoed away. But Missy was oblivious; the inspired pencil + was speeding back and forth again—“Then each craft passes on into + the unutterable darkness—” and the pencil, too, went on and on. + </p> + <p> + ...... + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of tiptoeing again at the door, of whispering; but the + author took no notice. Then someone entered, bearing a pitcher of hot + water; but the author gave no sign. Someone poured hot water into the + foot-tub; the author wriggled her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Too hot, dear?” said mother's voice. The author shook her head + abstractedly. Words were singing in her ears to drown all else. They + flowed through her whole being, down her arms, out through her hand and + pencil, wrote themselves immortally. Oh, this was Inspiration! Feeling at + last immeshed in tangibility, swimming out on a tide of words that rushed + along so fast pencil could hardly keep up with them. Oh, Inspiration! The + real thing! Divine, ecstatic, but fleeting; it must be caught at the + flood. + </p> + <p> + The pencil raced. + </p> + <p> + And sad, indeed, is that life which sails on its own way, wrapped in its + own gloom, giving out no signal and heeding none, hailing not its fellow + and heeding no hail. For the gloom will grow greater and greater; there + will be no sympathy to tide it over the rocks; no momentary gleams of love + to help it through its struggle; and the storms will rage fiercer and the + sails will hang lower until, at last, it will go down, alone and unwept, + never knowing the joy of living and never reaching the goal. + </p> + <p> + So let these ships, which have such a vast, such an unutterable influence, + use that influence for brightening the encompassing gloom. Let them not be + wrapped in their own selfishness or sorrow, but let their voice be filled + with hope and love. For, by so doing, the waters of Life will grow + smoother, and the signals will never flicker. + </p> + <p> + The inspired instrument lapsed from nerveless fingers; the author relaxed + in her chair and sighed a deep sigh. All of a sudden she felt tired, + tired; but it is a blessed weariness that comes after a divine frenzy has + had its way with you. + </p> + <p> + Almost at once mother was there, rubbing her feet with towels, hustling + her into bed. + </p> + <p> + “Now, you must keep covered up a while,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Missy was too happily listless to object. But, from under the hot + blankets, she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “You can read the Valedictory if you want to. It's all done.” + </p> + <p> + Commencement night arrived. Twenty-odd young, pulsing entities were + lifting and lilting to a brand-new, individual experience, each one of + them, doubtless, as firmly convinced as the class Valedictorian that he—or + she—was the unique centre round which buzzed this rushing, + bewitchingly upsetting occasion. + </p> + <p> + Yet everyone had to admit that the Valedictorian made a tremendous + impression: a slender girl in white standing alone on a lighted stage—only + one person in all that assemblage was conscious that it was the identical + spot where once stood the renowned Dobson—gazing with luminous eyes + out on the darkened auditorium. It was crowded out there but intensely + quiet, for all the people were listening to the girl up there illumined: + the lift and fall of her voice, the sentiments fine, noble, and inspiring. + They followed the slow grace of her arms and hands—it was, indeed, + as if she held them in the hollow of her hand. + </p> + <p> + She told all about the darkness our souls sail through under their sealed + orders, knowing neither course nor port—and, though you may be + calloused to these trite figures, are they not solemnly true enough, and + moving enough, if you take them to heart? And with that slim child alone + up there speaking these things so feelingly, it was easy for Cherryvale in + the hushed and darkened auditorium to feel with her... + </p> + <p> + Sometimes they pass oblivious of one another in the gloom; sometimes a + signal flashes from out the darkness; a signal which is understood as + though an intense ray pierced the enveloping pall and laid bare both + souls. That signal is the light from a pair of human eyes, which are the + windows of the soul, and by means of which alone soul can stand revealed + to soul... + </p> + <p> + The emotional impression of this was tremendous on all these dear Souls + who had sailed alongside of Missy since she was launched. + </p> + <p> + So let these ships, which have such a vast, such an unutterable influence, + use that influence for brightening the encompassing gloom... For, by so + doing, the waters of Life will grow smoother, and the signals will never + flicker. + </p> + <p> + She came to the last undulating cadence, the last vibrantly sustained + phrase; and then, as she paused and bowed, there was a moment of hush—and + then the applause began. Oh, what applause! And then, slowly, graciously, + modestly but with a certain queenly pride, the shining figure in white + turned and left the stage. + </p> + <p> + Here was a noble triumph, remembered for years even by the teachers. Down + in the audience father and mother and grandpa and grandma and all the + other relatives who, with suspiciously wet eyes, were assembled in the + “reserved section,” overheard such murmurs as: “And she's seventeen!—Where + do young folks get those ideas?”—and, “What an unusual gift of + phraseology!” And, after the programme, a reporter from the Cherryvale + Beacon came up to father and asked permission to quote certain passages + from the Valedictory in his “write-up.” That was the proudest moment of + Mr. Merriam's entire life. + </p> + <p> + Missy had time for only hurried congratulations from her family. For she + must rush off to the annual Alumni banquet. She was going with Raymond + Bonner who, now, was hovering about her more zealously than ever. She + would have preferred to share this triumphant hour with—with—well, + with someone older and more experienced and better able to understand. But + she liked Raymond; once, long ago—a whole year ago—she'd had + absurd dreams about him. Yet he was a nice boy; the nicest and most + sought-after boy in the class. She was not unhappy at going off with him. + </p> + <p> + Father and mother walked home alone, communing together in that + pride-tinged-with-sadness that must, at times, come to all parents. + </p> + <p> + Mother said: + </p> + <p> + “And to think I was so worried! That hat-making, and then that special + spell of idle mooning over something-or-nothing, nearly drove me frantic.” + </p> + <p> + Father smiled through the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose, after all,” mother mused on, surreptitiously wiping those + prideful eyes, “that there is something in Inspiration, and the dear child + just had to wait till she got it, and that she doesn't know any more than + we do where it came from.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I daresay she doesn't.” But sometimes father was more like a friend + than a parent, and that faint, unnoted stress was the only sign he ever + gave of what he knew about this Inspiration. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. MISSY CANS THE COSMOS + </h2> + <p> + As far back as Melissa Merriam could remember, she had lived with her + family in the roomy, rambling, white-painted house on Locust Avenue. She + knew intimately every detail of its being. She had, at various points in + her childhood, personally supervised the addition of the ell and of the + broad porch which ran round three sides of the house, the transformation + of an upstairs bedroom into a regular bathroom with all the pleasing + luxuries of modern plumbing, the installation of hardwood floors into the + “front” and “back” parlours. She knew every mousehole in the cellar, every + spider-web and cracked window-pane in the fascinating attic. And the yard + without she also knew well: the friendly big elm which, whenever the wind + blew, tapped soft leafy fingers against her own window; the slick green + curves of the lawn; the trees best loved by the birds; the morning-glories + on the porch which resembled fairy church bells ready for ringing, the + mignonette in the flower-beds like fragrant fairy plumes, and the other + flowers—all so clever at growing up into different shapes and + colours when you considered they all came from little hard brown seeds. + And she was familiar with the summerhouse back in the corner of the yard, + so ineffably delicious in rambler-time, but so bleakly sad in winter; and + the chicken-yard just beyond she knew, too—Missy loved that peculiar + air of placidity which pervades even the most clucky and cackly of + chicken-yards, and she loved the little downy chicks which were so adept + at picking out their own mothers amongst those hens that looked all alike. + When she was a little girl she used to wonder whether the mothers grieved + when their children grew up and got killed and eaten and, for one whole + summer, she wouldn't eat fried chicken though it was her favourite + delectable. + </p> + <p> + All of which means that Missy, during the seventeen years of her life, had + never found her homely environment dull or unpleasing. But, this summer, + she found herself longing, with a strange, secret but burning desire, for + something “different.” + </p> + <p> + The feeling had started that preceding May, about the time she made such + an impression at Commencement with her Valedictory entitled “Ships That + Pass in the Night.” The theme of this oration was the tremendous influence + that can trail after the chancest and briefest encounter of two strangers. + No one but herself (and her father, though Missy did not know it) + connected Missy's eloquent handling of this subject with the fleeting + appearance in Cherryvale of one Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Dobson had given a + “Lyceum Course” lecture in the Opera House, but Missy remembered him not + because of what he lectured about, nor because he was an outstanding hero + of the recent Spanish-American war, nor even because of the scandalous way + his women auditors, sometimes, rushed up and kissed him. No. She + remembered him because... Oh, well, it would have been hard to explain + concretely, even to herself; but that one second, when she was taking her + turn shaking hands with him after the lecture, there was something in his + dark bright eyes as they looked deeply into her own, something that made + her wish—made her wish— + </p> + <p> + It was all very vague, very indefinite. If only Cherryvale afforded a + chance to know people like Ridgeley Holman Dobson! Unprosaic people, + really interesting people. People who had travelled in far lands; who had + seen unusual sights, plumbed the world's possibilities, done heroic deeds, + laid hands on large affairs. + </p> + <p> + But what chance for this in poky Cherryvale? + </p> + <p> + This tranquil June morning, as Missy sat in the summerhouse with the + latest Ladies' Home Messenger in her lap, the dissatisfied feeling had got + deeper hold of her than usual. It was not acute discontent—the kind + that sticks into you like a sharp splinter; it was something more subtle; + a kind of dull hopelessness all over you. The feeling was not at all in + accord with the scene around her. For the sun was shining gloriously; + Locust Avenue lay wonderfully serene under the sunlight; the iceman's + horses were pulling their enormous wagon as if it were not heavy; the big, + perspiring iceman whistled as if those huge, dripping blocks were + featherweight; and, in like manner, everybody passing along the street + seemed contented and happy. Missy could remember the time when such a + morning as this, such a scene of peaceful beauty, would have made her feel + contented, too. + </p> + <p> + Now she sighed, and cast a furtive glance through the leafage toward the + house, a glance which reflected an inner uneasiness because she feared her + mother might discover she hadn't dusted the parlours; mother would accuse + her of “dawdling.” Sighing again for grown-ups who seldom understand, + Missy turned to the Messenger in her lap. + </p> + <p> + Here was a double-page of “Women Who Are Achieving”—the reason for + the periodical's presence in Missy's society. There was a half-tone of a + lady who had climbed a high peak in the Canadian Rockies; Missy didn't + much admire her unfeminine attire, yet it was something to get one's + picture printed—in any garb. Then there was a Southern woman who had + built up an industry manufacturing babies' shoes. This photograph, too, + Missy studied without enthusiasm: the shoemaker was undeniably middle-aged + and matronly in appearance; nor did the metier of her achievement appeal. + Making babies' shoes, somehow, savoured too much of darning stockings. + (Oh, bother! there was that basket of stockings mother had said positively + mustn't go another day.) + </p> + <p> + Missy's glance hurried to the next picture. It presented the only lady + Sheriff in the state of Colorado. Missy pondered. Politics—Ridgeley + Holman Dobson was interested in politics; his lecture had been about + something-or-other political—she wished, now, she'd paid more + attention to what he'd talked about. Politics, it seemed, was a promising + field in the broadening life of women. And they always had a Sheriff in + Cherryvale. Just what were a Sheriff's duties? And how old must one be to + become a Sheriff? This Colorado woman certainly didn't look young. She + wasn't pretty, either—her nose was too long and her lips too thin + and her hair too tight; perhaps lady Sheriffs had to look severe so as to + enforce the law. + </p> + <p> + Missy sighed once more. It would have been pleasant to feel she was + working in the same field with Ridgeley Holman Dobson. + </p> + <p> + Then, suddenly, she let her sigh die half-grown as her eye came to the + portrait of another woman who had achieved. No one could claim this one + wasn't attractive looking. She was young and she was beautiful, beautiful + in a peculiarly perfected and aristocratic way; her hair lay in + meticulously even waves, and her features looked as though they had been + chiselled, and a long ear-ring dangled from each tiny ear. Missy wasn't + surprised to read she was a noblewoman, her name was Lady Sylvia + Southwoode—what an adorable name! + </p> + <p> + The caption underneath the picture read: “Lady Sylvia Southwoode, Who + Readjusts—and Adorns—the Cosmos.” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't catch the full editorial intent, perhaps, in that grouping of + Lady Sylvia and the Cosmos; but she was pleased to come upon the word + Cosmos. It was one of her pet words. It had struck her ear and imagination + when she first encountered it, last spring, in Psychology IV-A. Cosmos—what + an infinity of meaning lay behind the two-syllabled sound! And the sound + of it, too, sung itself over in your mind, rhythmic and fascinating. There + was such a difference in words; some were but poor, bald things, neither + suggesting very much nor very beautiful to hear. Then there were words + which were beautiful to hear, which had a rich sound—words like + “mellifluous” and “brocade” and “Cleopatra.” But “Cosmos” was an + absolutely fascinating word—perfectly round, without beginning or + end. And it was the kind to delight in not only for its wealth, so to + speak, for all it held and hinted, but also for itself alone; it was a + word of sheer beauty. + </p> + <p> + She eagerly perused the paragraph which explained the manner in which Lady + Sylvia was readjusting—and adorning—the Cosmos. Lady Sylvia + made speeches in London's West End—wherever that was—and had a + lot to do with bettering the Housing Problem—whatever that was—and + was noted for the distinguished gatherings at her home. This alluring + creature was evidently in politics, too! + </p> + <p> + Missy's eyes went dreamily out over the yard, but they didn't see the + homely brick-edged flowerbeds nor the red lawn-swing nor the well-worn + hammock nor the white picket fence in her direct line of vision. They were + contemplating a slight girlish figure who was addressing a large audience, + somewhere, speaking with swift, telling phrases that called forth + continuous ripples of applause. It was all rather nebulous, save for the + dominant girlish figure, which bore a definite resemblance to Melissa + Merriam. + </p> + <p> + Then, with the sliding ease which obtains when fancy is the stage + director, the scene shifted. Vast, elaborately beautiful grounds rolled + majestically up to a large, ivy-draped house, which had turrets like a + castle—very picturesque. At the entrance was a flight of wide stone + steps, overlaid, now, with red carpet and canopied with a striped awning. + For the mistress was entertaining some of the nation's notables. In the + lofty hall and spacious rooms glided numberless men-servants in livery, + taking the wraps of the guests, passing refreshments, and so forth. The + guests were very distinguished-looking, all the men in dress suits and + appearing just as much at home in them as Ridgeley Holman Dobson had, that + night on the Opera House stage. Yes, and he was there, in Missy's vision, + handsomer than ever with his easy smile and graceful gestures and that + kind of intimate look in his dark eyes, as he lingered near the hostess + whom he seemed to admire. All the women were in low-cut evening dresses of + softly-tinted silk or satin, with their hair gleaming in sleek waves and + long ear-rings dangling down. The young hostess wore ear-rings, also; + deep-blue gems flashed out from them, to match her trailing deep blue + velvet gown—Raymond Bonnet had once said Missy should always wear + that special shade of deep blue. + </p> + <p> + Let us peep at the actual Missy as she sits there dreaming: she has + neutral-tinted brown hair, very soft and fine, which encircles her head in + two thick braids to meet at the back under a big black bow; that bow, + whether primly-set or tremulously-askew, is a fair barometer of the + wearer's mood. The hair is undeniably straight, a fact which has often + caused Missy moments of concern. (She used to envy Kitty Allen her + tangling, light-catching curls till Raymond Bonner chanced to remark he + considered curly hair “messy looking”; but Raymond's approval, for some + reason, doesn't seem to count for as much as it used to, and, anyway, he + is spending the summer in Michigan.) However, just below that too-demure + parting, the eyes are such as surely to give her no regret. Twin + morning-glories, we would call them-grey morning-glories!—opening + expectant and shining to the Sun which always shines on enchanted + seventeen. And, like other morning-glories, Missy's eyes are the shyest of + flowers, ready to droop sensitively at the first blight of + misunderstanding. That is the chiefest trouble of seventeen: so few are + there, especially among old people, who seem to “understand.” And that is + why one must often retire to the summerhouse or other solitary places + where one can without risk of ridicule let one's dreams out for air. + </p> + <p> + Presently she shook off her dreams and returned to the scarcely less + thrilling periodical which had evoked them. Here was another photograph—though + not nearly so alluring as that of the Lady Sylvia; a woman who had become + an authoritative expounder of political and national issues—politics + again! Missy proceeded to read, but her full interest wasn't deflected + till her eyes came to some thought-compelling words: + </p> + <p> + “It was while yet a girl in her teens, in a little Western town (“Oh!” + thought Missy), that Miss Carson mounted the first rung of the ladder she + has climbed to such enviable heights. She had just graduated from the + local high school (“Oh! oh!” thought Missy) and, already prodded by + ambition, persuaded the editor of the weekly paper to give her a job...” + </p> + <p> + Once again Missy's eyes wandered dreamily out over the yard... + </p> + <p> + Presently a voice was wafted out from the sideporch: + </p> + <p> + “Missy!—oh, Missy! Where are you?” + </p> + <p> + There was mother calling—bother! Missy picked up the Ladies' Home + Messenger and trudged back to bondage. + </p> + <p> + “What in the world do you mean, Missy? You could write your name all over + the parlour furniture for dust! And then those stockings—” + </p> + <p> + Missy dutifully set about her tasks. Yet, ah! it certainly is hard to dust + and darn while one's soul is seething within one, straining to fly out on + some really high enterprise of life. However one can, if one's soul + strains hard enough, dust and dream; darn and dream. Especially if one has + a helpful lilt, rhythmic to dust-cloth's stroke or needle's swing, + throbbing like a strain of music through one's head: + </p> + <p> + Cosmos—Cosmos!—Cosmos—Cosmos! + </p> + <p> + Missy was absent-eyed at the midday dinner, but no sooner was the meal + over before she feverishly attacked the darning-basket again. Her energy + may have been explained when, as soon as the stockings were done, she + asked her mother if she might go down to the Library. + </p> + <p> + Mother and Aunt Nettie from their rocking-chairs on the side-porch watched + the slim figure in its stiffly-starched white duck skirt and shirt-waist + disappear down shady Locust Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what Missy's up to, now?” observed Aunt Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “Up to?” murmured Mrs. Merriam. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She hardly touched her chop at dinner and she's crazy about lamb + chops. She's eaten almost nothing for days. And either shirking her work, + else going at it in a perfect frenzy!” + </p> + <p> + “Growing girls get that way sometimes,” commented Missy's mother gently. + (Could Missy have heard and interpreted that tone, she might have been + less hard on grown-ups who “don't understand.”) “Missy's seventeen, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” commented Aunt Nettie, as if to say, “What's THAT to do with it?” + Somehow it seems more difficult for spinsters than for mothers to remember + those swift, free flights of madness and sweetness which, like a troop of + birds in the measurable heavens, sweep in joyous circles across the sky of + youth. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Missy, the big ribbon index under her sailor-brim palpitantly + askew, was progressing down Locust Avenue with a measured, accented gait + that might have struck an observer as being peculiar. The fact was that + the refrain vibrating through her soul had found its way to her feet. + She'd hardly been conscious of it at first. She was just walking along, in + time to that inner song: + </p> + <p> + “Cosmos—cosmos—cosmos—cosmos—” + </p> + <p> + And then she noticed she was walking with even, regular steps, stepping on + every third crack in the board sidewalk, and that each of these cracks she + stepped on ran, like a long punctuation, right through the middle of + “cosmos.” So that she saw in her mind this picture: |Cos|mos| |cos|mos| + |cos|mos| |cos|mos| + </p> + <p> + It was fascinating, watching the third cracks punctuate her thoughts that + way. Then it came to her that it was a childish sort of game—she was + seventeen, now. So she avoided watching the cracks. But “Cosmos” went on + singing through her head and soul. + </p> + <p> + She came to Main Street and, ignoring the turn eastward which led to the + Public Library, faced deliberately in the opposite direction. + </p> + <p> + She was, in fact, bound for the office of the Beacon—the local + weekly. And thoughts of what tremendous possibilities might be stretching + out from this very hour, and of what she would say to Ed Martin, the + editor, made her feet now skim along impatiently, and now slow down with + sudden, self-conscious shyness. + </p> + <p> + For Missy, even when there was no steadily nearing imminence of having to + reveal her soul, on general principles was a little in awe of Ed Martin + and his genial ironies. Ed Martin was not only a local celebrity. His + articles were published in the big Eastern magazines. He went “back East” + once a year, and it was said that on one occasion he had dined with the + President himself. Of course that was only a rumour; but Cherryvale had + its own eyes for witness that certain persons had stopped off in town + expressly to see Ed Martin—personages whose names made you take + notice! + </p> + <p> + Missy, her feet terribly reluctant now, her soul's song barely a whisper, + found Ed Martin shirt-sleeved in his littered little sanctum at the back + of the Beacon office. + </p> + <p> + “Why, hello, Missy!” he greeted, swinging round leisurely in his + revolving-chair. Ed Martin was always so leisurely in his movements that + the marvel was how he got so much accomplished. Local dignitaries of the + most admired kind, perhaps, wear their distinction as a kind of toga; but + Ed was plump and short, with his scant, fair hair always rumpled, and a + manner as friendly as a child's. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't got another Valedictory for us to print, have you?” he went on + genially. + </p> + <p> + Missy blushed. “I just dropped in for a minute,” she began uneasily. “I + was just thinking—” She hesitated and paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Ed Martin encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “I was just thinking—that perhaps—” She clasped her hands + tightly together and fixed her shining eyes on him in mute appeal. Then: + </p> + <p> + “You see, Mr. Martin, sometimes it comes over you—” She broke off + again. + </p> + <p> + Ed Martin was regarding her out of friendly blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I can guess what sometimes comes over you. You want to write—is + that it?” + </p> + <p> + His kindly voice and manner emboldened her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—it's part that. And a feeling that—Oh, it's so hard to + put into words, Mr. Martin!” + </p> + <p> + “I know; feelings are often hard to put into words. But they're usually + the most worth while kind of feelings. And that's what words are for.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was just feeling that at my age—that I was letting my life + slip away—accomplishing nothing really worth while. You know—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we all feel like that sometimes, I guess.” Ed Martin nodded with + profound solemnity. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Ed Martin was wonderful! He DID understand things! She went ahead less + tremulously now. + </p> + <p> + “And I was feeling I wanted to get started at something. At something + REALLY worth while, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Ed Martin nodded again. + </p> + <p> + “And I thought, maybe, you could help me get started—or something.” + She gazed at him with open-eyed trust, as if she expected him with a word + to solve her undefined problem. + </p> + <p> + “Get started?—at writing, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Oh, how wonderfully Ed Martin understood! + </p> + <p> + He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Just what do you want to write, + Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, exactly. When I can, I'd like to write something sort of + political—or cosmic.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Ed Martin, nodding. He shuffled the papers some more. Then: + “Well, when that kind of a germ gets into the system, I guess the best + thing to do is to get it out before it causes mischief. If it coagulates + in the system, it can cause a lot of mischief.” + </p> + <p> + Just what did he mean? + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a devil of a lot of mischief,” he went on. “But the trouble is, + Missy, we haven't got any job on politics or—or the cosmos open just + now. But—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, gazing over her head. Missy felt her heart pause, too. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, anykind of a writing job,” she proffered quaveringly. + </p> + <p> + “I can't think of anything here that's not taken care of, except”—his + glance fell on the ornate-looking “society page” of the Macon City Sunday + Journal, spread out on his desk—“a society column.” + </p> + <p> + In her swift breath of ecstasy Missy forgot to note the twinkle in his + eye. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'd love to write society things!” Ed Martin sat regarding her with a + strange expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said at last, as if to himself, “why not?” Then, addressing her + directly: “You may consider yourself appointed official Society Editor of + the Cherryvale Beacon.” + </p> + <p> + The title rolled with surpassing resonance on enchanted ears. She barely + caught his next remark. + </p> + <p> + “And now about the matter of salary—” + </p> + <p> + Salary! Missy straightened up. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say to five dollars a week?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Five dollars a week!—Five dollars every week! And earned by herself! + Missy's eyes grew big as suns. + </p> + <p> + “Is that satisfactory?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, YES!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” he said, “I'll give you free rein. Just get your copy in by + Wednesday night—we go to press Thursdays—and I promise to read + every word of it myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said. + </p> + <p> + There were a thousand questions she'd have liked to ask, but Ed Martin, + smiling a queer kind of smile, had turned to his papers as if anxious to + get at them. No; she mustn't begin by bothering him with questions. He was + a busy man, and he'd put this new, big responsibility on HER—“a free + rein,” he had said. And she must live up to that trust; she must find her + own way—study up the problem of society editing, which, even if not + her ideal, yet was a wedge to who-knew-what? And meanwhile perhaps she + could set a new standard for society columns—brilliant and clever... + </p> + <p> + Missy left the Beacon office, suffused with emotions no pen, not even her + own, could ever have described. + </p> + <p> + Ed Martin, safely alone, allowed himself the luxury of an extensive grin. + Then, even while he smiled, his eyes sobered. + </p> + <p> + “Poor young one.” He sighed and shook his head, then took up the editorial + he was writing on the delinquencies of the local waterworks + administration. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Missy, moving slowly back up Main Street, was walking on + something much softer and springier than the board sidewalk under her + feet. + </p> + <p> + She didn't notice even the cracks, now. The acquaintances who passed her, + and the people sitting contentedly out on their shady porches, seemed in a + different world from the one she was traversing. + </p> + <p> + She had never known this kind of happiness before—exploring a dream + country which promised to become real. Now and then a tiny cloud shadowed + the radiance of her emotions: just how would she begin?—what should + she write about and how?—but swiftly her thoughts flitted back to + that soft, warm, undefined deliciousness... + </p> + <p> + Society Editor!—she, Melissa Merriam! Her words would be + immortalized in print! and she would soar up and up... Some day, in the + big magazines... Everybody would read her name there—all Cherryvale—and, + perhaps, Ridgeley Holman Dobson would chance a brilliant, authoritative + article on some deep, vital subject and wish to meet the author. + </p> + <p> + She might even have to go to New York to live—New York! And + associate with the interesting, delightful people there. Maybe he lived in + New York, or, anyway, visited there, associating with celebrities. + </p> + <p> + She wished her skirts were long enough to hold up gracefully like Polly + Currier walking over there across the street; she wished she had long, + dangling ear-rings; she wished... + </p> + <p> + Dreamy-eyed, the Society Editor of the Cherryvale Beacon turned in at the + Merriam gate to announce her estate to an amazed family circle. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Nettie, of course, ejaculated, “goodness gracious!” and laughed. But + mother was altogether sweet and satisfying. She looked a little startled + at first, but she came over and smoothed her daughter's hair while she + listened, and, for some reason, was unusually tender all the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + That evening at supper-time, Missy noticed that mother walked down the + block to meet father, and seemed to be talking earnestly with him on their + way toward the house. Missy hadn't much dreaded father's opposition. He + was an enormous, silent man and the young people stood in a certain awe of + him, but Missy, somehow, felt closer to him than to most old people. + </p> + <p> + When he came up the steps to the porch where she waited, blushing and + palpitant but withal feeling a sense of importance, he greeted her + jovially. “Well, I hear we've got a full-fledged writer in our midst!” + </p> + <p> + Missy's blush deepened. + </p> + <p> + “What <i>I</i> want to know,” father continued, “is who's going to darn my + socks? I'm afraid socks go to the dickens when genius flies in at the + window.” + </p> + <p> + As Missy smiled back at him she resolved, despite everything, to keep + father's socks in better order than ever before. + </p> + <p> + During supper the talk kept coming back to the theme of her Work, but in a + friendly, unscoffing way so that Missy knew her parents were really + pleased. Mother mentioned Mrs. Brooks's “bridge” Thursday afternoon—that + might make a good write-up. And father said he'd get her a leather-bound + notebook next day. And when, after supper, instead of joining them on the + porch, she brought tablet and pencil and a pile of books and placed them + on the dining-table, there were no embarrassing comments, and she was left + alone with her thrills and puzzlements. + </p> + <p> + Among the books were Stevenson's “Some Technical Considerations of Style,” + George Eliot's “Romola” and Carlyle's “Sartor Resartus”; the latter two + being of the kind that especially lifted you to a mood of aching to + express things beautifully. Missy liked books that lifted you up. She + loved the long-drawn introspections of George Eliot and Augusta J. Evans; + the tender whimsy of Barrie as she'd met him through “Margaret Ogilvie” + and “Sentimental Tommy”; the fascinating mysteries of Marie Corelli; the + colourful appeal of “To Have and To Hold” and the other “historical + romances” which were having a vogue in that era; and Kipling's India!—that + was almost best of all. She had outgrown most of her earlier loves—Miss + Alcott whom she'd once known intimately, and “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and + “The Birds' Christmas Carol” had survived, too, her brief illicit passion + for the exotic product of “The Duchess.” And she didn't respond keenly to + many of the “best sellers” which were then in their spectacular, + flamboyantly advertised heyday; somehow they failed to stimulate the mind, + stir the imagination, excite the emotions—didn't lift you up. Yet + she could find plenty of books in the Library which satisfied. + </p> + <p> + Now she sat, reading the introspections of “Romola” till she felt her own + soul stretching out—up and beyond the gas table-lamp glowing there + in such lovely serenity through its gold-glass shade; felt it aching to + express something, she knew not what. + </p> + <p> + Some day, perhaps, after she had written intellectual essays about + Politics and such things, she might write about Life. About Life itself! + And the Cosmos! + </p> + <p> + Her chin sank to rest upon her palm. How beautiful were those pink roses + in their leaf-green bowl—like a soft piece of music or a gently + flowing poem. Maybe Mrs. Brooks would have floral decorations at her + bridge-party. She hoped so—then she could write a really satisfying + kind of paragraph—flowers were always so inspiring. Those pink + petals were just about to fall. Yet, somehow, that made them seem all the + lovelier. She could almost write a poem about that idea! Would Mr. Martin + mind if, now and then, she worked in a little verse or two? It would make + Society reporting more interesting. For, she had to admit, Society Life in + Cherryvale wasn't thrilling. Just lawn-festivals and club meetings and + picnics at the Waterworks and occasional afternoon card-parties where the + older women wore their Sunday silks and exchanged recipes and household + gossip. If only there was something interesting—just a little dash + of “atmosphere.” If only they drank afternoon tea, or talked about Higher + Things, or smoked cigarettes, or wore long ear-rings! But, perhaps, some + day—in New York... + </p> + <p> + Missy's head drooped; she felt deliciously drowsy. Into the silence of her + dreams a cheerful voice intruded: + </p> + <p> + “Missy, dear, it's after ten o'clock and you're nodding! Oughtn't you go + up to bed?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, mother.” Obediently she took her dreams upstairs with her, and + into her little white bed. + </p> + <p> + Thursday afternoon, all shyness and importance strangely compounded, Missy + carried a note-book to Mrs. Brooks's card-party. It was agreeable to hear + Mrs. Brooks effusively explain: “Missy's working on the Beacon now, you + know”; and to feel two dozen pairs of eyes upon her as she sat writing + down the list of guests; and to be specially led out to view the + refreshment-table. There was a profusion of flowers, but as Mrs. Brooks + didn't have much “taste” Missy didn't catch the lilt of inspiration she + had hoped for. + </p> + <p> + However, after she had worked her “write-up” over several times, she + prefixed a paragraph on the decorations which she hoped would atone for + the drab prosiness of the rest. It ran: + </p> + <p> + “Through the softly-parted portieres which separate Mrs. J. Barton + Brooks's back-parlour from the dining room came a gracious emanation of + scent and colour. I stopped for a moment in the doorway, and saw, abloom + there before me, a magical maze of flowers. Flowers! Oh, multifold + fragrance and tints divine which so ineffably enrich our lives! Does + anyone know whence they come? Those fragile fairy creatures whose housetop + is the sky; wakened by golden dawn; for whom the silver moon sings + lullaby. Yes; sunlight it is, and blue sky and green earth, that endow + them with their mysterious beauty; these, and the haze of rain that + filters down when clouds rear their sullen heads. Sun and sky, and earth + and rain; they alone may know—know the secrets of these fairy-folk + who, from their slyly-opened petals, watch us at our hurrying business of + life... We, mere humans, can never know. With us it must suffice to + sweeten our hearts with the memory of fragrant flowers.” + </p> + <p> + She was proud of that opening paragraph. But Ed Martin blue-pencilled it. + </p> + <p> + “Short of space this week,” he said. “Either the flowers must go or 'those + present.' It's always best to print names.” “Is the rest of it all right?” + asked Missy, crest-fallen. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” returned Ed, with whom everything had gone wrong that day and who + was too hurried to remember the fluttering pinions of Youth, “I guess it's + printable, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + It was “printable,” and it did come out in print—that was something! + For months the printed account of Mrs. Brooks's “bridge” was treasured in + the Merriam archives, to be brought out and passed among admiring + relatives. Yes, that was something! But, as habitude does inevitably bring + a certain staleness, so, as the pile of little clipped reports grew bigger + Missy's first prideful swell in them grew less. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it would have been different had not the items always been, + perforce, so much the same. + </p> + <p> + There was so little chance to be “original”—one must use the same + little forms and phrases over and over again: “A large gathering assembled + on Monday night at the home of—” “Mrs. So-and-so, who has been here + visiting Mrs. What's-her-name, has returned—” One must crowd as much + as possible into as little space as possible. That was hard on Missy, who + loved words and what words could do. She wasn't allowed much latitude with + words even for “functions.” “Function” itself had turned out to be one of + her most useful words since it got by Ed Martin and, at the same time, + lent the reported affair a certain distinguished air. + </p> + <p> + It was at a function—an ice-cream festival given by the Presbyterian + ladies on Mrs. Paul Bonner's lawn—that Missy met Archie Briggs. + </p> + <p> + She had experienced a curious, vague stir of emotions about going to the + Bonner home that evening; it was the first time she'd ever gone there when + Raymond Bonner wasn't present. Raymond was the handsomest and most popular + boy in her “crowd,” and she used to be secretly pleased when he openly + admired her more than he did the other girls—indeed, there had been + certain almost sentimental passages between Raymond and Missy. Of course + all that happened before her horizon had “broadened”—before she + encountered a truly distinguished person like Ridgeley Holman Dobson. + </p> + <p> + Yet memories can linger to disturb, and Missy was accompanied by memories + that moonlit Wednesday evening when, in her “best” dress of pale pink + organdie, she carried her note-book to the Bonners' to report the + lawn-festival. + </p> + <p> + She had hesitated over the pink organdie; not many of the “crowd” were + going, and it was to be for her a professional rather than a social + occasion. Perhaps it was sentiment that carried the day. Anyway, she was + soon to be glad she'd worn the pink organdie. + </p> + <p> + Before she had a chance to get in any professional work, Mrs. Bonner bore + down on her with a tall young man, a stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Missy! I want you to meet Raymond's cousin, Archie Briggs. Archie, + this is one of Raymond's friends, Miss Merriam.” Missy was grateful for + that “Miss Merriam.” + </p> + <p> + “Pleased to meet you, Miss Merriam,” said Mr. Briggs. He was dark and not + very good-looking—not nearly so good-looking as Raymond—but + there was something in his easy, self-assured manner that struck her as + very distingue. She was impressed, too, by the negligent way in which he + wore his clothes; not nearly so “dressed-up” looking as the Cherryvale + boys, yet in some subtle way declassing them. She was pleased that he + seemed to be pleased with her; he asked her to “imbibe” some ice-cream + with him. + </p> + <p> + They sat at one of the little tables out on the edge of the crowd. From + there the coloured paper lanterns, swaying on the porch and strung like + fantastic necklaces across the lawn, were visible yet not too near; far + enough away to make it all look like an unreal, colourful picture. And, + above all, a round orange moon climbing up the sky, covering the scene + with light as with golden water, and sending black shadows to crawl behind + bushes and trees. + </p> + <p> + It was all very beautiful; and Mr. Briggs, though he didn't speak of the + scene at all, made a peculiarly delightful companion for that setting. He + was “interesting.” + </p> + <p> + He talked easily and in a way that put her at her ease. She learned that + he and his sister, Louise, had stopped off in Cherryvale for a few days; + they were on their way back to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, from a trip to + California. Had Miss Merriam ever been in California? No; she'd never been + in California. Missy hated to make the admission; but Mr. Briggs seemed + the kind of youth not to hold it against a pretty girl to give him a + chance to exploit his travels. She was a flattering listener. And when, + after California had been disposed of, he made a wide sweep to “the East,” + where, it developed, he attended college—had Miss Merriam ever been + back East? + </p> + <p> + No; she'd never been back East. And then, with a big-eyed and + appreciatively murmuring auditor, he dilated on the supreme qualities of + that foreign spot, on the exotic delights of football and regattas and + trips down to New York for the “shows.” Yes, he was “interesting”! + Listening, Missy forgot even Mr. Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Here was one who + had travelled far, who had seen the world, who had drunk deep of life, and + who, furthermore, was near to her own age. And, other things being equal, + nothing can call as youth calls youth. She wasn't conscious, at the time, + that her idol was in danger of being replaced, that she was approaching + something akin to faithlessness; but something came about soon which + brought her a vague disturbance. + </p> + <p> + Missy, who had all but forgotten that she was here for a serious purpose, + suddenly explained she had to get her “copy” into the office by ten + o'clock; for the paper went to press next morning. + </p> + <p> + “I must go now and see some of the ladies,” she said reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, if you'd rather talk to the ladies—” responded Mr. + Briggs, banteringly. “Oh, it's not that!” She felt a sense of + satisfaction, in her own importance as she went on to explain: + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask details and figures and so forth for my report in the paper—I'm + society editor of the Beacon, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Society editor!—you? For Pete's sake!” + </p> + <p> + At first Missy took his tone to denote surprised admiration, and her + little thrill of pride intensified. + </p> + <p> + But he went on: + </p> + <p> + “What on earth are you wasting time on things like that for?” + </p> + <p> + “Wasting time—?” she repeated. Her voice wavered a little. + </p> + <p> + “I'd never have suspected you of being a highbrow,” Mr. Briggs continued. + </p> + <p> + Missy felt a surge akin to indignation—he didn't seem to appreciate + her importance, after all. But resentment swiftly gave way to a kind of + alarm: why didn't he appreciate it? + </p> + <p> + “Don't you like highbrows?” she asked, trying to smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I suppose they're all right in their place,” said Mr. Briggs lightly. + “But I never dreamed you were a highbrow.” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible not to gather that this poised young man of the world + esteemed her more highly in his first conception of her. Impelled by the + eternal feminine instinct to catch at possibly flattering personalities, + Missy asked: + </p> + <p> + “What did you think I was?” “Well,” replied Mr. Briggs, smiling, “I + thought you were a mighty pretty girl—the prettiest I've seen in + this town.” (Missy couldn't hold down a fluttering thrill, even though she + felt a premonition that certain lofty ideals were about to be assailed.) + </p> + <p> + “The kind of girl who likes to dance and play tennis and be a good sport, + and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “But can't a—” Missy blushed; she'd almost said, “a pretty girl.” + “Can't that kind of girl be—intellectual, too?” + </p> + <p> + “The saints forbid!” ejaculated Mr. Briggs with fervour. + </p> + <p> + “But don't you think that everyone ought to try—to enlarge one's + field of vision?” + </p> + <p> + At that Mr. Briggs threw back his head and laughed a laugh of unrestrained + delight. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's too funny!” he chortled. “That line of talk coming from a girl + who looks like you do!” + </p> + <p> + Even at that disturbed moment, when she was hearing sacrilege aimed at her + most cherished ideals—perilously swaying ideals, had she but + realized it—Missy caught the pleasing significance of his last + phrase, and blushed again. Still she tried to stand up for those + imperilled ideals, forcing herself to ask: + </p> + <p> + “But surely you admire women who achieve—women like George Eliot and + Frances Hodgson Burnett and all those?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd hate to have to take one of them to a dance,” said Mr. Briggs. + </p> + <p> + Missy turned thoughtful; there were sides to “achievement” she hadn't + taken into consideration. “Speaking of dances,” Mr. Briggs was continuing, + “my aunt's going to give Louise and me a party before we go—maybe + Saturday night.” + </p> + <p> + A party! Missy felt a thrill that wasn't professional. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Briggs leaned closer, across the little table. “If you're not already + booked up,” he said, “may I call for you Saturday night?” + </p> + <p> + Missy was still disturbed by some of the things Mr. Briggs had said. But + it was certainly pleasant to have a visiting young man—a young man + who lived in Keokuk and travelled in California and attended college in + the East—choose her for his partner at his own party. + </p> + <p> + Later that night at the Beacon office, after she had turned in her report + of the Presbyterian ladies' fete, she lingered at her desk. She was in the + throes of artistic production: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk is visiting Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner.” + </p> + <p> + That was too bald; not rich enough. She tried again: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk, Iowa, is visiting at the residence of Mr. + and Mrs. Paul Bonner on Maple Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + Even that didn't lift itself up enough out of the ordinary. Missy puckered + her brows; a moist lock fell down and straggled across her forehead. With + interlineations, she enlarged: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Archibald Briggs, who has been travelling in California and the Far + West, on his way to his home in Keokuk, Iowa, is visiting at the residence + of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner in Maple Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + An anxious scrutiny; and then “on his way” was amended to “en route.” + </p> + <p> + That would almost do. And then, as she regarded the finished item, a + curious feeling crept over her: a sort of reluctance, distaste for having + it printed—printing it herself, as it were. That seemed, somehow, + too—too public. And then, as she sat in a maze of strange emotions, + a sudden thought came to the rescue: + </p> + <p> + His sister—Louise! She'd forgotten to include Louise! How terrible + if she'd left out his sister! And adding the second name would remove the + personal note. She quickly interlined again, and the item stood complete: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Archibald Briggs and Miss Louise Briggs, who have been travelling in + California and the Far West, en route to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, are + visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner in Maple Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + As her father entered the office to take her home, Missy gave a deep sigh, + a sigh of mingled satisfaction and exhaustion such as seals a difficult + task well done. + </p> + <p> + Late as it was when she reached home, Missy lingered long before her + mirror. With the aid of a hand-glass she critically studied her pink + organdie from every angle. She wished she had a new dress; a delicate + wispy affair of cream net—the colour of moonlight—would be + lovely and aristocratic-looking. And with some subtle but distinguished + colour combination, like dull blue and lilac, for the girdle. That would + be heavenly. But one can't have a new dress for every party. Missy sighed, + and tilted back the dresser mirror so as to catch the swing of skirt about + her shoe-tops. She wished the skirt was long and trailing; there was a + cluster of tucks above the hem—maybe mother would allow her to let + one out; she'd ask to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Then she tilted the mirror back to its normal position; maybe mother would + allow her to turn in the neck just a wee bit lower—like this. That + glimpse of throat would be pretty, especially with some kind of necklace. + She got out her string of coral. No. The jagged shape of coral was + effective and the colour was effective, but it didn't “go” with pale pink. + She held up her string of pearl beads. That was better. But ah! if only + she had some long pearl pendants, to dangle down from each ear; she knew + just how to arrange her hair—something like Lady Sylvia Southwoode's—so + as to set them off. + </p> + <p> + She was engaged in parting her hair in the centre and rolling it back in + simple but aristocratic-looking “puffs” on either side—she did look + the least bit like Lady Sylvia!—when she heard her mother's voice + calling: + </p> + <p> + “Missy! haven't you gone to bed yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No, mother,” she answered meekly, laying down the brush very quietly. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth are you doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—I'm going to bed right now,” she answered, more meekly yet. + “You'd better,” came the unseen voice. “You've got to get up early if + you're going to the picnic.” + </p> + <p> + The picnic—oh, bother! Missy had forgotten the picnic. If it had + been a picnic of her own “crowd” she would not have forgotten it, but she + was attending this function because of duty instead of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + And it isn't especially interesting to tag along with a lot of children + and their Sunday-school teachers. + </p> + <p> + She wondered if, maybe, she could manage to get her “report” without + actually going. + </p> + <p> + But she'd already forgotten the picnic by the time she crept into her + little bed, across which the moon, through the window, spread a shining + breadth of silver. She looked at the strip of moonlight drowsily—how + beautiful moonlight was! And when it gleamed down on dewy grass... + everything outdoors white and magical... and dancing on the porch... he + must be a wonderful dancer—those college boys always were... + music... the scent of flowers.. . “the prettiest girl I've seen in this + town”... + </p> + <p> + Yes; the bothersome picnic was forgotten; and the Beacon, alluring + stepping-stone to achievements untold; yes, even Ridgeley Holman Dobson + himself. + </p> + <p> + The moon, moving its gleaming way slowly up the coverlet, touched tenderly + the face of the sleeper, kissed the lips curved into a soft, dreaming + smile. Missy went to the picnic next day, for her mother was unsympathetic + toward the suggestion of contriving a “report.” “Now, Missy, don't begin + that again! You're always starting out to ride some enthusiasm hard, and + then letting it die down. You must learn to see things through. Now, go + and get your lunch ready.” + </p> + <p> + Missy meekly obeyed. It wasn't the first time she'd been rebuked for her + unstable temperament. She was meek and abashed; yet it is not + uninteresting to know one possesses an unstable temperament which must be + looked after lest it prove dangerous. The picnic was as dull as she had + feared it would be. She usually liked children but, that day, the children + at first were too riotously happy and then, as they tired themselves out, + got cross and peevish. Especially the Smith children. One of the teachers + said the oldest little Smith girl seemed to have fever; she was sick—as + if that excused her acting like a little imp! She ought to have been kept + at home—the whole possessed Smith tribe ought to have been kept at + home! + </p> + <p> + Missy wished she herself were at home. She'd probably missed a telephone + call from Mr. Briggs—he had said he might call up. She could hardly + wait to reach home and find out. + </p> + <p> + Yes; he had telephoned. Also Mrs. Bonner, inviting Missy to a party on + Saturday night. Missy brightened. She broached the subject of letting out + a tuck. But mother said the pink organdie was long enough—too long, + really. And Aunt Nettie chimed in: + </p> + <p> + “Why is it that girls can never get old quickly enough? The time'll come + soon enough when they'll wish they could wear short dresses again!” Missy + listened with inner rebellion. Why did old people always talk that way—that + “you-don't-appreciate-you're-having-the-best-time-of-your life” sort of + thing? + </p> + <p> + Next day was Friday—the day before the party. + </p> + <p> + It was also “cleaning day” at the Merriams' and, though Missy felt + lassitudinous and headachy, she put extra vim into her share of the work; + for she wished to coax from mother a new sash, at least. + </p> + <p> + But when Saturday came she didn't mention the sash; her headache had + increased to such a persistent throbbing she didn't feel like going down + to look over the Bonner Mercantile Co.'s stock of ribbons. She was having + trouble enough concealing her physical distress. At dinner mother had + noticed that she ate almost nothing; and at supper she said: + </p> + <p> + “Don't you feel well, Missy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I feel all right—fine!” replied Missy, trying to assume a + sprightly air. + </p> + <p> + “You look flushed to me. And sort of heavy around the eyes—don't you + think so, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “She does look sort of peaked,” affirmed Mr. Merriam. + </p> + <p> + “She's been dragging around all day,” went on the mother. Missy tried + harder than ever to “perk up”—if they found out about the headache, + like as not they'd put a taboo on the party—grown-ups were so + unreasonable. Parties were good for headaches. + </p> + <p> + “I heard over at Mrs. Allen's this afternoon,” Aunt Nettie put in, “that + there's measles in town. All the Smith children are down with it.” Missy + recalled the oldest little Smith girl, with the fever, at the picnic, but + said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if Missy could have run into it anywhere,” said mother + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Me?” ejaculated the Society Editor, disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “Children have measles!” + </p> + <p> + “Children! Listen to her!” jeered Aunt Nettie with delight. + </p> + <p> + “I've had the measles,” Missy went on. “And anyway I feel fine!” So + saying, she set to to make herself eat the last mouthful of the blackberry + cobbler she didn't want. + </p> + <p> + It was hard to concentrate on her toilette with the fastidious care she + would have liked. Her arms were so heavy she could scarcely lift them to + her head, and her head itself seemed to have jagged weights rolling inside + at her slightest movement. She didn't feel up to experimenting with the + new coiffure d'la Lady Sylvia Southwoode; even the exertion of putting up + her hair the usual way made her uncomfortably conscious of the blackberry + cobbler. She wasn't yet dressed when Mr. Briggs called for her. Mother + came in to help. + </p> + <p> + “Sure you feel all right?” she enquired solicitously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—fine!” said Missy. + </p> + <p> + She was glad, on the rather long walk to the Bonners', that Mr. Briggs was + so easy to talk to—which meant that Mr. Briggs did most of the + talking. Even at that it was hard to concentrate on his conversation + sufficiently to make the right answers in the occasional lulls. + </p> + <p> + And things grew harder, much harder, during the first dance. The guests + danced through the big double parlours and out the side door on to the + big, deep porch. It was inspiringly beautiful out there on the porch: the + sweet odour of honeysuckle and wistaria and “mock orange” all commingled; + and the lights shining yellow out of the windows, and the paler, + glistening light of the moon spreading its fairy whiteness everywhere. It + was inspiringly beautiful; and the music was divine—Charley Kelley's + orchestra was playing; and Mr. Briggs was a wonderful dancer. But Missy + couldn't forget the oppressive heat, or the stabbing weights in her head, + or, worse yet, that blackberry cobbler. + </p> + <p> + As Mr. Briggs was clapping for a second encore, she said tremulously: + </p> + <p> + “Will you excuse me a minute?—I must run upstairs—I forgot my + handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me get it for you,” offered Mr. Briggs gallantly. + </p> + <p> + “No! oh, no!” Her tone was excited and, almost frantically, she turned and + ran into the house and up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Up there, in the bedroom which was temporarily the “ladies' cloak-room, + prostrate on the bed, Mrs. Bonner found her later. Missy protested she was + now feeling better, though she thought she'd just lie quiet awhile. She + insisted that Mrs. Bonner make no fuss and go back down to her guests. + Mrs. Bonner, after bringing a damp towel and some smelling-salts, left + her. But presently Missy heard the sound of tip-toeing steps, and lifted a + corner of the towel from off her eyes. There stood Mr. Briggs. + </p> + <p> + “Say, this is too bad!” he commiserated. “How's the head?” + </p> + <p> + “It's better,” smiled Missy wanly. It wasn't better, in fact, but a + headache isn't without its advantages when it makes a young man forsake + dancing to be solicitous. + </p> + <p> + “Sure it's better?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” replied Missy, her smile growing a shade more wan. + </p> + <p> + “Because if it isn't—” Mr. Briggs began to rub his palms together + briskly—“I've got electricity in my hands, you know. Maybe I could + rub it away.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Missy. + </p> + <p> + Her breathing quickened. The thought of his rubbing her headache away, his + hands against her brow, was alarming yet exhilarating. She glanced up as + she felt him removing the towel from her head, then quickly down again. + She felt, even though her face was already fiery hot, that she was + blushing. She was embarrassed, her head was racking, but on the whole she + didn't dislike the situation. Mr. Briggs unlinked his cuffs, turned back + his sleeves, laid his palms on her burning brow, and began a slow, + pressing movement outward, in both directions, toward her temples. + </p> + <p> + “That feel good?” he asked. “Yes,” murmured Missy. She could scarcely + voice the word; for, in fact, the pressure of his hands seemed to send + those horrible weights joggling worse than ever, seemed to intensify the + uneasiness in her throat—though she wouldn't for worlds let Mr. + Briggs think her unappreciative of his kindness. + </p> + <p> + The too-kind hands stroked maddeningly on. + </p> + <p> + “Feel better now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she gasped. + </p> + <p> + Things, suddenly, seemed going black. If he'd only stop a minute! Wouldn't + he ever stop? How could she make him stop? What could she do? + </p> + <p> + The whole world, just then, seemed to be composed of the increasing tumult + in her throat, the piercing conflict in her head, and those maddening + strokes—strokes—strokes—strokes. How long could she + stand it? + </p> + <p> + Presently, after eons it seemed, she desperately evoked a small, jerky + voice. + </p> + <p> + “I think—it must—be getting worse. Thanks, but—Oh, won't + you—please—go away?” + </p> + <p> + She didn't open her eyes to see whether Mr. Briggs looked hurt, didn't + open them to see him leave the room. She was past caring, now, whether he + was hurt or not. She thought she must be dying. And she thought she must + be dying, later, while Mrs. Bonner, aided by a fluttering, murmuring + Louise, attended her with sympathetic ministrations; and again while she + was being taken home by Mr. Bonner in the Bonner surrey—she had + never dreamed a surrey could bump and lurch and jostle so. But people + seldom die of measles; and that was what young Doc Alison, next morning, + diagnosed her malady. It seemed that there is more than one kind of + measles and that one can go on having one variety after another, ad + nauseam, so to speak. + </p> + <p> + “The case is well developed—you should have called me yesterday,” + said young Doc rebukingly. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you were sick yesterday!” chided mother. “And to think I let you + go to that party!” + </p> + <p> + “Party?” queried young Doc. “What party?—when?” + </p> + <p> + Then he heard about the function at the Bonners', and Missy's debute. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he commented, “I'll bet there'll be a fine little aftermath of + measles among the young folks of this town.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor's prophecy was to fulfill itself. On her sick-bed Missy heard + the reports of this one and that one who, in turn, were “taken down.” + </p> + <p> + For the others she was sorry, but when she learned Mr. Archibald Briggs + had succumbed, she experienced poignant emotions. Her emotions were + mingled: regret that she had so poorly repaid a deed of gallant service + but, withal, a regret tempered by the thought they were now suffering + together—he ill over there in Raymond Bonner's room, she over here + in hers—enduring the same kind of pain, taking the same kind of + medicine, eating the same uninteresting food. Yes, it was a bond. It even, + at the time, seemed a romantic kind of bond. + </p> + <p> + Then, when days of convalescence arrived, she wrote a condoling note to + the two patients at the Bonnets'—for Louise had duly “taken down,” + also; and then, as her convalescence had a few days' priority over theirs, + she was able to go over and visit them in person. + </p> + <p> + Friendships grow rapidly when people have just gone through the same + sickness; people have so much in common to talk about, get to know one + another so much more intimately—the real essence of one another. For + instance Missy within a few days learned that Louise Briggs was an + uncommonly nice, sweet, “cultured” girl. She enlarged on this point when + she asked her mother to let her accept Louise's invitation to visit in + Keokuk. + </p> + <p> + “She's the most refined girl I've ever met, mother—if you know what + I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—?” said mother, as if inviting more. + </p> + <p> + “She's going to a boarding-school in Washington, D. C., this winter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—?” said mother again. + </p> + <p> + “And she's travelled a lot, but not a bit uppish. I think that kind of + girl is a good influence to have, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + Mother, concentrated on an intricate place in her drawn-Yu-ork, didn't at + once answer. Missy gazed at her eagerly. At last mother looked up. + </p> + <p> + “But what about your work on the Beacon?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I've thought about that,” Missy returned glibly. “And I really think + a trip of this kind would do me more good than just hanging round a poky + newspaper office. Travel, and a different sphere—Keokuk's a big + town, and there seems to be a lot going on there. It's really a good + chance to enlarge my field of vision—to broaden my horizon—don't + you see, mother?” + </p> + <p> + Mother bent her head lower over her work. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure the thought of parties and a lot going on and—” mother + paused a second—“and Archie has nothing to do with it, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Missy didn't mind the teasing hint about Archie when mother said “dear” in + that tone. It meant that mother was weakening. + </p> + <p> + Nor did thoughts of the abandoned Cosmos trouble her very much during the + blissfully tumultuous days of refurbishing her wardrobe and packing her + trunk. Nor when she wrote a last society item for Ed Martin to put in the + Beacon: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Melissa Merriam of Locust Avenue has gone for a two weeks' visit at + the home of Miss Louise Briggs in Keokuk, Iowa.”' + </p> + <p> + The little item held much in its few words. It was a swan-song. + </p> + <p> + As Ed Martin inelegantly put it, in speaking later with her father, Missy + had “canned the Cosmos.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Missy, by Dana Gatlin + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISSY *** + +***** This file should be named 3491-h.htm or 3491-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/9/3491/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, Ralph Zimmermann, the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team, and David Widger + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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