Books: Missy

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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!

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.

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.

She bestowed an openly withering look on the desecrators.

"She dared me to," whispered Arthur--the excuse of the original
Adam.

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.

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.

"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:

"You put me in a rather awkward position, Arthur. You know Reverend
MacGill entrusted me to--"

"Oh, come out of it!" interrupted Arthur, grinning.

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!

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.

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.

But presently father spoke.

"He's very eloquent, isn't he?"

"He?--who?" She struggled to get her thoughts back home.

Her father peered at her through the feathery gloom.

"Why, the preacher--Reverend MacGill."

"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.

Another pause. Again it was father who spoke first.

"Who was the boy who threw the paper-wad?"

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!

"Threw the paper-wad?" she asked back evasively.

"Yes, the red-headed boy. Wasn't it that Summers fellow?"

That Summers fellow!--Arthur's reputation was already gone!

"Wasn't it?" persisted father.

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:

"Yes, it was Arthur--but it wasn't his fault, exactly."

"Not HIS fault? Whose in thunder was it?"

Missy hesitated. She didn't like talking scandal of anyone directly-
-and, besides, there were likeable traits in Genevieve despite her
obvious failings.

"Well," she said, "it's just that Arthur is under a kind of wrong
influence--if you know what I mean."

"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:

"Just what kind of influence is undermining this Arthur fellow?"

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.

"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."

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?"

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.

But father ruthlessly squashed her hopes with two fell sentences and
one terrifying oath.

"I should say not! You say he's dissipated and then in the same
breath ask me--for God's sake!"

"Well, maybe, he isn't so dissipated, father," she began
quaveringly, regretting the indiscretion into which eloquence had
enticed her.

"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!"

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.

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?

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.

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.

She found herself, half-pondering, half-praying:

"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?"

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.

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.

"I didn't want her to go to church in the first place," mother
lamented.

"Well, she won't go any more," said father darkly. Missy's heart
sank; she looked at him with mutely pleading eyes.

"And you needn't look at me like that," he added firmly. "It won't
do you the least good."

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.

"I think you'd better stay home from school today," he continued,
"it's still pretty blustery."

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.

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.

"Well," he bantered, "did you pray for my sins last night?"

"You shouldn't make fun of things like that," she said rebukingly.

Arthur chortled.

"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?"

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.

"Say, that's too bad. I was thinking, maybe--"

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.

"I'm not going to church, but--"

She paused, thinking hard. Arthur waited.

An inspiration came to her. "Anyway, I have to go to the library to-
night. I've got some history references to look up."

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!

"About what time will you be through at the Library?" asked Arthur,
still casual.

"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.

"Well, maybe I'll be dropping along that way about that time,"
opined Arthur. "Maybe I'll see you there."

"That would be nice," said Missy, tingling.

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.

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.

The result was that, after supper, at which mother had appeared,
pale and heavy-eyed, Missy said tentatively:

"Can I run up to Kitty's a little while to See what the lessons are
for to-morrow?"

"I don't think you'd better, dear," mother replied listlessly. "It
wouldn't be wise, with that throat."

"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.

"Very well, then," agreed mother.

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.

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?

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."

Arthur, quite at ease, took her arm to help her down the slippery
steps.

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.

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.

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.

That was her opening.

"You shouldn't be so worldly, Arthur," she said in a voice of gentle
reproof.

"Worldly?" in some surprise.

She nodded seriously over her serviceable, unworldly brown
collarette.

"How am I worldly?" he pursued, in a tone of one not entirely
unpleased.

"Why--throwing wads in church--lack of respect for religious things-
-and things like that."

"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.

"It was a profane kind of thing," she said, sadly. "Don't you see,
Arthur?"

"If I'm such a sinner, I don't see why you have anything to do with
me."

It stirred her profoundly that he didn't laugh, scoff at her; she
had feared he might. She answered, very gravely:

"It's because I like you. You don't think it's a pleasure to me to
find fault with you, do you Arthur?"

"Then why find fault?" he asked good-naturedly.

"But if the faults are THERE?" she persevered.

"Let's forget about 'em, then," he answered with cheerful logic. "
Everybody can't be good like YOU, you know."

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.

There was a little pause.

"I don't s'pose you'll be going to the Library again to-morrow
night?" suggested Arthur presently.

"Why, I don't know--why?" But she knew "why," and her knowledge gave
her a tingle.

"Oh, I was just thinking that if you had to look up some references
or something, maybe I might drop around again."

"Maybe I WILL have to--I don't know just yet," she murmured,
confused with a sweet kind of confusion.

"Well, I'll just drop by, anyway," he said. "Maybe you'll be there."

"Yes, maybe."

Another pause. Trying to think of something to say, she glanced
again over her shoulder. Then she clutched at Arthur's arm.

"Look at that man back there--following us! He looks something like
father!"

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.

"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!"

Arthur started to turn into the vacant lot with her, but she gave
him a little push.

"No! no! It's just a little way--I won't be afraid. You'd better
run, Arthur--he might kill you!"

Arthur didn't want to be killed. "So long, then--let me know how
things come out!"--and he disappeared fleetly down the block.

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.

Blindly she stumbled on.

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:

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