Books: Missy

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

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.

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.

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:

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--

A long pause here: "car," "scar," "jar,"--all tried and discarded.
Finally sense, rhyme and meter were attuned:

--afar,
A dastard she met, their sweet idyl to mar.

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--

"Missy!"

The poet, head bent, absorbed in creation, did not hear.

"Missy! Where are you? Me-lis-sa!"

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.

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.

Ah! who is this riding so fast through Main Street?
The gallant young lover--

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.

"Why aren't you eating your supper, Missy? Just look at that wasted
good meat!"

"Meat," though a good rhyme for "street,' would not work well.
"Neat"--"fleet"--Ah! "Fleet!"

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:

--Main Street?

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.

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!

What matters the vain things of Earth, soon or late,
If the heart of a loved one in anguish doth break?

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.

"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."

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.

And mother, innocently, added one more element to her entangled
burden of distress.

"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."

At the conjectured vision, Missy's eyes began to sparkle.

"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."

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.

Missy nodded mutely. So complex were her emotions that, fearing for
self-control, she was glad, just then, that the Baby cried.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

That accomplished, she lifted out her Poem, and wrote at the bottom:
"Your true friend, MELISSA M."

Then she tucked the two sheets in her blouse, and scrambled
downstairs to be chided again for not eating her breakfast.

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?

"No, but it's something very important, Doc."

Missy's manner was hurried and impressive.

"Won't it wait?"

"It's terribly important."

"What is it? Can't you tell me now, Missy?"

"No--it's a secret. And I've got to hurry up now and hang up the
phone because it's a secret."

"I see. All right, I'll be along in about fifteen minutes. What do
you want me to--"

"Stop by the summerhouse," she cut in nervously. "I'll be there."

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.

Summoning all her courage, she held the Poem ready in her hand.

"Good morning, Missy," he sang out. "What's all the mystery?"

For answer Missy could only smile--a smile made wan by nervousness--
and extend the two crumpled sheets of paper.

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.

"Did you make all this up?" he cried. "Or do you mean she really
doesn't want to marry that bounder?"

"She really doesn't," answered Missy, not too engaged in steeling
herself against his crunching of her shoulder bones to register the
soubriquet, "bounder."

"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.

"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:

"I think, maybe, she wants to marry you, Doc."

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.

"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?"

Missy nodded eagerly.

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Missy," he hailed, "run in and ask your mother if you can go for a
ride. Needn't mention Miss Princess is going along."

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."

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:

"We're going over to Somerville, darling, to be married, and you're
to be one of the witnesses."

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.

"Why, darling, what is it?" she cried anxiously.

"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.

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.

"Don't you think we'd better run back to Miss Martin's and get it?"

For answer, his sweetheart leaned across Missy and kissed him.

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.

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.

"Even without the flower-hat and the pink stockings?"

"Even without the flower-hat and the pink stockings," said Miss
Princess with such assurance that Missy cast off doubt forever.

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.

"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."

And over her head the other two looked in each other's eyes.

CHAPTER III

LIKE A SINGING BIRD

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.

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!

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.

Father had brought it from the post office and handed it to her with
exaggerated solemnity. "For Miss Melissa Merriam," he announced.

Yes! there was her name on the tiny envelope.

And, on the tiny card within, written in a painstaking, cramped
hand:

Mr. Raymond Bonner At Home Wednesday June Tenth R.S.V.P. 8 P.M.

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."

Melissa's soul dropped a trifle: it still clogged her throat, but
she was able to form words.

"Oh, mother!"

"You KNOW you're not to ask to go to evening parties, Missy."
Mother's tone was as firm as doom.

Missy turned her eyes to father.

"Don't look at me with those big saucers!" he smiled. "Mother's the
judge."

So Missy turned her eyes back again. "Mother, PLEASE-"

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!"

"But, mother--"

"Don't start teasing, Missy. It won't do any good."

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.

"Eat your meat, Missy," adjured mother. Missy tried to obey and felt
that she was swallowing lumps of lead.

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!

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.

"I hadn't thought of letting Missy go," said Mrs. Merriam. "She
seems so young to start going out evenings that way."

"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."

"Oh, mother!" Missy's tone was a prayer.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door:
"Missy, why in the world haven't you gone to bed?"

Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20