Books: Missy

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This, from a military uniform, was praise indeed. Missy blushed and
was moved to hide her exaltation under modesty.

"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?"

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."

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.

Jim had just been dancing with the visiting girl, so she asked: "Is
Miss Slade a good dancer?"

"Oh, fair. Not in it with you though."

Missy thrilled again, and felt wicked again--alas, how pleasant is
wickedness! "She's awfully pretty," vouchsafed Missy.

"Oh, I guess so"--indifferently.

Yet another thrill.

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.

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?"

"Looks good to me," he responded.

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?

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!"

"Yes, it's great."

Missy sent him a sidelong glance. He didn't look exactly happy
either. Did he feel awkward too?

Creak! creak! creak! said the shoes.

"Listen to those shoes--never heard 'em squeak like that before," he
muttered apologetically.

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?

Creak! creak! said the shoes.

Another block lay behind them.

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.

Creak! creak! said the shoes.

A heavy, regularly punctuated pause. "Don't you love moonlight
nights?" persisted Missy.

"Yes--when my shoes don't squeak." He tried to laugh.

Missy tried to laugh too. Creak! creak! said the shoes.

Another block lay behind them.

"Moonlight always makes me feel--"

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!

And the moon, usually so kind and gentle, grinned down derisively.

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.

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.

"I left them out there," she said. "I--I forgot them. And I didn't
want to leave them out there all night."

Jim bent down and sniffed at the roses. "They smell awfully sweet,
don't they?" he said.

Suddenly, without premeditation, Missy extended them to him. "You
may have them," she offered.

"I?" He received them awkwardly. "That's awfully sweet of you. Say,
you are sweet, aren't you?"

"You may have them if you want them," she repeated.

Jim, still holding the bunch awkwardly, had an inspiration.

"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?"

"Why, of course."

"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!"

He smiled at her daringly.

"Oh!" breathed Missy. How poetical he was!

"But," he stipulated, "on one condition. I demand one rose for
myself. And you must put it in my buttonhole for me."

With trembling fingers Missy fixed the rose in place.

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."

"Wouldn't it spoil your sleeve?" she asked tremulously.

"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."

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!

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.

"I must go in now," she said hurriedly. "Mother's waiting up for
me."

"Well I guess I'll see you soon. You're up at Kitty's a lot, aren't
you?"

"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!

"To-morrow, I expect," she hurried on. "Good night, Mr. Henley."
"Good night--Missy." With his daring, gleaming smile.

Inside the hall door, mother, wrapper-clad, met her disapprovingly.
"Missy, where in the world did you get all those flowers?"

"Ji--Kitty's cousin gave them to me."

"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."

"Kitty got sick, and her mother had to take her home."

"Why didn't you come with them?"

"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--"

"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!"

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.

"Go up to bed," said mother.

"May I put my flowers in water first?"

"Yes, but be quick about it."

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.

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?

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 . . .

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 . . .

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.

CHAPTER IV

MISSY TACKLES ROMANCE

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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."

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 . . .

She came back to the tale of La Beale Isoud.

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."

But, Tristram and La Beale Isoud found that love-drink! Breathing
quickly, Missy read the fateful part:

"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!)

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!

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 . . .

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.

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.

The talk turned to Missy's imminent visit.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get homesick?" asked grandma.

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!

"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?"

"I think she has shoes to match everything, even her wrappers," said
grandma rather drily. "Isabel's very extravagant."

"Extravagance becomes a virtue when Isabel wears the clothes,"
commented grandpa. Grandpa often said "deep" things like that, which
were hard to understand exactly.

"She shouldn't squander Charlie's money," insisted grandma.

"Charlie doesn't seem to mind it," put in mother in her gentle way.
"He's as pleased as Punch buying her pretty things."

"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."

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.

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?

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."

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.

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.

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. . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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