Missy Part 10

"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 a.s.sist, 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 a.s.sented.

After that the afternoon went rus.h.i.+ng 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 gra.s.s 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, s.h.i.+ning radiance which spread down and over leaves and gra.s.s 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-gla.s.s. 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-gla.s.s 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.

"What have you been doing with your hair?"

"Oh, just experimenting. Mother, may I have it crimped for the party?"

"I don't know--we'll see. Now hurry and jump into bed."

After mother had kissed her good night and gone, and after the light had been turned out, Missy lay awake for a long time.

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 s.h.i.+mmering jewels.

Missy was fourteen, going on fifteen, but she could still play being a fairy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Father had heard the great news and bantered her: "So we've got a society queen in our midst!"

"I think," put in Aunt Nettie, "that it's disgraceful the way they put children forward these days."

"I wouldn't let Missy go if Mrs. Allen wasn't going to be there to look after her," said mother.

"Mother, may I have the hem of my pink dress let down?" asked Missy.

At that father laughed, and Aunt Nettie might just as well have said: "I told you so!" as put on that expression.

"It's my first real party," Missy went on, "and I'd like to look as pretty as I can."

Something prompted father, as he rose from the table, to pause and lay his hand on Missy's shoulder.

"Can't you get her a new ribbon or something, mother?" he asked.

"Maybe a new sash," answered mother reflectively. "They've got some pretty brocaded pink ribbon at Bonner's."

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.

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?

Upon her return there was still an hour before dinner, and she sat by the dining-room window with Aunt Nettie, to darn stockings.

"Well, Missy," said Aunt Nettie presently, "a penny for your thoughts."

Missy looked up vaguely, at a loss. "I wasn't thinking of anything exactly," she said.

"What were you smiling about?"

"Was I smiling?"

Just then mother entered and Aunt Nettie said: "Missy smiles, and doesn't know it. Party!"