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.
“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 shimmering 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!”
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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...
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!”
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.
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!
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.
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...”
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.
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?
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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?
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.”
“What in the world are you doing, Missy?” asked mother.
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.
“Party!” said Aunt Nettie significantly.
Missy, still standing in mute embarrassment, couldn't have explained how
it was not the party entirely.
Mother did not scold her for dressing up.
“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!
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
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!
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.
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.
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!”
“What is it?” asked mother. “Forgotten something?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
“I feel sorry for you!” he told Missy. “I'm a regular dub at this game!”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
“Will you excuse me?” Raymond asked in his polite way. “Mother wants to
see me about something. I hate to run away, but--”
Scarcely had he gone when Mrs. Allen, with Jim in tow, came hurrying up.
“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--”
“Oh!” commiserated Missy.
“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--”
“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!”
Mrs. Allen eyed Missy a little dubiously.
“Oh, Mrs. Allen, couldn't I?”
“I don't know--I said I'd bring you home myself.”
“Oh, Mrs. Allen! Please!” Missy's eyes pleaded even more than her voice.
“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.”
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!
And then, too near to belong to any other world, and quite distinctly,
she heard a voice beyond the rose arbour:
“Oh, yes! Words sound well! But the fact remains you didn't ask me for
the first dance.”
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:
“I wanted to ask you--you know I wanted to ask you!”
“Oh, yes, you did!” replied the visiting girl ironically.
“I did!” protested Raymond.
“Well, why didn't you then?”
“I'd already asked somebody else. I couldn't!”
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.
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!
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.
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.
She was still there when Cousin Jim, walking quickly and his shoes
creaking loudly, returned. “Hello!” he said. “What're you doing out
here?”
“Oh, just watching the moon.”
“You're a funny girl,” he laughed.
“Why am I funny?” Her tone was a little wistful. “Why, moon-gazing
instead of dancing, and everything.”
“But I like to dance too,” emphasized Missy, as if to defend herself
against a charge.
“I'll take you up on that. Come straight in and dance the next dance
with me!”
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.
“Say, you can dance!” said Jim admiringly when the music stopped.
“I love to dance.”
“I should say you might! You dance better than any girl I ever danced
with!”
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.