Missy Part 16

Her mind was filled with scarcely defined surmises concerning Aunt Isabel, her unexpected headache, and the too handsome harper. But Uncle Charlie, unsuspecting, talked on in that cheerful strain. He was teasing Missy because she liked the ham and eggs and m.u.f.fins, and took a second helping of everything.

"Good thing I can get groceries at wholesale!" he bantered. "Else I'd never dare ask you to visit me!"

Missy returned his smile, grateful that the matter of her appet.i.te might serve to keep him jolly a little while longer. Perhaps he didn't even suspect, yet. DID he suspect? She couldn't forbear a tentative question:

"What seems to be the matter with Aunt Isabel, Uncle Charlie?"

"Why, didn't I tell you she has a headache?'

"Oh! a headache." She was silent a second; then, as if there was something strange about this malady, she went on: "Did she SAY she had a headache?"

"Of course, my dear. It's a pretty bad one. I guess it must be the weather." It was hot. Uncle Charlie had taken off his coat and was in his shirt sleeves--she was pleased to note it was a silken shirt; little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and on his head where it was just beginning to get bald. Somehow, the fact that he looked so hot had the effect of making her feel even more tender toward him. So, though she thirsted for information, not for the world would she have aroused his suspicions by questions. And she made her voice very casual, when she finally enquired:

"By the way, that Mr. Saunders who brought us home is awfully handsome.

Sort of gallant looking, don't you think?"

Uncle Charlie laughed; then shook his finger at her in mock admonition.

"Oh, Missy! You've fallen, too?"

Missy gulped; Uncle Charlie had made an unwitting revelation! But she tried not to give herself away; still casual, she asked:

"Oh! do other people fall?"

"All the ladies fall for Saunders," said Uncle Charlie.

Missy hesitated, then hazarded:

"Aunt Isabel, too?"

"Oh, yes." Uncle Charlie looked pathetically unconcerned. "Aunt Isabel likes to have him around. He often comes in handy at dances."

It would be just like Mr. Saunders to be a good dancer!

"He harps well, too," she said meditatively.

"What's that?" enquired Uncle Charlie.

"Oh, I mean that thing he plays."

"The ukelele. Yes, Saunders is a wizard with it. But in spite of that he's a good fellow." (What did "in spite of that" mean--didn't Uncle Charlie approve of harpers?)

He continued: "He sometimes goes on fishing-trips with me."

Fishing-trips! From father Missy had learned that this was the highest proof of camaraderie. So Uncle Charlie didn't suspect. He was harbouring the serpent in his very bosom. Missy crumpled the fragrant rose-geranium reflectively between her fingers.

Then Uncle Charlie suggested that she play something for him on the piano. And Missy, feeling every minute tenderer toward him because she must keep to herself the dreadful truths which would hurt him if he knew, hurried to his side, took away his cane, and put her own arm in its place for him to lean on. And Uncle Charlie seemed to divine there was something special in her deed, for he reached down and patted the arm which supported him, and said:

"You're a dear child, Missy."

In the living-room the sun was shining through the charming, cretonne-hung bay window and upon the soft, rich colours of the Chinese embroideries. The embroideries were on the wall beyond the piano, so that she could see them while she played. Uncle Charlie wasn't in her range of vision unless she turned her head; but she could smell his cigar, and could sense him sitting there very quiet in a big wicker chair, smoking, his eyes half closed, his bandaged foot stretched out on a little stool.

And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus, and her rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the embroideries, and the hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all seemed to intermingle and pierce to her very soul. She was glad to play the piano.

When deeply moved she loved to play, to pour out her feelings in dreamy melodies and deep vibrant harmonies with queer minor cadences thrown in--the kind of music you can play "with expression," while you vision mysterious, poetic pictures.

After a moment's reflection, she decided on "The Angel's Serenade"; she knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she could almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the silvery sheen of them astir. And, oddly, all that sheen and stir, all that sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself--just as if her own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard.

And with Missy, to play "The Angel's Serenade" was to crave playing more such divine pieces; she drifted on into "Traumerei"; "Simple Confession"; "One Sweetly Solemn Thought," with variations. She played them all with extra "expression," putting all her loving sympathy for Uncle Charlie into her finger-tips. And he must have been soothed by it, for he dozed off, and came to with a start when she finally paused, to tell her how beautifully she played.

Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was like grandpa--the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep, unusual things. They talked about music, and the meaning of the pieces she'd played. Then about reading. He asked her what she was reading nowadays.

"This is your book, isn't it?" he enquired, picking up "The Romances of King Arthur" from the table beside him. Heavens! how tactless of her to have brought it down this morning! But there was nothing for her to do, save to act in a natural, casual manner.

"Yes," she said.

Uncle Charlie opened the book. Heavens! it fell open at the ill.u.s.tration of the two lovers drinking the fateful potion!

"Which is your favourite legend?" he asked.

Missy was too nervous to utter anything but the simple truth.

"The story of Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud," she answered.

"Ah," said Uncle Charlie. He gazed at the picture she knew so well. What was he thinking?

"Why is it your favourite?" he went on.

"I don't know--because it's so romantic, I guess. And so sad and beautiful."

"Ah, yes," said Uncle Charlie. "You have a feeling for the cla.s.sic, I see. You call her 'Isoud'?"

That pleased Missy; and, despite her agitation over this malaprop theme, she couldn't resist the impulse to air her lately acquired learning.

"Yes, but she has different names in all the different languages, you know. And she was the most beautiful lady or maiden that ever lived."

"Is that so?" said Uncle Charlie. "More beautiful than your Aunt Isabel?"

Missy hesitated, confused; the conversation was getting on dangerous ground. "Why, I guess they're the same type, don't you? I've often thought Aunt Isabel looks like La Beale Isoud."

Uncle Charlie smiled again at her--an altogether cheerful kind of smile; no, he didn't suspect any tragic undercurrent beneath this pleasant-sounding conversation. All he said was:

"Aunt Isabel should feel flattered--but I hope she finds a happier lot."

Ah!

"Yes, I hope so," breathed Missy, rather weakly.

Then Uncle Charlie at last closed the book.