Missy Part 26

The service had now reached the stage of prayer for repentant sinners.

Reverend MacGill was doing the praying, but members of the congregation were interjecting, "Glory Hallelujah!" "Praise be His Name!" and the other worshipful e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns which make a sort of running accompaniment on such occasions. Missy thought the interruptions, though proper and lending an atmosphere of fervour, rather a pity because they spoiled the effective rise and fall of the minister's voice. There was one recurrent nasal falsetto which especially threw you off the religious track. It belonged to old Mrs. Lemon. Everybody knew she nagged at and overworked and half-starved that ragged little Sims orphan she'd adopted, but here she was making the biggest noise of all!

However, much as she wished old Mrs. Lemon to stop, Missy could not approve of what she, just then, saw take place in her own pew.

Genevieve was whispering and giggling again. Missy turned to look.

Genevieve pressed a paper-wad into Arthur's hand, whispered and giggled some more. And then, to Missy's horror, Arthur took surrept.i.tious but careful aim with the wad. It landed squarely on old Mrs. Lemon's ear, causing a "Blessed be the Lo--" to part midway in scandalized astonishment. Missy herself was scandalized. Of course old Mrs. Lemon was a hypocrite--but to be hit on the ear while the name of the Saviour was on her lips! Right on the ear! Missy couldn't help mentally noting Arthur's fine marksmanship, but she felt it her duty to show disapproval of a deed so utterly profane.

She bestowed an openly withering look on the desecrators.

"She dared me to," whispered Arthur--the excuse of the original Adam.

Without other comment Missy returned her stern gaze to the pulpit.

She held it there steadfast though she was conscious of Genevieve, undaunted, urging Arthur to throw another wad. He, however, refused.

That pleased Missy, for it made it easier to fix the blame for the breach of religious etiquette upon Genevieve alone. Of course, it was Genevieve who was really to blame. She was a frivolous, light-minded girl. She was a bad influence for Arthur.

Yet, when it came time for the "crowd" to disperse and Arthur told her good night as though nothing had happened, Missy deemed it only consistent with dignity to maintain extreme reserve.

"Oh, fudge, Missy! Don't be so stand-offish!" Arthur was very appealing when he looked at you like that--his eyes so mischievous under their upcurling lashes. But Missy made herself say firmly:

"You put me in a rather awkward position, Arthur. You know Reverend MacGill entrusted me to--"

"Oh, come out of it!" interrupted Arthur, grinning.

Missy sighed in her heart. She feared Arthur was utterly unregenerate.

Especially, when as he turned to Genevieve--who was tugging at his arm--he gave the Reverend MacGill's missionary an open wink. Missy watched the white fox furs, their light-minded wearer and her quarry all depart together; commiseration for the victim vied with resentment against the temptress. Poor Arthur!

She herself expected to be taken home by the O'Neills, but to her surprise she found her father waiting in the church vestibule. He said he had decided to come and hear the new minister, and Missy never suspected it was the unrest of a father who sees his little girl trying to become a big girl that had dragged him from his house-slippers and smoking-jacket this snowy evening.

They walked homeward through the swirling flakes in silence. That was one reason why Missy enjoyed being with her father--she could be so companionably silent with him. She trudged along beside him, half-consciously trying to match his stride, while her thoughts flew far afield.

But presently father spoke.

"He's very eloquent, isn't he?"

"He?--who?" She struggled to get her thoughts back home.

Her father peered at her through the feathery gloom.

"Why, the preacher--Reverend MacGill."

"Oh, yes." She shook herself mentally. "He's perfectly fasci--" she broke off, remembering she was talking to a grown-up. "He's very inspired," she amended.

Another pause. Again it was father who spoke first.

"Who was the boy who threw the paper-wad?"

Involuntarily Missy's hold on his arm loosened. Then father had seen.

That was bad. Doubtless many others had seen--old people who didn't understand the circ.u.mstances. It was very bad for Arthur's reputation.

Poor Arthur!

"Threw the paper-wad?" she asked back evasively.

"Yes, the red-headed boy. Wasn't it that Summers fellow?"

That Summers fellow!--Arthur's reputation was already gone!

"Wasn't it?" persisted father.

Evasion was no longer possible. Anyway, it might be best to try to explain just how it was--to set poor Arthur right. So she replied:

"Yes, it was Arthur--but it wasn't his fault, exactly."

"Not HIS fault? Whose in thunder was it?"

Missy hesitated. She didn't like talking scandal of anyone directly--and, besides, there were likeable traits in Genevieve despite her obvious failings.

"Well," she said, "it's just that Arthur is under a kind of wrong influence--if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know that influences count for a good deal," answered father in the serious way she loved in him. Father DID understand more than most grown-ups. And Reverend MacGill was like him in that. She found time fleetingly to wish that Reverend MacGill were in some way related to her. Too bad that he was a little too young for Aunt Nettie; and, perhaps, too old for--she caught herself up, blushing in the dark, as father went on:

"Just what kind of influence is undermining this Arthur fellow?"

She wished he wouldn't keep speaking of Arthur with that d.a.m.ning kind of phrase. It was because she wanted to convince him that Arthur didn't really merit it that she went further in speech than she'd intended.

"Well, he runs around with frivolous, light-minded people. People who lead him on to do things he wouldn't dream of doing if they'd let him alone. It isn't his fault if he's kind of--kind of dissipated."

She paused, a little awe-stricken herself at this climactic characterization of poor, misguided Arthur; she couldn't have told herself just how she had arrived at it. A little confusedly she rushed on: "He ought to have uplifting, enn.o.bling influences in his life--Arthur's at heart an awfully nice boy. That's why I wanted mother to let me go walking with him. Don't you think that--maybe--if she understood--she might let me?"

How in the world had that last question ever popped out? How had she worked up to it? A little appalled, a little abashed, but withal atingle at her own daring, she breathlessly, even hopefully, awaited his answer.

But father ruthlessly squashed her hopes with two fell sentences and one terrifying oath.

"I should say not! You say he's dissipated and then in the same breath ask me--for G.o.d's sake!"

"Well, maybe, he isn't so dissipated, father," she began quaveringly, regretting the indiscretion into which eloquence had enticed her.

"I don't care a whoop whether he is or not," said father heartlessly.

"What I want is for you to get it into your head, once for all, that you're to have NOTHING to do with this fellow or any other boy!"

Father's voice, usually so kind, had the doomsday quality that even mother used only on very rare occasions. It reverberated in the depths of Missy's being. They walked the last block in unbroken silence. As they pa.s.sed through the gate, walked up the front path, shook the snow off their wraps on the porch, and entered the cosy-lighted precincts of home, Missy felt that she was the most wretched, lonely, misunderstood being in the world.

She said her good nights quickly and got off upstairs to her room. As she undressed she could hear the dim, faraway sound of her parents'

voices. The sound irritated her. They pretended to love her, but they seemed to enjoy making things hard for her! Not only did they begrudge her a good time and white fox furs and everything, but they wouldn't let her try to be a good influence to the world! What was the use of renouncing earthly vanities for yourself if you couldn't help others to renounce them, too? Of course there was a certain pleasure, a kind of calm, peaceful satisfaction, an ecstasy even, in letting the religious, above-the-world feeling take possession of you. But it was selfish to keep it all to yourself. It was your duty to pa.s.s it on, to do good works--to throw out the life-line. And they begrudged her that--it wasn't right. Were all parents as hard and cruel as hers?

She felt like crying; but, just then, she heard them coming up the stairs. It would be difficult to explain her tears should one of them look into her room on some pretext; so she jumped quickly into bed. And, sure enough, she heard the door open. She shut her eyes. She heard her mother's voice: "Are you asleep, dear?" Impossible to divine that under that tender voice lay a stony heart! She emitted a little ghost of a snore; she heard the door close again, very softly.

For a while she lay quiet but she felt so unlike sleep that, finally, she crept out of bed, groped for her blanket wrapper, and went over to the window. It had stopped snowing and everything shone palely in ghostly white. The trees were white-armed, gleaming skeletons, the summerhouse an eerie paG.o.da or something, the scurrying clouds, breaking now and showing silver edges from an invisible moon, were at once grand and terrifying. It was all very beautiful and mysterious and stirring.

And something in her stretched out, out, out--to the driving clouds, to the gleaming, brandishing boughs, to the summerhouse so like something in a picture. And, as her soul stretched out to the beauty and grandeur and mystery of it all, there came over her a feeling of indefinable ecstasy, a vague, keen yearning to be really good in every way. Good to her Lord, to her father and mother and Aunt Nettie and little brother, to the Reverend MacGill with his fascinating smile and good works, to everybody--the whole town--the whole world. Even to Genevieve Hicks, though she seemed so self-satisfied with her white fox furs and giggling ways and utter worldliness--yet, there were many things likeable about Genevieve if you didn't let yourself get prejudiced. And Missy didn't ever want to let herself get prejudiced--narrow and harsh and bigoted like so many Christians. No; she wanted to be a sweet, loving, generous, helpful kind of Christian. And to Arthur, too, of course. There must be SOME way of helping Arthur.