Missy Part 40

And it was pleasant, after he had "fixed it" with mother, to walk along the dusky streets with him, her arm tucked through his as if she were a grown-up. Walking with him thus, not talking very much but feeling the placidity and sense of safety that always came over her in father's society, she almost forgot the offensive celebrity awaiting them in the Opera House.

Afterward Missy often thought of her reluctance to go to that lecture, of how narrowly she had missed seeing Dobson. The narrow margins of fate! What if she hadn't gone! Oh, life is thrillingly uncertain and interwoven and mysterious!

The Opera House was crowded. There were a lot of women there, the majority of them staid Cherryvale matrons who were regular subscribers to the Lyceum Course, but Missy, regarding them severely, wondered if they were there hoping to get kissed.

Presently Mr. Siddons, who dealt in "Real Estate and Loans" and pa.s.sed the plate at the Presbyterian church, came out on the platform with another man. Mr. Siddons was little and wiry and dark and not handsome; Missy didn't much care for him as it is not possible to admire a man who looks as if he ought to run up a tree and chatter and swing from a limb by a tail; besides he was well known to be "stingy." But his soul must be all right, since he was a deacon; and he was a leading citizen, and generally introduced speakers at the Lyceum Course. He began his familiar little mincing preamble: "It gives me great pleasure to have the privilege of introducing to you a citizen so distinguished and esteemed--"

Esteemed!

Then the other man walked forward and stood beside the little table with the gla.s.s and pitcher of water on it. Missy felt constrained to cast a look at the Honourable Ridgeley Holman Dobson.

Well, he was rather handsome, in a way--one had to admit that; he was younger than you expect lecturers to be, and tall and slender, with awfully goodlooking clothes, and had dark eyes and a noticeable smile--too noticeable to be entirely sincere and spontaneous, Missy decided.

He began to speak, about something that didn't seem particularly interesting to Missy; so she didn't pay much attention to what he was saying, but just sat there listening to the pleasing flow of his voice and noting the graceful sweep of his hands--she must remember that effective gesture of the palm held outward and up. And she liked the way, now and then, he threw his head back and paused and smiled.

Suddenly she caught herself smiling, almost as if in response, and quickly put on a sternly grave look. This woman-kissing siren!--or whatever you call men that are like women sirens. Well, she, for one, wouldn't fall for his charms! She wouldn't rush up and knock other women down to kiss him!

She was flaunting her disapproval before her as a sort of banner when, finally, the lecturer came to an end and the audience began their noisy business of getting out of their seats. Missy glanced about, suspicious yet alertly inquisitive. Would the women rush up and kiss him? Her eyes rested on prim Mrs. Siddons, on silly Miss Lightner, on fat, motherly Mrs. Allen, Kitty's mother. Poor Kitty, if her mother should so disgrace herself!--Missy felt a moment's thankfulness that her own mother was safely home in bed.

A lot of people were pushing forward up the aisle toward the lecturer; some were already shaking hands with him--men as well as women.

Then Missy heard herself uttering an amazing, unpremeditated thing:

"Would you like to go up and shake hands with Mr. Dobson, father?"

The moment after, she was horrified at herself. Why had she said that?

She didn't want to shake hands with a repulsive siren!

But father was answering:

"What? You, too!"

Just what did he mean by that? And by that quizzical sort of smile? She felt her cheeks growing hot, and wanted to look away. But, now, there was nothing to do but carry it through in a casual kind of way.

"Oh," she said, "I just thought, maybe, it might be interesting to shake hands with such a celebrity."

"I see," said father. He was still smiling but, taking hold of her arm, he began to elbow a slow progress toward the platform.

Just before they reached it, Missy felt a sudden panicky flutter in her heart. She shrank back.

"You go first," she whispered.

So father went first and shook hands with Mr. Dobson. Then he said:

"This is my daughter."

Not able to lift her eyes, Missy held out her hand; she observed that Mr. Dobson's was long and slender but had hair on the back of it--he ought to do something about that; but even as she thought this, the hand was enclosing hers in a clasp beautifully warm and strong; and a voice, wonderfully deep and pleasant and vibrant, was heard saying:

"Your daughter?--you're a man to be envied, sir."

Then Missy forced her eyes upward; Mr. Dobson's were waiting to meet them squarely--bright dark eyes with a laugh in the back of them. And, then, the queerest thing happened. As he looked at her, that half-veiled laugh in his eyes seemed to take on a special quality, something personal and intimate and kindred--as if saying: "You and I understand, don't we?"

Missy's heart gave a swift, tumultuous dive and flight.

Then he let go her hand, and patiently turned his eyes to the next comer; but not with the same expression--Missy was sure of that. She walked on after her father in a kind of daze. The whole thing had taken scarcely a second; but, oh! what can be encompa.s.sed in a second!

Missy was very silent during the homeward journey; she intensely wanted to be silent. Once father said:

"Well, the man's certainly magnetic--but he seems a decent kind of fellow. I suppose a lot has been exaggerated." He chuckled. "But I'll bet some of the Cherryvale ladies are a little disappointed."

"Oh, that!" Missy felt a hot flame of indignation flare up inside her.

"He wouldn't act that way! anybody could tell. I think it's a crime to talk so about him!"

Father gave another chuckle, very low; but Missy was too engrossed with her resentment and with other vague, jumbled emotions to notice it.

That night she had difficulty in getting to sleep. And, for the first time in weeks, visions of Commencement failed to waft her off to dreams.

She was hearing over and over, in a kind of lullaby, a deep, melodious voice: "Your daughter?--you're a man to be envied, sir!"--was seeing a pair of dark bright eyes, smiling into her own with a beam of kinship ineffable.

Next day, at school, she must listen to an aftermath of gossipy surmise anent the disappointing osculatory hero. At last she could stand it no longer.

"I think it's horrid to talk that way! Anybody can see he's not that kind of man!"

Raymond Bonner stared.

"Why, I thought you said he was disgusting!"

But Missy, giving him a withering look, turned and walked away, leaving him to ponder the baffling contrarieties of the feminine s.e.x.

A new form of listlessness now took hold of Missy. That afternoon she didn't want to study, didn't want to go over to Kitty Allen's when her friend telephoned, didn't even want to work on hats; this last was a curious turn, indeed, and to a wise observer might have been significant. She had only a desire to be alone, and was grateful for the excuse her thesis provided her; though it must be admitted precious little was inscribed, that bright May afternoon, on the patient tablet which kept Missy company in the summerhouse.

At supper, while the talk pivoted inevitably round the departed Dobson, she sat immersed in preoccupation so deep as to be conspicuous even in Missy. Aunt Nettie, smiling, once started to make a comment but, unseen by his dreaming daughter, was silenced by Mr. Merriam. And immediately after the meal she'd eaten without seeing, the faithful tablet again in hand, Missy wandered back to the summer-house.

It was simply heavenly out there now. The whole western sky clear to the zenith was laid over with a solid colour of opaque saffron rose; and, almost halfway up and a little to the left, in exactly the right place, of deepest turquoise blue, rested one mountain of cloud; it was the shape of Fujiyama, the sacred mount of j.a.pan, which was pictured in Aunt Isabel's book of j.a.panese prints. Missy wished she might see j.a.pan--Mr.

Dobson had probably been there--lecturers usually were great travellers.

He'd probably been everywhere--led a thrilling sort of life--the sort of life that makes one interesting. Oh, if only she could talk to him--just once. She sighed. Why didn't interesting people like that ever come to Cherryvale to live? Everybody in Cherryvale was so--so commonplace. Like Bill c.u.mmings, the red-haired bank teller, who thought a trip to St.

Louis an adventure to talk about for months! Or like old Mr. Siddons, or Professor Sutton, or the clerks in Mr. Bonner's store. In Cherryvale there was only this settled, humdrum kind of people. Of course there were the boys; Raymond was nice--but you can't expect mere boys to be interesting. She recalled that smiling, subtly intimate glance from Mr.

Dobson's eyes. Oh, if he would stay in Cherryvale just a week! If only he'd come back just once! If only--

"Missy! The dew's falling! You'll catch your death of cold! Come in the house at once!"

Bother! there was mother calling. But mothers must be obeyed, and Missy had to trudge dutifully indoors--with a tablet still blank.

Next morning mother's warning about catching cold fulfilled itself.

Missy awoke with a head that felt as big as a washtub, painfully laborious breath, and a wild impulse to sneeze every other minute.

Mother, who was an ardent advocate of "taking things in time," ordered a holiday from school and a footbath of hot mustard water.

"This all comes from your mooning out there in the summerhouse so late,"

she chided as, with one tentative finger, she made a final test of the water for her daughter's feet.