Part 8 (2/2)
These reflections are not Missy's. She knelt there, without consciousness of any motive or a.n.a.lysis. She only knew she was telling it all to G.o.d. And presently, in her heart, in whispers fainter than the stir of the slumbering leaves outside, she heard His answer. G.o.d had heard; she knew it by the peace He laid upon her tumultuous heart.
Steeped in faith, she fell asleep. But not a dreamless sleep. Missy always dreamed, these nights: wonderful dreams--magical, splendid, sometimes vaguely terrifying, often remotely tied up with some event of the day, but always wonderful. And the last dream she dreamed, this eventful night, was marvellous indeed. For it was a replica of the one she had dreamed the night before.
It was an omen of divine portent. No one could have doubted it. Missy, waking from its subtle glamour to the full sunlight streaming across her pillow, hugged Poppylinda, crooned over her and, though preparing to sacrifice that golden something whose prospect had gilded her life, sang her way through the duties of her toilet.
That accomplished, she lifted out her Poem, and wrote at the bottom: ”Your true friend, MELISSA M.”
Then she tucked the two sheets in her blouse, and scrambled downstairs to be chided again for not eating her breakfast.
After the last spoonful, obligatory and arduous, had been disposed of, she loitered near the hall telephone until there was a clear field, then called Young Doc's number. What a relief to find he had not yet gone out! Could he stop by her house, pretty soon? Why, what was the matter--Doc's voice was alarmed--someone sick?
”No, but it's something very important, Doc.”
Missy's manner was hurried and impressive.
”Won't it wait?”
”It's terribly important.”
”What is it? Can't you tell me now, Missy?”
”No--it's a secret. And I've got to hurry up now and hang up the phone because it's a secret.”
”I see. All right, I'll be along in about fifteen minutes. What do you want me to--”
”Stop by the summerhouse,” she cut in nervously. ”I'll be there.”
It seemed a long time, but in reality was shorter than schedule, before Young Doc's car appeared up the side street. He brought it to a stop opposite the summerhouse, jumped out and approached the rendezvous.
Summoning all her courage, she held the Poem ready in her hand.
”Good morning, Missy,” he sang out. ”What's all the mystery?”
For answer Missy could only smile--a smile made wan by nervousness--and extend the two crumpled sheets of paper.
Young Doc took them curiously, smiled at the primly-lettered, downhill lines, and then narrowed his eyes to skimming absorption. A strange expression gathered upon his face as he read. Missy didn't know exactly what to make of his working muscles--whether he was pained or angry or amused. But she was entirely unprepared for the fervour with which, when he finished, he seized her by the shoulders and bounced her up and down.
”Did you make all this up?” he cried. ”Or do you mean she really doesn't want to marry that bounder?”
”She really doesn't,” answered Missy, not too engaged in steeling herself against his crunching of her shoulder bones to register the soubriquet, ”bounder.”
”Are you sure you didn't make most of it up?” Young Doc knew well Missy's strain of romanticism. But she strove to convince him that, for once, she was by way of being a realist.
”She despises him. She can't bear to go on with it. She can't stand it another hour. I heard her say so myself.” Young Doc, crunching her shoulder bones worse than ever, breathed hard, but said nothing. Missy proffered bashfully:
”I think, maybe, she wants to marry you, Doc.”
Young Doc then, just at the moment she couldn't have borne the vise a second longer, let go her shoulders, and smiled a smile which, for her, would have eased a splintered bone itself.
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