Part 20 (1/2)

”It isn't books, Horace,” remarked Aunt Nettie, incomprehensibly. ”It's that O'Neill girl.”

”What's that O'Neill girl?” demanded Missy, in a low, suppressed voice.

”Well, if you ask me, her head's full of--”

But a swift gesture from mother brought Aunt Nettie to a sudden pause.

But Missy, suspecting an implied criticism of her friend, began with hauteur:

”I implore you to desist from making any insinuation against Tess O'Neill. I'm very proud to be epris with her!” (Missy made the climactic word rhyme with ”kiss.”)

There was a little hush after this outburst from the usually reserved Missy. Father and mother stared at her and then at each other. But Aunt Nettie couldn't refrain from a repet.i.tion of the climactic word;

”E-priss!” And she actually giggled!

At the sound, Missy felt herself growing ”deathly mute, even to the lips”, but she managed to maintain a mien of intense composure.

”What does that mean, Missy?” queried father.

He was regarding her kindly, with no hint of hidden amus.e.m.e.nt. Father was a tall, quiet and very wise man, and Missy had sometimes found it possible to talk with him about the unusual things that rose up to fascinate her. She didn't distrust him so much as most grown-ups.

So she smiled at him and said informatively:

”It means to be in intense sympathy with.”

”Oh, I see. Did you find that in the French dictionary?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Well, I see we'll all have to be taking up foreign languages if we're to have such an accomplished young lady in the house.”

He smiled at her in a way that made her almost glad, for a moment, that he was her father instead of a Duke who might surround her with baronial magnificence. Mother, too, she couldn't help loving, though, in her neat, practical gingham dress, she was so unlike Lady Chetwoode, the mother in ”Airy Fairy Lilian.” Lady Chetwoode wore dainty caps, all white lace and delicate ribbon bows that matched in colour her trailing gown. Her small and tapering hands were covered with rings. She walked with a slow, rather stately step, and there was a benignity about her that went straight to the heart... Well, there was something about mother, too, that went straight to the heart. Missy wouldn't trade off her mother for the world.

But when, later, she wandered into the front parlour, she couldn't help wis.h.i.+ng it were a ”drawing-room.” And when she moved on out to the side porch, she viewed with a certain discontent the peaceful scene before her. Usually she had loved the side porch at the sunset hour: the close fragrance of honeysuckles which screened one end, the stretch of slick green gra.s.s and the nasturtium bed aflame like an unstirring fire, the trees rustling softly in the evening breeze--yes, she loved it all for the very tranquillity, the poignant tranquillity of it.

But that was before she realized there were in the world vast swards that swept beyond pleasure-grounds (what WERE ”pleasure-grounds”?), past laughing brooklets and gurgling streams, on to the Park where roamed herds of many-antlered deer and where mighty oaks flung their arms far and wide; while mayhap, on a topmost branch, a crow swayed and swung as the soft wind rushed by, making an inky blot upon the brilliant green, as if it were a patch upon the alabaster cheek of some court belle...

Oh, enchanting!

But there were no vast swards nor pleasure-grounds nor Parks of antlered deer in Cherryvale.

Then Poppylinda, the majestic black cat, trod up the steps of the porch and rubbed herself against her mistress's foot, as if saying, ”Anyhow, I'm here!”

Missy reached down and lifted Poppy to her lap. She adored Poppy; but she couldn't help reflecting that a Skye terrier (though she had never seen one) was a more distinguished kind of pet than a black cat. A black cat was--well, bourgeois (the last rhyming with ”boys”). Airy fairy Lilian's pet was a Skye. It was named Fifine, and was very frisky.

Lilian, as she sat exchanging sprightly badinage with her many admirers, was wont to sit with her hand perdu beneath the silky Fifine in her lap.

”No, no, Fifine! Down, sir!” murmured Missy absently.

Poppy, otherwise immobile, blinked upward an inquiring gaze.

”Naughty Fifine! You MUST not kiss my fingers, sir!”