Part 26 (2/2)
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, blus.h.i.+ng 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, brandis.h.i.+ng 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.
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