Part 28 (1/2)
”It was a profane kind of thing,” she said, sadly. ”Don't you see, Arthur?”
”If I'm such a sinner, I don't see why you have anything to do with me.”
It stirred her profoundly that he didn't laugh, scoff at her; she had feared he might. She answered, very gravely:
”It's because I like you. You don't think it's a pleasure to me to find fault with you, do you Arthur?”
”Then why find fault?” he asked good-naturedly.
”But if the faults are THERE?” she persevered.
”Let's forget about 'em, then,” he answered with cheerful logic.
”Everybody can't be good like YOU, you know.”
Missy felt nonplussed, though subtly pleased, in a way. Arthur DID admire her, thought her ”good”--perhaps, in time she could be a good influence to him. But at a loss just how to answer his personal allusion, she glanced backward over her shoulder. In the moonlight she saw a tall man back there in the distance.
There was a little pause.
”I don't s'pose you'll be going to the Library again to-morrow night?”
suggested Arthur presently.
”Why, I don't know--why?” But she knew ”why,” and her knowledge gave her a tingle.
”Oh, I was just thinking that if you had to look up some references or something, maybe I might drop around again.”
”Maybe I WILL have to--I don't know just yet,” she murmured, confused with a sweet kind of confusion.
”Well, I'll just drop by, anyway,” he said. ”Maybe you'll be there.”
”Yes, maybe.”
Another pause. Trying to think of something to say, she glanced again over her shoulder. Then she clutched at Arthur's arm.
”Look at that man back there--following us! He looks something like father!”
As she spoke she unconsciously quickened her pace; Arthur consciously quickened his. He knew--as all of the boys of ”the crowd” knew--Mr.
Merriam's stand on the matter of beaux.
”Oh!” cried Missy under her breath. She fancied that the tall figure had now accelerated his gait, also. ”It IS father! I'll cut across this vacant lot and get in at the kitchen door--I can beat him home that way!”
Arthur started to turn into the vacant lot with her, but she gave him a little push.
”No! no! It's just a little way--I won't be afraid. You'd better run, Arthur--he might kill you!”
Arthur didn't want to be killed. ”So long, then--let me know how things come out!”--and he disappeared fleetly down the block.
Missy couldn't make such quick progress; the vacant lot had been a cornfield, and the stubby ground was frozen into hard, sharp ridges under the snow. She stumbled, felt her shoes filling with snow, stumbled on, fell down, felt her stocking tear viciously. She glanced over her shoulder--had the tall figure back there on the sidewalk slowed down, too, or was it only imagination? She scrambled to her feet and hurried on--and HE seemed to be hurrying again. She had no time, now, to be afraid of the vague terrors of night; her panic was perfectly and terribly tangible. She MUST get home ahead of father.
Blindly she stumbled on.