Part 31 (1/2)

And then, at the very end, something terrible happened. Marguerite had brought in the pie'ce de re'sistance, the climactic dish toward which mother had built the whole meal--the deep-dish peach pie, sugar-coated, fragrant and savory--and placed it on the serving-table near the open window. There was a bit, of wire loose at the lower end of the screen, and, in the one second Marguerite's back was turned--just one second, but just long enough--Missy saw a velvety nose fumble with the loose wire, saw a sleek neck wedge itself through the crevice, and a long red tongue lap approvingly over the sugar-coated crust.

Missy gasped audibly. Mother followed her eyes, turned, saw, jumped up--but it was too late. Mrs. Merriam viciously struck at Gypsy's muzzle and pushed the encroaching head back through the aperture.

”Get away from here!” she cried angrily. ”You little beast!”

”I think the pony shows remarkably good taste,” commented Rev. MacGill, trying to pa.s.s the calamity off as a joke. But his hostess wasn't capable of an answering smile; she gazed despairingly, tragically, at the desecrated confection.

”I took such pains with it,” she almost wailed. ”It was a deep-dish peach pie--I made it specially for Mr. MacGill.”

”Well, I'm not particularly fond of peach pie, anyway,” said the minister, meaning to be soothing.

”Oh, but I know you ARE! Mrs. Allen said that at her house you took two helpings-that you said it was your favourite dessert.”

The minister coughed a little cough--he was caught in a somewhat delicate situation; then, always tactful, replied: ”Perhaps I did say that--her peach pie was very good. But I'm equally fond of all sweets--I have a sweet tooth.”

At this point Missy gathered her courage to quaver a suggestion.

”Couldn't you just take off the top crust, mother? Gypsy didn't touch the underneath part. Why can't you just--”

But her mother's scandalized look silenced her. She must have made a faux pas. Father and Rev. MacGill laughed outright, and Aunt Nettie smiled a withering smile.

”That's a brilliant idea,” she said satirically. ”Perhaps you'd have us pick out the untouched bits of the crust, too!” Missy regarded her aunt reproachfully but helplessly; she was too genuinely upset for any repartee. Why did Aunt Nettie like to put her ”in wrong”? Her suggestion seemed to her perfectly reasonable. Why didn't they act on it? But of course they'd ignore it, just making fun of her now but punis.h.i.+ng her afterward. For she divined very accurately that they would hold her accountable for Gypsy's blunder--even though the blunder was rectifiable; it was a BIG pie, and most of it as good as ever. They were unreasonable, unjust.

Mother seemed unable to tear herself away from the despoiled masterpiece.

”Come, mamma,” said father, ”it's nothing to make such a fuss about.

Just trot out some of that apple sauce of yours. Mr. MacGill doesn't get to taste anything like that every day.” He turned to the minister. ”The world's full of apple sauce--but there's apple sauce and apple sauce.

Now my wife's apple sauce is APPLE SAUCE! I tell her it's a dish for a king.”

And Rev. MacGill, after sampling the impromptu dessert, a.s.sured his hostess that her husband's eulogy had been only too moderate. He vowed he had never eaten such apple sauce. But Mrs. Merriam still looked bleak. She knew she could make a better deep-dish peach pie than Mrs. Allen could. And, then, to give the minister apple sauce and nabiscos!--the first time he had eaten at her table in two months!

Missy, who knew her mother well, couldn't help feeling a deep degree of sympathy; besides, she wished Rev. MacGill might have had his pie--she liked Rev. MacGill better than ever. But she dreaded her first moments after the guest had departed; mother could be terribly stern.

Nor did her fears prove groundless.

”Now, Missy,” ordered her mother in coldly irate tones, ”you take that horse straight back to Tess. This is the last straw! For days you've been no earthly use--your practicing neglected, no time for your ch.o.r.es, just nothing but that everlasting horse!”

That everlasting horse! Missy's chin quivered and her eyes filled.

But mother went on inflexibly: ”I don't want you ever to bring it here again. And you can't go on living at Tess's, either! We'll see that you catch up with your practicing.”

”But, mother,” tremulously seeking for an argument, ”I oughtn't to give up such a fine chance to become a horsewoman, ought I?”

It was an unlucky phrase, for Aunt Nettie was there to catch it up.

”A horsewoman!” and she laughed in sardonic glee. ”Well, I must admit there's one thing horsey enough about you--you always smell of manure, these days.”

Wounded and on the defensive, Missy tried to make her tone chilly. ”I wish you wouldn't be so indelicate, Aunt Nettie,” she said.

But Aunt Nettie wasn't abashed. ”A horsewoman!” she chortled again. ”I suppose Missy sees herself riding to hounds! All dressed up in a silk hat and riding-breeches like pictures of society people back East!”

It didn't add to Missy's comfiture to know she had, in truth, harboured this ridiculed vision of herself. She coloured and stood hesitant.