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"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 chores, 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.
I made a bargain for Missy's hand, and I mean to have it too." "That by the way," said I. "I understand. But how will Mr. Huddlestone take my intrusion?" "Leave that to Clara," returned Northmour. I could have struck him in the face for this coarse familiarity; but I respected the truce, as, I am bound to say, did Northmour, and so long as the danger continued not a cloud arose in our relation.
"I don't think that's a very nice way to speak of him. Can't you say something better?" The old man looked over the mules' backs for a moment of inward cogitation. He was not surprised at the news but he was surprised at something in his Missy's manner, a lack of the joyfulness, that he, too, had thought an attribute of all intending brides. "He's a good boy," he said thoughtfully.
Mother's tone connoted the fact that "waves," rippling artificially either side of Missy's "part" down to her two braids, achieved a decorative effect reserved for Sundays and special events. Then quickly, perhaps because she hadn't been altogether unaware of this last visitation of the Heavenly Muse, she added: "Well, I don't care. Do it up, if you want to."
He could make whistles of every sort and size, cut baskets out of cherry-stones, faces out of nut-shells, jumping figures out of bits of wood. He brought these out one by one, and though the little girl was shy at first, they soon grew to be great friends. 'What is missy's name? said Tom one day. 'Evangeline St. Clare, said the little girl; 'though papa and everybody else call me Eva.
But, perhaps, some day in New York... Missy's head drooped; she felt deliciously drowsy. Into the silence of her dreams a cheerful voice intruded: "Missy, dear, it's after ten o'clock and you're nodding! Oughtn't you go up to bed?" "All right, mother." Obediently she took her dreams upstairs with her, and into her little white bed.
At that father laughed, and Aunt Nettie might just as well have said: "I told you so!" as put on that expression. "It's my first real party," Missy went on, "and I'd like to look as pretty as I can." Something prompted father, as he rose from the table, to pause and lay his hand on Missy's shoulder. "Can't you get her a new ribbon or something, mother?" he asked.
He had retired to private prayer in his chamber, and Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw were engaging Missy's attention by sundry gay trifles bought for her to present to the little Lintons, as an acknowledgment of their kindness. They had invited them to spend the morrow at Wuthering Heights, and the invitation had been accepted, on one condition: Mrs.
Then, quite naturally, this romance recalled to her the romance next door, so deliciously absorbing her waking and dreaming hours the romance of her own Miss Princess. Miss Princess Missy's more formal adaptation of Young Doc's soubriquet for Helen Greenleaf in the days of his romance was the most beautiful heroine imaginable.
And yet to give Missy's room to Camilla! It seemed a great sacrifice to Mrs. Falconer. She went up to it the next morning with firmly set lips to air and dust it. It was just the same as when Missy had left it long ago. Nothing had ever been moved or changed, but everything had always been kept beautifully neat and clean. Snow-white muslin curtains hung before the small square window.
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