High moments have a way, sometimes, of resolving their prime and unreducible factors, all of a sudden, to disconcertingly simple terms. Here was Gypsy, whose stubbornness had begun it all, suddenly soft as silk; and there was the wasp, who had brought on the horrendous climax, suddenly and mysteriously vanished. Of course Missy was glad the wasp was gone—otherwise she might have stood there, dying of shame, till she did die of shame—yet the sudden solution of her dilemma made her feel in another way absurd.
But there was little room for such a paltry emotion as absurdity. Rev. MacGill volunteered to deliver Gypsy to her stall—oh, he was wonderful, though she almost wished he'd have to leave town unexpectedly; she didn't see how she'd ever face him again—but she knew there was a reckoning waiting at home.
It was a painful and unforgettable scene. Mother had heard already; father had telephoned from the office. Missy supposed all Cherryvale was telephoning but she deferred thoughts of her wider disgrace; at present mother was enough. Mother was fearfully angry—Missy knew she would never understand. She said harsher things than she'd ever said before. Making such a spectacle of herself!—her own daughter, whom she'd tried to train to be a lady! This feature of the situation seemed to stir mother almost more violently than the flagrant disobedience.
“It's all that O'Neill girl,” said Aunt Nettie. “Ever since she came here to live, Missy's been up to just one craziness after another.”
Mother looked out the window and sighed. Missy was suddenly conscious that she loved her mother very much; despite the fact that mother had just said harsh things, that she was going to punish her, that she never understood. A longing welled up in her to fling her arms round mother's neck and assure her that she never MEANT to be a spectacle, that she had only—
But what was the use of trying to explain? Mother wouldn't understand and she couldn't explain it in words, anyway—not even to herself. So she stood first on one foot and then on the other, and felt perfectly inadequate and miserable.
At last, wanting frightfully to say something that would ameliorate her conduct somewhat in mother's eyes, she said:
“I guess it WAS an awful thing to do, mother. And I'm AWFULLY sorry. But it wouldn't have come out quite so bad—I could have managed Gypsy better, I think—if it hadn't been for that old wasp.”
“Wasp?” questioned mother.
“Yes, there was a lot of mud-wasps got to flying around and one some way got inside of my—my breeches. And you know how scared to death I am of wasps. I KNOW I could have managed Gypsy, but when I felt that wasp crawling around—” She broke off; tried again. “Don't think I couldn't manage her—but when I felt that—”