But Missy knew it wasn't the party entirely. Nor was it entirely the sound of the rain swishing, nor the look of the trees quietly weeping, nor of the vivid red patches of geranium beds. Everything could have been quite different, and still she'd have felt happy. Her feeling, mysteriously, was as much from things INSIDE her as from things outside.
After dinner was over and the baby minded for an hour, mother made the pink-brocaded sash. It was very lovely. Then she had an hour to herself, and since the rain wouldn't permit her to spend it in the summerhouse, she took a book up to her own room. It was a book of poems from the Public Library.
The first poem she opened to was one of the most marvellous things she had ever read—almost as wonderful as “The Blessed Damozel.” She was glad she had chanced upon it on a rainy day, and when she felt like this. It was called “A Birthday,” and it went:
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it with doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work in it gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys, Because the birthday of my life Is come; my love is come to me.
The poem expressed beautifully what she might have answered when Aunt Nettie asked why she smiled. Only, even though she herself could have expressed it so beautifully then, it was not the kind of answer you'd dream of making to Aunt Nettie.
The next morning Missy awoke to find the rain gone and warm, golden sunshine filtering through the lace curtains. She dressed herself quickly, while the sunshine smiled and watched her toilet. After breakfast, at the piano, her fingers found the scales tiresome. Of themselves they wandered off into unexpected rhythms which seemed to sing aloud: Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys... Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes...
She was idly wondering what a “vair” might be when her dreams were crashed into by mother's reproving voice: “Missy, what are you doing? If you don't get right down to practicing, there'll be no more parties!”
Abashed, Missy made her fingers behave, but not her heart. It was singing a tune far out of harmony with chromatic exercises, and she was glad her mother could not hear.
The tune kept right on throughout dinner. During the meal she was called to the telephone, and at the other end was Raymond; he wanted her to save him the first dance that evening. What rapture—this was what happened to the beautiful belles you read about!