Missy's Room Page #2

"Missy's Room" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a poignant short story that explores themes of childhood, imagination, and the bittersweet nature of growing up. The narrative centers around a young girl named Missy, who finds solace and adventure in her small, whimsical room filled with treasures and reflections of her dreams. Through her vibrant imagination, Missy navigates her desires and the realities of life, illustrating the universal struggles of youth and the longing for a world of wonder amidst the challenges of growing older. Montgomery's characteristic warmth and lyrical prose bring Missy's inner world to life, making it a heartfelt tale of innocence and the passage of time.

• Short story

								


Mrs. Falconer paused suddenly. She was a very truthful woman and she
instantly realized that that last sentence was not true. She was not
doing all she could for Camilla--she would not be glad, she feared, to
do all she could.

"If I were only well enough to go to work," sighed Camilla. "Mr. Marks
says I can have a place in the shoe factory whenever I'm able to. But
it will be so long yet. Oh, I'm so tired and discouraged!"

She put her hands over her face and sobbed. Mrs. Falconer caught her
breath. What if Missy were somewhere alone in the world--ill,
friendless, with never a soul to offer her a refuge or a shelter? It
was so very, very probable. Before she could check herself Mrs.
Falconer spoke. "My dear, don't cry! I want you to come and stay with
me until you get perfectly well. You won't be a speck of trouble, and
I'll be glad to have you for company."

Mrs. Falconer's Rubicon was crossed. She could not draw back now if
she wanted to. But she was not at all sure that she did want to. By
the time she reached home she was sure she didn't want to. 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. In one corner was a little white bed.
Missy's pictures hung on the walls; Missy's books and work-basket were
lying on the square stand; there was a bit of half-finished fancy
work, yellow from age, lying in the basket. On a small bureau before
the gilt-framed mirror were several little girlish knick-knacks and
boxes whose contents had never been disturbed since Missy went away.
One of Missy's gay pink ribbons--Missy had been so fond of pink
ribbons--hung over the top of the mirror. On a chair lay Missy's hat,
bright with ribbons and roses, just as Missy had laid it there on the
night before she left her home.

Mrs. Falconer's lips quivered as she looked about the room, and tears
came to her eyes. Oh, how could she put these things away and bring a
stranger here--here, where no one save herself had entered for fifteen
years, here in this room, sacred to Missy's memory, waiting for her
return when she should be weary of wandering? It almost seemed to the
mother's vague fancy, distorted by long, silent brooding, that her
daughter's innocent girlhood had been kept here for her and would be
lost forever if the room were given to another.

"I suppose it's dreadful foolishness," said Mrs. Falconer, wiping her
eyes. "I know it is, but I can't help it. It just goes to my heart to
think of putting these things away. But I must do it. Camilla is
coming here today, and this room must be got ready for her. Oh, Missy,
my poor lost child, it's for your sake I'm doing this--because you may
be suffering somewhere as Camilla is now, and I'd wish the same
kindness to be shown to you."

She opened the window and put fresh linen on the bed. One by one
Missy's little belongings were removed and packed carefully away. On
the gay, foolish little hat with its faded wreath of roses the
mother's tears fell as she put it in a box. She remembered so plainly
the first time Missy had worn it. She could see the pretty, delicately
tinted face, the big shining brown eyes, and the riotous golden curls
under the drooping, lace-edged brim. Oh, where was Missy now? What
roof sheltered her? Did she ever think of her mother and the little
white cottage under the maples, and the low-ceilinged, dim room where
she had knelt to say her childhood's prayer?

Camilla Clark came that afternoon.

"Oh, it is lovely here," she said gratefully, looking out into the
rustling shade of the maples. "I'm sure I shall soon get well here.
Mrs. Barry was so kind to me--I shall never forget her kindness--but
the house is so close to the factory, and there was such a whirring
of wheels all the time, it seemed to get into my head and make me wild
with nervousness. I'm so weak that sounds like that worry me. But it
is so still and green and peaceful here. It just rests me."

When bedtime came, Mrs. Falconer took Camilla up to Missy's room. It
was not as hard as she had expected it to be after all. The wrench was
over with the putting away of Missy's things, and it did not hurt the
mother to see the frail, girlish Camilla in her daughter's place.

"What a dear little room!" said Camilla, glancing around. "It is so
white and sweet. Oh, I know I am going to sleep well here, and dream
sweet dreams."

"It was my daughter's room," said Mrs. Falconer, sitting down on the
chintz-covered seat by the open window.

Camilla looked surprised.

"I did not know you had a daughter," she said.

"Yes--I had just the one child," said Mrs. Falconer dreamily.

For fifteen years she had never spoken of Missy to a living soul
except her husband. But now she felt a sudden impulse to tell Camilla
about her, and about the room.

"Her name was Isabella, after her father's mother, but we never called
her anything but Missy. That was the little name she gave herself when
she began to talk. Oh, I've missed her so!"

"When did she die?" asked Camilla softly, sympathy shining, starlike,
in her dark eyes.

"She--she didn't die," said Mrs. Falconer. "She went away. She was a
pretty girl and gay and fond of fun--but such a good girl. Oh, Missy
was always a good girl! Her father and I were so proud of her--too
proud, I suppose. She had her little faults--she was too fond of dress
and gaiety, but then she was so young, and we indulged her. Then Bert
Williams came to Lindsay to work in the factory. He was a handsome
fellow, with taking ways about him, but he was drunken and profane,
and nobody knew anything about his past life. He fascinated Missy. He
kept coming to see her until her father forbade him the house. Then
our poor, foolish child used to meet him elsewhere. We found this out
afterwards. And at last she ran away with him, and they were married
over at Peterboro and went there to live, for Bert had got work there.
We--we were too hard on Missy. But her father was so dreadful hurt
about it. He'd been so fond and proud of her, and he felt that she had
disgraced him. He disowned her, and sent her word never to show her
face here again, for he'd never forgive her. And I was angry too. I
didn't send her any word at all. Oh, how I've wept over that! If I had
just sent her one little word of forgiveness, everything might have
been different. But Father forbade me to.

"Then in a little while there was a dreadful trouble. A woman came to
Peterboro and claimed to be Bert Williams's wife--and she was--she
proved it. Bert cleared out and was never seen again in these parts.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes