XII

Miss Hessie Farley was going to be Airy Fairy Lilian in half a minute, and was in a panic because she couldn’t find her blue scarf and parasol anywhere. Mrs. Farley, who was helping behind the scenes, asked, “Why didn’t you hold on to them?” and tears of fury sprang to her daughter’s eyes. While the ladies seethed, Mr. Bates and Prentice Page stood ready to pull back the hitchy curtains, and had a good look at the audience through the sides. Flap, flap, flap went the fans, like flapping wings all over the hall, but the birds were too heavy to rise.

It was Maggie, just through being Mariana in the Moated Grange in a draped crimson portière with her back hair flowing, who saw a pale blue tail hanging down from Aunt Priscilla, sitting on a box. The parasol was under her, too. Airy Fairy Lilian took up her position and put on her smile, the curtains hitched back, and there was another of the Tennyson Tableaux.

They were to raise money to buy a new melodeon for the Sunday school, and everyone was helping. Aunt Priscilla was old Mother Hubbard⁠—not that that was Tennyson, but she always was Mother Hubbard, whatever the tableaux were. She had her costume⁠—a chintz skirt with poppies on it, a red sateen lace-up-the-front bodice, and Willie’s mother’s straw poke-bonnet trimmed with tea-colored ribbons. It did for Martha Washington, too, at fancy-dress parties, or, if she left off the poke bonnet and floured her hair, for Marie Antoinette. But she liked to be Mother Hubbard because she had taught her terrier Tiny to sit up and beg, and he could be Mother Hubbard’s Dog. Every time anything was planned someone said, “Now this time we really can’t have Mrs. Willie Campion as Mother Hubbard, and somebody just must tell her so, that’s all there is about it!” But what were they to do when she said timidly and eagerly, “Do you want Tiny and me to be Mother Hubbard and her Dog? It wouldn’t be a bit of trouble, if you do, because I have my costume.”

Mrs. Webster sang “Sweet and Low” with such tremolo it seemed as if the staff and the stems of the notes on her sheet of music must be scalloped instead of straight; and Mr. Bates’ voice welling out in “Break, break, break” made the ladies sigh and smile.

“ ‘But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.’ ”

Mamma, sitting in the audience between Victor and Lily, thought of a summer night three years ago. Where was he now? The tears welled into her flower-blue eyes. But soon she had to laugh, for Carrie Trotter was giving a recitation from “The Widow Bedott Papers”⁠—such a comical one about pumpkin pie. Of course, that wasn’t Tennyson either, but then it didn’t do to be too particular.

The curtain jerked back again⁠—oh, what a charming tableau! Fannie Leaf and Prentice Page were “Come Into the Garden, Maud,” and they had rented a rustic gate from a photographer in Wilmington, and twined real climbing roses over it. Fannie knew how pretty she looked under the roses, in her pink satin and Roman pearls, and she felt so happy that she couldn’t keep from laughing. She shook so that the arch shook, too, and some of the petals came drifting down and caught in her yellow curls.

The last tableau was the loveliest of all, “The Lady of Shalott.” May was the Lady, lying all in white on packing boxes covered with draperies. She had Mamma’s white satin wedding slippers on her little feet, and on her breast beneath her crossed hands lay all the Ascension lilies from the garden, sacrificed by Mamma for this great hour. Edward Post was Sir Lancelot in a Tam o’ Shanter with a plume from his Aunt Jo’s best hat; and Robert Leaf was the Dumb Oarsman (for they had mixed in some of Lancelot and Elaine) in Fannie’s tan cape, with the packing-box draperies arranged to hide his boots and trousers.

“ ‘But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott,” ’ ”

read Mrs. Allen with great expression; and May was so beautiful that Lily wept unrestrainedly, and Edward Post looked down at her as if he really loved her.

But she couldn’t get him to sound as if he had when she tried, ever so hard, afterward, while Mrs. Webster and Mr. Bates finished things up with a duet of “Tears, Idle Tears” and Maggie helped poor Aunt Priscilla hunt for the slippers she had kicked off in a moment of relaxation.

“What were you thinking about while our tableau was going on?”

“About a fly that was tickling my nose. What were you?”

“I shan’t tell you.” (A fly, indeed!)

“Oh, come on!”

“You’d just laugh.”

(“ ‘So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more’ ”

warbled Mrs. Webster, boomed Mr. Bates.)

“I know I must have looked perfectly crazy⁠—”

“I know what you’re fishing for, young lady, and it won’t hurt you to work a little for it,” thought Edward, and added aloud cruelly:

“Who’s that pretty girl in pink?” He was a new young man, and had just come to live with his Aunt Jo and Uncle Henry Allen while he worked in Wilmington.

“Which one? Oh! Oh, you mean her? That’s Fannie Leaf. Do you think she’s pretty? Goodness, men are funny!”

And she laughed, but she looked so much as if she would rather cry that he decided she should have her compliment at once.

“Yes, I think she’s pretty as a picture⁠—I think she’s the second prettiest girl here.”

“Who’s the prettiest?” asked May, reviving like a wilted flower put into water, and trying to look as if she couldn’t guess.

“Don’t you really know?”

“May, you haven’t seen Aunt Priscilla’s slippers, have you?” asked Maggie, coming up.

“My sister Maggie, Mr. Post.”

“ ‘⁠—deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,’ ”

sang Mrs. Webster and Mr. Bates.

“How do you do, Mr. Post. Have you, May? She took them off because they were so tight⁠—” She moved away.

“Mercy, I wish these slippers were too tight! They’ve been falling off all evening!”

“That’s because you have such tiny feet.”

“Oh, now you’re making fun of me⁠—”

He took her out to the carriage. She was dreadfully excited. Mamma tried to put a sensible wrap about her gleaming shoulders, but she twitched it off impatiently.

“Oh, Mamma! I don’t need that!”

(To put a stuffy old cape about moon-silver and lilies! She lifted her face a little, to the stars.)

“There’s a chill in the night air, honey. Well, goodnight, Mr.⁠—er⁠—goodnight! What’s the young man’s name, May?”

“Sh, Mamma! He’ll hear you. Post. He’s the Henry Allens’ nephew.”

“I thought Stewy Grant was going to be Sir Lancelot.”

“He fell out of a cherry tree this morning and knocked out a front tooth, so he wouldn’t, and Mrs. Allen got Mr. Post. He’s coming over for archery on the lawn next Saturday afternoon.”

Already she was walking down the aisle on his arm⁠—shimmer of satin, foam of lace, and an armful of lilies. They left the church, they entered the carriage. He and she, alone.

“You were carrying lilies when first I saw you⁠—do you remember?”

“I remember, my Lancelot!”

“My pure, white lily⁠—my wife!”

And Mamma, as she answered, “That will be very nice, pet,” was holding her first grandchild in her arms.

“We’ll make some ice-cream to have when you finish your archery.”

“Oh, Mamma, no!” May’s voice was anguished. “Goodness, what would he think?”

“He’d think it was very nice, if I know anything about boys.”

“Oh, Mamma, he isn’t a boy! And he’d think we were so crazy about having him come⁠—!”

“But, honey, we could just act as if we were going to have it for supper anyway.”

“Oh, no⁠—!”

“All right, we needn’t have it, I’m sure! I just wanted to make things pleasant for your friends.” Mamma was dignified, but tears were near.

“May, I think you’re horrid when Mamma plans a treat for you,” Maggie said severely.

“Well, I know, it’s lovely of Mamma, but he’d think we cared whether he came or not!”

“And you don’t care! Oh, my, no! Oh, I guess not!” jeered Victor.

“May’s got a beau,
Oh, oh, oh,
May’s got a beau
Oh, oh, oh!”

“Mamma! Make him stop! He thinks he’s so funny!” May wailed, and burst into a storm of tears.

Old Major ambled along. It was late, so late that the tollgate was lifted for the night, and Lily was fast asleep in the back of the carriage. Maggie was driving. They didn’t like to keep Albert up now that he had all the work to do.

“ ‘Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,’ ”

Maggie sang to herself, silently, inside her head. Then she thought of Aunt Priscilla and her pale blue tail. May was still shaking with sobs⁠—what had been the matter with them all? Such a fuss about that Mr. Post⁠—but she was ashamed of herself for having been so cross and bossy.

The sky was swarming with stars⁠—so many, so bright, it made you feel⁠—oh⁠—funny, to look at them. Mm‑m, how sweet! Those were the mock-orange bushes in Miss Perry’s yard. Queer how their fragrance made you feel so happy and yet as if you wanted to cry at the same time. Another smell, not so nice⁠—the tavern pigpen. Pee-yugh!