XIV

Now that they could only afford to keep Albert outside and Martha in the house, Mamma and the girls had ever so much more to do. They even had to let lame Joseph go. He had swept the porches and limped around the table in his white house-jacket; as Mamma said, he was awkward and slow, but he did. But they really couldn’t afford him any more.

And Martha wasn’t what she used to be. Whenever the weather was hot she groaned and held her side and mumbled so Mamma couldn’t understand a word.

“What, Martha?”

“Ah doan feel right good. Ah done got a misery.”

“Where is it? Does your head ache?”

“No, ma’am, taint ezzackly mah haid, but Ah doan feel like puttin’ out much today.”

“None of us do in this hot weather, but you don’t hear Miss Maggie and me going on as if we were dying.”

Mumble.

“What, Martha?”

But all you could hear was grumble, mumble, grumble. You couldn’t be sure she was being impertinent, but then you couldn’t be sure she wasn’t. She had been so cross and disobliging this morning that Mamma had punished her by making the piccalilli herself, with Maggie’s help.

Oh, what a day! The flies crawled ticklingly over their faces or buzzed despairingly from the saucer of molasses Martha had put on the windowsill to catch them⁠—poor things, how they struggled. Mamma’s face was crimson and wet as she bent over the hot stove, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist, and her head buzzed like a thousand flies. Maggie chopped cabbages and peppers until her hands were shaking, carried leftovers out to the pig-bucket⁠—pugh!⁠—and felt as if the whole house was a bubbling pot of piccalilli, with herself boiling in the midst.

Later that afternoon, when the jars were all filled, she and Edward lay in canvas chairs under the pear tree. It was so hot, so still, a storm was coming. Pears had fallen in the grass, some of the ripest had burst, and wasps crawled over them. She was tired and languid, not only from her morning over the stove. Even the still air was heavy, pressing them down in their chairs, pressing the pears down on the grass until the juice ran out of their broken sides.

“Look, Maggie,” said Edward, speaking slowly, like someone half asleep. A butterfly, blue in the sunshine, black in shadow, had drifted through the heat and settled on a spot of squashed pear. She answered him⁠—or did she? She was heavy with love for him as the yellow pears in the tree were heavy with sweetness. When he took her in his arms, she was so weak she could not have stood without him. His lips moved slowly over her face.

A blue-black curtain of clouds rolled over the sky, the wind turned the river to lead, flattened the grass in the fields, pelted down the pears. Up at the house shutters were banging, people were running to the windows, slamming them down before the storm should break. The wind kindled Maggie’s cheeks, strained back her thin, dark blue dress until she was a flying victory. And now she was all alive again, and light as a mounting flame, and Edward too was flaming⁠—

“ ‘Je-ru-sa-lem the go-ol-den,’ ”

boomed Mr. Bates, up and down⁠—much too loud, thought Miss Martin at the organ, it really drowned out all the rest of the choir. Something tactful would have to be said again⁠—oh dear!

“ ‘With milk and honey blest⁠—’ ”

The choir was marching out. Stewy Grant wondered if he could possibly hold in his sneeze until they got into the robing room⁠—those wild asters and goldenrod sprays on the altar!

“ ‘Beneath thy contem-pla-shuhun⁠—’ ”

That was where Mrs. Webster’s voice soared higher than the steeple!

“ ‘Sink heart and voice opprest.’ ”

Then, muted by the closed door, “A‑men,” and Stewy’s sneeze. Mumble, mumble, mumble, and then another “A‑men.” Miss Martin set the organ pealing, and the congregation could lift up its heads from the pew backs and go out into the sunshine.

Mamma was ashamed of herself⁠—or at least she knew she ought to be⁠—but she hadn’t heard a word of the sermon, for thinking of Edward and Maggie, and they had wandered even into the prayers and the benediction. She held quite a reception on the church lawn.

“Yes, indeed, we’re very much pleased,” said she. “Of course, it’s sad to lose a daughter; but as you say, I’ll be gaining a⁠—Good morning, Mrs. Farley, isn’t it a lovely morning? Good morning, Hessie dear, how sweet you look! I never saw such a girl⁠—a new dress every time I see you. Yes, indeed, we’re very much pleased, he’s a very dear boy. Good morning, Mr. Leaf. Yes, indeed. They’re walking home⁠—yes, we’re very fond of him. I don’t know what I’ll do without her, but then⁠—oh, not until next autumn anyway. Lily pet, run back and see if Mamma left her fan in the pew⁠—oop!⁠—don’t fall over your feet, honey. Good morning, Miss Martin! Thank you! Yes, indeed⁠—!”

“Goodness! You’d think nobody in the world had ever got engaged before,” Miss Hessie Farley said gloomily to Mrs. Farley as they walked away. “Such a fuss⁠—!”

“Oh, yes, he’s nice, but can you imagine feeling sentimental about him?” May asked her friends.

Poor Aunt Priscilla said it was exactly like Willie and her all over again, and offered her grandmother’s lace wedding-veil. But she couldn’t find it anywhere, until⁠—pop!⁠—while she was screaming, “Work, for the night is coming,” in Sunday school, she remembered that she had put it over some plates of caramels up in the attic to keep off the flies. She had made them for a surprise for Willie, that’s why she’d hidden them up there; and then, of course, she’d forgotten them. She was so afraid she’d forget again that she kept saying, “Caramels⁠—caramels,” to herself all through the psalms, all through the sermon.

“Hear my prayer, O Lord: (caramels) and let my crying come unto thee.

“Hide not thy (caramels) face from me in the time of my trouble: incline thine ear unto me when I call; (caramels, caramels, caramels).”

They had been there nearly a year, so they probably wouldn’t be very good. Still, it wouldn’t hurt just to try them.

The mice had tried them, and tried the veil, too. But May, who was clever with her needle, mended it so that you wouldn’t have known.

Victor was pleased with the engagement because he thought now he could ride Edward’s bicycle.

“Margaret drove over to announce the forthcoming nuptials,” Cousin Lizzie said to Cousin Sam. “That means a silver tea-set. Really, the woman’s ridiculous! They haven’t a penny between them, and she was clucking like old Speckle when she’s laid an egg!”

Mamma had tried to make Maggie and Edward drive to the Blows with her, but they escaped to the autumn garden. He was trying to learn the names of the flowers because she loved them so.

“Chrysanthemum, Edward.”

“Chrysanthemum. What’s this brown one?”

“Chrysanthemum, too. Zinnia.”

“Zinnia. Oh, Maggie, you beautiful girl!”

Her heart cried, “Oh, darling, darling, darling, say it again!” But aloud she said scornfully:

“You must enjoy hearing yourself talk!”

“And what’s this?”

“A zinnia, just the same as it was two minutes ago.”

And they looked at each other laughing, shining with inward light. They were always laughing⁠—laughter charged with excitement, laughter that left them trembling.

“What’s the joke, children?”

“Nothing, Mamma, really and truly there isn’t any joke.”

And there wasn’t, but Mamma could never believe it, and her feelings were dreadfully hurt. But they couldn’t stop. Sitting in church, going to supper at the Blows, they didn’t dare look at each other, because they were bursting to laugh.

He laughed at her, and she loved it, even when he laughed at things she meant perfectly seriously. Because he never laughed at the wrong things. He understood so wonderfully that sometimes she thought she was dying of happiness. When she told him, shy, even with him, the things other people would have waited for her to finish⁠—the word, the broken sentence⁠—the tears came into her eyes as he answered, “I know, my darling.”

Even when they fought, when they were furious at each other, they felt as if sparkles and flames were running over them, leaping towards each other.

Lily couldn’t understand it at all. She thought when people were engaged they exchanged locks of hair and held each other’s hands. Two pale pink hearts tied together with a pale blue ribbon. How could Edward and Maggie talk to each other the way they did?

“It’s tremendously stimulating,” Edward explained.

“Edward makes me so mad!” added Maggie. They smiled at each other, and again the invisible lightning leapt.

“You mustn’t be so selfish, children,” Mamma reproved them. “You mustn’t grumble so when people ask you out. It’s very kind of them.”

So they went to evening parties; and Mamma, beaming, handed Edward around like a plate of delicious cake.

“Mrs. Holly, this is Mr. Post! Cousin Jennie, I want you to know Edward⁠—”

And Maggie, in her flounced and frilled white ball gown with a bodice like a black satin corset, was saying:

“Thank you⁠—thank you ever so much. Yes, isn’t he? We don’t know yet. Thank you, Cousin Jennie. Yes, indeed, I am. Oh, not for ever so long.”

“Maggie, hurry up! Stop talking and come!” And his voice sounded quite desperate. Oh, together again! “The Blue Danube”⁠—how sad, how sweet! Was she going to disgrace herself by crying at a party?

“Edward⁠—”

“Yes, darling, I know.”

But sometimes, when he talked to Cousin Sam and Uncle Willie about fishing and shooting, he looked so interested, so absorbed, that she thought, “This is his real life; this is what really interests him.” Sadness and loneliness covered her, darkening the light. And then to find that he had suffered as much as she all those hours, those years, when they were not alone together!

One Sunday in spring a late snow fell, light and wet, so that everything was deep in swansdown. The scillas were already in bloom, and she cleared the snow from them to show him, while the flakes still sifted from the grey sky, melting on their cheeks.

He hardly looked at them, but why did the patch of blue flowers in the white snow make her so happy? And why did old Mrs. Latter suddenly pop into her head⁠—old Mrs. Latter, who had been dead for years? She hadn’t thought of her since the day Mamma took her there when she was a little bit of a girl⁠—how long ago? But now she saw the wrinkled, white cheeks like crumpled tissue-paper, with their big spots of moth-wing brown; smelled cologne⁠—

What was it? She must remember⁠—she mustn’t lose it. It was something that mattered tremendously to Edward and to her.

And just as she gave up, came the feeling of soft little hands on her heart, light as the touch of the snow. And through all the years between she saw, hanging on Mrs. Latter’s wall, the circle of scilla-blue, the circle of Heaven, and the snow-white baby holding his arms wide open⁠—waiting for her, holding out his hands to be taken.

One evening at the supper table Maggie said, too casually, too airily:

“Edward’s going out West.”

“No!” said Mamma. Lily stopped mopping up the chicken gravy with her bread, and stared with round blue eyes and round pink mouth.

“The company never sent such a young man before⁠—and it means quite a lot more salary.”

“Then you can get married sooner,” May said, smiling at her.

“Yes!” Oh, darling May! Maggie’s heart glowed with gratitude.

“Poor little girl,” said Mamma.

“I want him to go! He asked me if he should, and I told him to go.”

“Don’t you mind?” asked Lily.

(“I have been sentenced to death next week.”

“Don’t you mind?”)

“Would he like us to keep his bicycle for him?” Victor suggested in a small respectful voice. “I’d keep it oiled and everything, and I wouldn’t ride it and I wouldn’t let Jake ride it either. You ask him, Maggie.”

Under the table Maggie squeezed her brother’s hand. The darling!

But she didn’t realize that Edward was really going, as day after day went by, until tomorrow was the day.

Here he was, here, his coat, his cheek, his hair, here to be touched and felt, his arms holding her close. Now he is here! Tomorrow he will be gone. How can it be possible that of their own volition they will part, he will go, she will stay?

When she was in his arms, he felt as if he would never dare let her go. Suppose he should lose her. A bird lies in your hands, yours to keep for always. But open your hands and the bird is lost in the sky, and, if you wait forever, your hands will still be empty.

“Maggie⁠—it won’t be so terribly long⁠—”

“It won’t be⁠—a bit⁠—” She turned her head away and bent down a branch of the snowball bush, broke off a still green snowball, and slowly, carefully, began to pull it apart and make little heaps of the blossoms on the bench beside her, three in each heap. A tear splashed down beside them.

“You’re crying!”

“I’m not!” She turned to show him she wasn’t, tears streaming over her face, her body shaken by tearing sobs.

“Mag‑gie! Oh, Mag‑gie!”

From the porch Victor’s voice calling her. Then louder⁠—then far away.

“Mag‑gie!”

“Maggie, Maggie, promise you’ll always love me!”

Oh, she could promise that! She could even laugh as she promised.

“Maggie, where are you?”

“Here, Victor.”

“Oh!” The voice came to a standstill behind a hedge, sympathetically distant. “Well, Mamma said to tell you you must come in, she says to tell you it’s getting very chilly and you have a cold.”

“All right, we’re coming.”

Edward went down on the grass at her feet, clinging to her, burying his face on her knees. Night was coming, and lifting her lips from the dear head, the dark head, she saw each star in the sky change to a cross through her tears.

The family went to bed early, so that Maggie and Edward could be alone for their last, aching goodbyes. But Mamma couldn’t sleep. For the third time she lit her candle, and looked at Papa’s big watch that hung in the beaded pocket at the head of the bed. It was dreadfully late. He ought to have gone home ever so long ago.

“Well, I’m not going to worry about them,” she told herself. But she lay rigid, almost afraid to breathe, waiting for the sound of the front door closing and Maggie climbing the creaking stairs.

The house was coming alive⁠—here a whisper, there a patter, not of mice nor of rain. It was breathing, you could hear it sigh.

“Perhaps he’s gone home without my hearing,” thought Mamma. “Anyway, I’m just going quietly to sleep.”

So she got up and stole out into the hall and sat down on the blanket box at the top of the stairs. There wasn’t a sound, but the lamp in the downstairs hall was still burning, and by leaning over she could see his hat lying on the sofa. This was nonsense! Such an hour! What were those crazy children thinking of? She would just call over the stairs⁠—

What made the whole house feel so strange, trembling and alive? The banister seemed to quiver under her hand. The ticking of the clock on the stairs sounded like water falling, drop by drop⁠—water that could never be gathered up again.

Cautiously, silently, she got up, avoided the squeaking board, went back into her room, and closed the door.