XV

Even Willie said the new cook was good. When he finished his second cup of coffee and said, “I’ve only had one cup, haven’t I?” Aunt Priscilla was so pleased that she told a story, and said, “Yes, just one,” as she poured out his third. Think of it! Three cups, when usually he only tasted it and pushed it aside.

“Isn’t your coffee all right, Willie?” she would ask him anxiously, and he would answer:

“Coffee, my dear? Oh⁠—do you mean my cup of warmish dishwater?”

Three cups of coffee and two helps of fried chicken and three big pieces of cornbread, and when he finished breakfast he smiled and patted her cheek.

She felt so happy, like a good little girl who has been praised. When he went out, she got down on her knees in the dining-room, with her head on his chair, while flies buzzed around her and the parrot screamed, “Will-lee! Hello! Want a crack-kah? Hello! Oh dear!”

“Our Father which art in Heaven, thank thee ever so much for making Cobina a good cook and thank thee for Willie. Amen.”

She must do something nice for somebody, she felt so happy. The peaches were ripe on her own peach tree, the tree Willie had planted on her first birthday after they were married. She loved her little peach tree⁠—its pink blooming in spring was one of the few things that pierced through the mist that surrounded her, and its peaches were much better than any other peaches. Who should she take them to? Mrs. Holly must be ill, she hadn’t been in church on Sunday. And although the Hollys had dozens of peach trees, Aunt Priscilla filled her basket, wobbling on a kitchen chair. Beautiful miracles of pink and yellow velvet! She could have kissed each one. She did kiss the little tree, softly and shyly, and then looked around in a panic to make sure Washington hadn’t seen her.

She came home from the Hollys walking on air. Over the brook⁠—my goodness, what wobbly stepping stones! Suppose she sat down in the water, wouldn’t those water-spiders be surprised, and the small fish slipping about like shadows? So cool, so clear, for two pins she’d go in paddling. That bright, bright moss at the side with the crystal runlets of water trickling over it, reminded her of the green velvet dress with the crystal beading that Willie had liked, ever so long ago.

Mushrooms! Growing in long white drifts on the short green grass of the pasture. She began to fill her basket, empty now except for its permanent contents of a key that had long ago lost its door, with a bit of dingy red ribbon tied to it; a paper screw of seeds (seeds of what? She hadn’t the least idea); an elderly list of blurred pencilling, headed “Must do”; and a few twists of grubby string. Transient knitting, Christmas cookies, eggs, mail, fruit, and flowers covered them from time to time, but these old residents remained unmoved.

Most of the mushrooms were too old, after all, black and wormy. She got enough big brown-lined umbrellas for a nice little dish, but she couldn’t find any of the silky white ones with the pink linings like the basketful Margaret and the girls brought her last week.

Then, by the edge of the wood, she saw the most beautiful one, all by itself, and further on, another. More beautiful than any of Margaret’s, all silvery, inside and out. She found five before she was through. They gleamed against the shadows of the wood, beautiful, lonely, and white⁠—angels of death.

And then she thought, why not stop and ask Margaret to lunch? Because she loved mushrooms, and here they were, and there was Cobina to cook them.

“Really, Priscilla, she’s a treasure!”

“Willie says so, too,” said Aunt Priscilla, beaming. “No, the mushrooms are all for you⁠—they cook down so, don’t they? No, really, I never want anything else when I have corn-fritters, and Cobina says she wouldn’t be paid to eat them. Toads, she calls them⁠—did you ever? Short for toadstools, I guess. Now take them all or I’ll feel bad, I gathered them especially for you. Co‑o‑bina! Oh, Cobina, you might just let us have a few more of the corn-fritters⁠—do you think she looks all right? She’s so black it’s sort of hard to tell, isn’t it?”

“She’s better than Lizzie’s wonderful fancy cook,” said Mamma, mopping up the mushroom gravy on her biscuit. “What’s the matter with Lizzie, anyway, Priscilla? She’s acting very queer lately⁠—just half a cup⁠—oh, you bad girl, I said half!”

“Don’t tell, but Willie thinks she’s going crazy!” Aunt Priscilla’s eyes looked like pale blue glass marbles ready to pop out of her head. “He went over last Tuesday⁠—was it Tuesday? What day was it the old peddler woman came? Anyway, he wanted Sam to go down state after reedbirds with him, and he said you could hear Lizzie screaming clear out on the road; and, when he got up to the house, he heard Sam sort of yell, ‘You’d better be careful, my lady, or I’ll lock you up, that’s what I’ll do!’ It made Willie feel so queer he never stopped at all⁠—here, let me take away your plate, and I’ll get some chocolate cake.” She opened the lower doors of her husband’s desk, where she kept the cake box, the vanilla bottle, and the broken plates with the hummingbirds and morning-glories that she planned to mend some day.

“Priscilla⁠—excuse me⁠—it comes so quickly, this damp, warm weather⁠—but I don’t believe we’d better eat that, I’m afraid it’s molded just a little.”

“Why, so it has!” She looked at the beautiful cake, so rich and black, but with spots of mold, furry grey on the icing. “Do you think it would hurt? Well, I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Sadly she put the cake back in the box.

“Jo Allen has marked four dozen tea napkins for Maggie.”

“Has she?” She brightened up again, sprinkled sugar thickly on a piece of bread and butter, and settled to enjoyment. “You know I was thinking this morning of a green velvet dress I had the year I was married⁠—I believe if it was steamed it would make over into a right pretty sacque for Maggie. And Willie and I want to give her her great-grandmother’s silver teaspoons. Has Lizzie given her anything yet?”

Beautiful, lonely, and white, the Angel of Death. Whiter than fire, whiter than snow, the great wings curve above Mamma, their shadow covers her. The flies buzz, the parrot says “Oh dear!” and scratches its head, Aunt Priscilla scratches her head, too, and takes a half moon bite of bread and sugar.

Mamma strolled home⁠—the shortcut through the cornfield. The river had never been so blue. Over the stile and up through the garden⁠—two or three more days and the asters would be lovely⁠—oh, such a fine plant broken! That was Victor’s new puppy Bundle, bad little thing.

She stopped to gather a few nasturtiums, thinking, “I believe I could get a whole dress for Maggie out of Priscilla’s green velvet if I had it open over a satin underskirt.” Poor Priscilla! Such a goose, but so kind. She wouldn’t harm a fly.

She paused to eat a peach, looking thoughtful and thinking of nothing. Then across the lawn and into the house. And with her went the Angel of Death.

“Stop and look at your flowers, little child, and I will wait for you. Eat your peach, there is no hurry. No need to hurry now, we are nearly there.”

The house was still, for the children had gone on a picnic. She could hear her canaries hopping and swinging in their cages. How cool and fresh the darkened house was after Priscilla’s sunny dusty rooms. That was a good cook, though. She had enjoyed her lunch.

Should she go and tell Martha she was home? Better not, perhaps, in case she wasn’t expected so soon. It had been embarrassing all around, last week, after Martha had said there wasn’t any cold duck left, to come upon her feeding it to a strange young darkie. She was forty if she was a day, too, the silly! But Mamma certainly didn’t want to catch her at anything she would have to disapprove of.

She went up to her room and took off her dress. Just a little lie-down before supper.

The great wings drooped above her, closer, closer. “Go to sleep, little child. I will be here when you wake.”

Every night Maggie almost prayed that Edward would come to her in her dreams. Praying was done on your knees, in churches and by bedsides, beginning properly, “Our Father” or “O Blessed Lord,” and dealing in stately language with reformation or protection. Almost praying was the quick warm gush of gratitude or pleading: “Oh, thank you!”, when Edward’s letter was extra long, or “Please please let me dream of him,” every night as she fell asleep.

But she dreamed of Mamma and the girls, of old Benny Brown with his beard in a braid, of Lossie’s black baby, of Victor’s new puppy⁠—anybody, anything but Edward.

The long-nosed market-woman who always had the nice cheese and the tight bunches of marigolds and red bee-balm was sitting up in a pine tree on the drive. Knock! Knock! Knock! Maggie could see the long sharp nose sticking out from her sunbonnet as she struck it against the tree trunk like a giant woodpecker. Knock! Knock!

But she’d ruin the pine tree! Shoo!

Spreading her shawl, the market-woman flapped through the air, and settled in another tree, far off. Knock! Knock! Knock! It was fainter now.

Maggie rose from the sea of sleep and drifted, nearly awake, on the surface. The knocking came again.

She sat up in bed, listening. How queer! It came low down on her door, so low that she saw, still half-dreaming, a dwarf in the dark hall, knocking.

“Maggie⁠—”

It was Mamma, huddled on the floor, leaning against the door.

“Oh, Maggie, I’m so sick⁠—”

“Oh, poor Mamma! Come, let me get you back to bed.”

“My stomach aches so⁠—and my legs⁠—” She lay in her bed, her knees drawn up, whimpering a little, her blue beseeching eyes darkening with pain as pools darken in a storm.

Maggie waited in the kitchen for the water to heat. The loud hurrying tick of the clock, the slow drip of the water-tap, the dark high ceiling, high as the night, that the faint light of her lamp could not reach, made her feel weak with loneliness. She was frightened⁠—something was waiting in the dark behind her. “Edward⁠—!” she called across the miles.

Then a chill of terror crinkled over her as she heard Mamma scream.

Three days, three nights. That screaming, thin as a knife, that shaking, that hurling back and forth in the deep white bed. Nothing could counteract the poison of that dish Aunt Priscilla had offered her so lovingly. Dr. Chase couldn’t help her, no one could help her, though everyone came to ask, driving up with baskets of grapes and autumn flowers, and saying, “If there’s anything we can do⁠—!” Martha worked all day and most of the night, good as gold, feeling sad and excited and bursting with importance. On Sunday morning the congregation prayed for Margaret, stealing glances full of that strange excitement at the Campions’ empty pew.

“O Father of mercies and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need; look down from heaven, we humbly beseech thee, behold, visit, and relieve thy sick servant⁠—”

The peaceful grey walls with their moss-rosebuds and lace, the fresh, white curtains, the piled white clouds in the soft sky, looked at Mamma tranquilly. The stoppers of her perfume bottles threw splashes of rainbows over her white bed. And all this still rose and silver brightness, this sweet, accustomed peace, held in its heart the black whirlpool in which she was sinking.

Comfort came to her twice through her pain, not in the thought of Papa, not in prayer. Once May brought in a vase of fragrant, pink tea-roses blurred with a silvery bloom of dew, with delicate sprays of dusk red leaves, and Mamma’s tortured and bewildered eyes saw them and loved them. And once she whispered, “Maggie, if I⁠—if anything should happen, promise you’ll always take care of Victor.”

“Oh, I will, I will!”

She smiled. For a moment she floated at peace, before the dark tumult sucked her in again.

She longed for Victor passionately, but she wouldn’t let him come to her, for fear of frightening him.

“Can’t I see Mamma, Maggie?”

“Not just yet, honey. Wait until she’s better.”

“Would she like Bundle?”

“Not just yet.”

So he would go and hide in the wagon-shed, behind the sea-blue farm cart, out of hearing of that thin tortured screaming. And Bundle, all big paws and soft, clumsy heaviness and sad, anxious eyes, was companion and comforter and handkerchief.

Maggie passed through and beyond ordinary exhaustion. She saw everything, the tiniest things, the blue and silver star of beads on Papa’s red cloth watch-pocket, Aunt Priscilla’s small pear shaped tears that never stopped, the tufts of cotton in Martha’s ears, the tiny green-white spider on the black grapes Cousin Sam brought, with a queer bright clearness. Everything had become brilliant, intense, and strange, like the reflections and colors in a soap bubble just before it breaks.

She sat by the window at the end of the third night, watching the sky and the river turn the faint silver of a moth’s wing. Just at dawn a light wind touched her cheek, gentle and comforting. The sky kindled to a sheet of living rose, and the river was a golden river of life, flowing into her heart, flowing out from her heart as she watched, sitting there quietly, not knowing that Mamma was dead.