XXIII

While we still feel that we are just entering the sea we look back, and how far we have come! How far away are the seashells and sandcastles of childhood. We can see them, but we can’t go back to them. No matter how tired or frightened we are, we have to swim on out to sea.

Forty-one years old! Maggie couldn’t believe it. She didn’t feel forty-one a bit! Of course, she was often tired now⁠—she, who had never been tired. But she got up so early and went so hard all day. And then sometimes she didn’t sleep very well, but that was when she let herself think of Edward.

Forty-one! Mamma had only been forty-two when she died⁠—impossible to be almost as old as Mamma, almost disrespectful. And she couldn’t feel grownup inside her⁠—or did older people have these young feelings⁠—were they shy, not quite sure of themselves, glowing with love at a kindness, delighted with something pretty to wear or something good to eat, and sometimes wanting more than anything to stick out their tongues and make faces⁠—and did they just hide them under dark clothes and quiet ways?

The Campions were so poor that they were all trying to earn a little extra money. Twice a week Maggie drove in to The Woman’s Exchange with her cakes and May’s lampshades and little crêpe paper baskets to hold candies or ice-cream. Such pretty baskets, pale violet with purple paper violets tied with a bow of baby ribbon to the handle, pale green with buttercups, and pink with something charming, though none of them quite knew what. Or sometimes the baskets were like big cabbage roses. When there was a special order Maggie would help. Lily longed to help too, but her clumsy fingers tore the thin tissue paper and dropped glue on May’s exquisite petals, and her violets weren’t violets, but only crumpled balls, good for nothing but for the kitten to pat across the room and pounce on. So she read aloud to them while they worked, Ships That Pass in the Night and Sweet Bells Out of Tune, nearly yawning her head off, and driving them wild, by pausing every now and then to read ahead to herself a little, just to see what was going to happen.

She was trying to earn something, too, by giving music lessons. She wasn’t very accurate, but her four pupils were all beginners, and she could play over their pieces, “Joy and Frolic Galop,” “The Little Penitent,” “The Brooklet,” or “Dolly’s Funeral,” with a great deal of ripple and expression. She had Sissie and Mary Holly, Stewy Grant’s little boy, and Miss Taylor, the postmaster’s daughter; and most of the lesson times were taken up in cozy chats, telling her troubles, offering freshly baked cookies and having one or two herself, or taking her pupils into the garden to see Maggie’s Oriental poppies.

“Music seems to mean so much to me!” Lily often said, and she was a trifle complacent at not being able to listen without tears to “Ten thousand times ten thousand,” that had been sung at Mamma’s funeral. “It’s funny, music always makes me feel like praying.” But everything made Lily feel like praying. Her bedtime prayers were so long and elaborate that, over and over again, she fell asleep in the midst of them, waking up later cold and stiff and drenched with moonlight. She had become very High Church, and while she hadn’t quite the courage to call Mr. Nelson “Father Nelson,” especially as he had a large family, her genuflections, and crossings, and flopping down on her knees in the middle of the Nicene Creed, provided much material for conversation at the Sunday dinner tables of the rest of the congregation. “Regular Roman Catholic!” was the general opinion. It was a dreadful nuisance having to have an egg or sardines for her on Fridays, and Maggie was always forgetting. Once they had had chicken salad for Friday supper, and Lily hadn’t been able to keep from crying.

She thought of Lord Jesus so much, Gentle Jesus, who had loved her⁠—and all mankind, of course⁠—so much that he had died for her; and thinking of him her blue eyes swam with tears, her whole body seemed to melt into tears, tender and warm as spring rain.

“We must try to please our dear Lord Jesus Christ, children, mustn’t we?” she would say to her Sunday school class, and the little boys would look back at her solemnly from above ruffled collars and butterfly bows, the little girls from under hats like saucers holding cones of ice-cream, and agree politely; “Yes, Miss Lily.”

She did try so hard to please him, and live the spiritual life. Arranging the bouquets in Grandmother’s brass altar vases, she couldn’t help feeling sometimes, when there were strangers who had come early, that they might be whispering, as she made the flowers spray out or knelt before the altar, touched by the sunlight falling through the amber glass, “What a spiritual face! Who is she?”

Her Sunday school class! Her altar flowers! She was bursting with enthusiasm at first; and, when they got to be dreadful bores, she wouldn’t admit it even to herself. For if they were gone what would be left?

For a little while she thought Mr. Marshall would be left. She met him at Hessie Farley’s Valentine euchre party, in a romantic setting of red cardboard hearts, heart-shaped sandwiches, heart-shaped cakes with beetroot-reddened icing, and large crimson hearts of geranium blossoms. Mrs. Farley talked for a year about how much trouble it had all been. He was a rather wooden gentleman, but Lily garlanded him with the vine leaves of her imagination, and at parting he humorously offered her his scorecard heart, and asked if he might call some Saturday evening.

“Most evenings my rule is early to bed⁠—‘early to bed, early to rise,’ you know! But on Sundays I sleep an hour later in the morning, so I sit up an hour later on Saturday nights,” he explained.

So Lily, all in a flutter, took to running across the road to see old Mrs. Clark on Saturday evenings, hoping that Mr. Marshall would come to call.

“Good evening, Miss Campion. Is Miss Lily in?”

“Good evening, Mr. Marshall. Excuse me a moment and I’ll call my sister⁠—she’s just across the road. She goes so often to see a poor old neighbor.”

And Mr. Marshall would think reverently, “Sweet Saint Charity!”

She tried to open doors into a world of wonders for Mrs. Clark.

“You know in India there’s a wonderful building called the Taj Mahal, all carved out of marble so that it looks as fine as lace, that an Indian rajah built in memory of his wife.”

“Patience guide me! Squaws they call them, don’t they? My nephew Will’s wife sent me a picture last week from the World’s Fair, and it said on it ‘Chief Big Crow and his squaw Little Cloud.’ ”

“But this is a different kind of Indian, Mrs. Clark⁠—Indians that live in India, way across the ocean, and ride around on elephants⁠—”

“Well, different kind or not, I wouldn’t trust ’em. Scalp you as soon as look at you, I’ve always heard tell.”

And all the time Lily was listening for the click of the gate, steps on the path, Maggie’s breathless voice saying, “Lily! Mr. Marshall’s over at the house!” But he never came, and it just let her in for a tiresome custom, for what could she do when Mrs. Clark greeted her with, “I was just settin’ here in the dark feelin’ so lonesome, and hopin’ my uttermost best that you’d come!”

Every Saturday night Lily carried a bunch of flowers to Mrs. Clark, so that Mr. Clark’s grave, conveniently next to the Methodist Church, might be admired on Sunday. Suppose, just suppose, that Mr. Marshall arrived some evening as she came down the drive under the shadowy pines, her arms full of feathered tulips⁠—or coppery snapdragon and creamy roses, as time went on⁠—or asters⁠—chrysanthemums⁠—tulips⁠—

“Where are you taking your armful of flowers?”

“I’m just running across the road⁠—I take them every week to a poor old neighbor, to put on her husband’s grave.”

And he would say, a note of reverence stealing into his voice:

“Sweet Saint Charity!”

Mrs. Clark looked critically at each Saturday’s offering. She had a reputation to keep up.

“Thank you kindly. Them white roses last week was as beautiful as if they’d been artificial⁠—I suppose they’re all gone? Everybody always admires poor Lewis’s grave, it has the handsomest bouquets of any in the graveyard.”

“The old show-off!” Maggie exclaimed crossly, picking her prettiest roses for the Saturday bouquet.

Everybody came to The Maples for flowers, Maggie complained; but she was proud, too. Taking care of the garden used up all the time she had left from cooking and the house. Just picking the sweetpeas took hours, although all three of them picked. It was such hot work, picking out there in the truck patch, remembering to snip off old blossoms and seedpods, and not pick sprays with buds. Lily cheated sometimes, and May relieved the monotony by spelling out the names of men she knew⁠—a flower to a letter. A, b, c, three sweetpeas, then eight sweetpeas for h, then one for a, and so on, to spell “Charles Bradley,” or some other man. She pretended it was a little charm that would make them think of her lovingly.

They were all so bored with the work of picking and arranging, and yet complacent about it, for people were always saying to them, “Nobody has such sweetpeas as yours!” The milkpails full of water waited among the little green windfalls under the apple trees by the edge of the truck patch. Great milkpails full of sweetpeas, shading from white to palest pink through to almost black, and the special milkpail for the ones from light violet to deep purple. May would bury her face in them, kissing them, pouring out her love on them.

She had so much love to give, she longed for so much love. And the lonely years were flowing past so quickly. As she covered the enormous lampshade frames, with puffed and flounced silk, lace petticoats, and bunches of artificial flowers caught by ribbon bows, all of her but the little bit of her brain that directed her flashing fingers was lost in a dream of love. She was with her lover, cheek to cheek they spoke to each other in low and broken voices, their fingers laced together⁠—

“Oh, my darling, where are you? Come to me, save me, before it’s too late!”

“I am young!” she cried to herself. “Are you?” her mirror answered as she sat before it trying her hair in different ways until late, late into the night.

There were little lines on her face⁠—yes, but only in a strong light. And what had become of the lovely warm rose of her cheeks? Well, anyone might be pale.

In one of the fashion magazines Aunt Priscilla lent them, were directions for making a collarette of pale pink chiffon. The magazine said it would cast a youthful and becoming glow. There was plenty of crumpled pink chiffon in the piece box, from the front of an evening dress Maggie had worn when she was engaged to Edward, and some odds and ends of ecru lace for trimming. It tied with broad satin ribbon⁠—she bought that. She had to buy something sometimes, she told herself defiantly. Hers was prettier than the one in the magazine. And yet, when it was done, and she looked at herself in the glass, she burst into tears. What was the use?

But she would be young. You weren’t old just because you’d lost your color and looked rather tired.

In a Philadelphia shop where no one would know her, she bought a box of rouge, asking for it in such a low voice that she had to repeat the dreadful word.

“For amateur theatricals,” she told the shopgirl haughtily.

She put a little on when she dressed to go into Wilmington to a subscription dance with Victor, who was always going to dances. Generally he went to dinners before, but this time he offered to take the girls in. Maggie only laughed, and Lily was frightened at the idea, but May wanted to go.

Her dress was pretty, she knew that, with gold-colored dots all over the white net skirt, and big balloon sleeves of gold-colored velvet, and she had brand new bronze slippers with high heels and tiny pointed toes in her slipper-bag. She and Victor had to run for the train along the frozen ruts, their breath puffing out, turning to little white clouds. Fun to run, as if you were a little girl again!

“This air⁠—like champagne⁠—It makes me feel⁠—as if I were⁠—fizzing⁠—”

“Just in time! Here she comes!”

“Whoo! My side! I never⁠—saw⁠—whoo!⁠—such bright stars!”

In the train the windows were all steamy. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes felt big and shining. People were looking at her. Victor began to whistle “Ever of Thee” under his breath, and her feet danced a tiny waltz under her skirt. She could see herself entering the ballroom, pausing a moment, unconscious of the sensation she was making. The orchestra was playing “Ever of Thee,” and the music caught her up, she danced on its waves light as sun-gilded foam on the waves of the sea.

“Gad, what a narrow escape! I almost didn’t come tonight⁠—and I might never have met you!”

“Your eyes are as deep as pools in a dark forest⁠—I am drowning in them.”

Oh!

He might be there, whoever he was, wonderful, different from all the world, knowing at a glance how different she was, too.

But in the dressing-room, where the debutantes were pulling on their gloves, pinning great puddings of violets on to themselves (and they needed a great deal of anchoring) and looking over their shoulders at the new glory of their trains, she felt old and cold. Just the way they stopped pushing each other aside from the pier-glass, and made way for her, just their polite changed voices when they spoke to her.

Victor was kind⁠—she didn’t want him to be. She danced three times, Victor, Raymond Line, a mature demure hop with old Judge Kelsey; and then talked brightly, feverishly to Mrs. Kelsey through one dance⁠—two dances⁠—three dances⁠—

Holding up her train and looking at it with a worried little frown, she hurried from the ballroom. It was torture to go through the ranks of “stags,” with their glove-fitting, white waistcoats, their chins propped up by their high collars, their hair parted in the middle and plastered down on either side.

“Not deserting us, Miss Campion?”

“Oh, no, indeed, but a stitch in time, you know!”

In the dressing-room she peeled off her gloves, took off a slipper and put it on again, looked in the mirror and touched her hair, drew out a hairpin and pushed it in, touched her puffed sleeves, pulled out Mamma’s lace wedding handkerchief and just touched it to her nose, tucked it away. If only the colored maid hadn’t stood there, looking at her, she could have cried a little and felt better. But she couldn’t stay in the dressing-room all night. Humming a waltz tune she drew her gloves on slowly.

Two girls burst in, warm, tingling, with melted stars in their eyes, and moist bright cheeks. They really did need repairs! One’s hair was coming down, and the other had torn off yards of flounce.

“My dear! Every waltz with J.!”

“I didn’t! Well, anyway, you needn’t talk! Oh, that awful barn dance! I haven’t a hairpin left, and I look like a freak!”

“It wrecks one’s coiffure, doesn’t it?” said May eagerly, and one girl stared at her, while the other, who knew her, replied politely:

“Yes, indeed, Miss Campion.”

And then in her natural voice, a voice quivering with joy, singing with the knowledge of her prettiness, her white satin gown, her dance-card cram-jam full, and J. waiting for her, she cried to her friend:

“My dear! Look at the way these flowers have stained my new dress, if you please! I’m simply brokenhearted!”

Maggie slept lightly, dozing, waking, until she was sure “the children” were safely home. And after she heard their doors shut, she began to wonder if they had remembered to put out the hall lamp. Oh, it was much too cold to get up! But still, she wouldn’t be able to go to sleep until she was sure.

In the hall she thought she heard the sound of sobbing from May’s room, but, when she called softly through the crack of the door, “May! Are you all right?” there was silence. She must have heard the wind that had risen and was crying around the house.

Still, it was a relief to hear from May next morning that she had had a beautiful time, when Maggie brought her breakfast up to her to have in bed, late, for a treat.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Wonderful! Heavenly music, and the floor was divine.”

“Who did you have for partners? Anyone I know?”

“I-don’t-believe so. Most of them were strangers. Everyone’s wearing things in their hair, Maggie⁠—I was glad I wore my gold lace butterfly, though it was very modest and meek compared to the diamond stars and crescents and things most of them had. Mrs. Kelsey had gold antennæ with diamond dangles on the tips.”

“Mrs. Kelsey with antennæ!” cried Maggie scornfully. “She’s a right hefty butterfly, is all I have to say. Didn’t everyone think your dress was pretty?”

“I guess so.”

“Didn’t you dance with anyone I know?”

“Judge Kelsey and Raymond Line, but they weren’t exactly thrilling. Here’s my card, but they’re mostly initials.”

And there it was, as full as could be, every waltz and barn dance and pas de quatre filled in by May herself with different handwritings.

“My, you must have had fun! Victor said you were evidently having a violent flirtation in some cozy corner, he hardly saw you all evening except at supper. Was it good? What did they have? I ought to be down making doughnuts.”

“Oh, broiled oysters and salad⁠—you know.”

“May Campion! Who’s A. J.? Every waltz with A. J.! ‘Love’s Kiss,’ A. J., ‘Je T’Aime,’ A. J., ‘Mia Cara,’ A. J., ‘Love’s Confession,’ A. J.⁠—why, May! Well, you certainly made a conquest⁠—who in the world’s A. J.? Do I know him?”

“No, he doesn’t live in Wilmington. He came from a long way off.”