XXIV

Aunt Priscilla trailed across the fields under the soft spring sky, bringing her nieces the latest installment of “Trilby” in Harper’s Magazine. There were sticky circles all over the cover⁠—how had they gotten there? Jelly glasses? She licked a finger and tried to wipe them off, but it only made them look worse. “Oh, fie!” she said out loud to herself, scrubbing away with a rather grubby finger.

A bird flew from the grass at her feet with a soft whirr of wings, up into the sky. “Goody!” cried Aunt Priscilla, startled; and added, “Cunning little fellow!” And she went on talking to herself as she climbed over the stile and plodded up through the garden, “Willie would have gone fishing on a day like this⁠—”

The tears rose in her eyes and spilled over. They were always rolling down her cheeks now, every time anything made her think of Uncle Willie. And everything made her think of him, she was so lost without him.

“How does anyone ever get used to their husband being dead, or their wife?” she asked Maggie miserably, sitting down in the kitchen rocking-chair, out of the way of whisking drops of the purple dye in which Maggie was stirring May’s old cream-colored challis.

“Some people get used to it easy enough,” Maggie answered briskly, her heart aching with pity. “Look at Cousin Sam and his Daisy.”

“I know⁠—Sam’s sixty-five, the old foolish, and she’s only twenty-four.”

“So she says, but I bet she’s thirty-five if she’s a day. Poor Cousin Lizzie!”

“You know, Maggie, I see a sort of likeness to Lizzie in May, every now and then. The way Lizzie used to be when she was younger.”

“Oh, I don’t, Aunt Priscilla,” said Maggie, looking troubled, for she did. “Poor May! She don’t have much fun, and she’s so bright and pretty⁠—I’ve been worried about her. She’s a funny one, too; she went to a dance in Wilmington and had a wonderful time, and yet, I haven’t been able to persuade her to go to another since. But she has a new beau named Wadsworth Robinson, he seems kind of silly to me, but he certainly is devoted, and May acts happier than she has in a long time. I wish she’d get married, and Victor, too⁠—”

“Oh, Victor’s so young!”

“He’s thirty-one⁠—don’t seem possible, does it? Look, this is a pretty color, don’t you think? I believe I’ll slip up and get my old tan cape and dye that⁠—and Victor has some light ties that look kind of shabby. No, I don’t believe he’s ever gotten over Lucy Hawthorn, nasty little flirt. Of course, he’s liked lots of girls, and you know he’s ever so popular, Aunt Priscilla, he’s in demand for all the parties and germans and débutante dinners⁠—rosebud dinners, they call them⁠—but there hasn’t been anything serious since Lucy, and I just wish he’d fall in love⁠—goodness, is that the front door?”

“I’ll go,” Aunt Priscilla offered, thinking it was probably the lady selling soap and vanilla and white rose perfume who had been at her house a little earlier. But, when she opened the door, there was Sam Blow’s bride, dressed to kill in a cape of nut-brown velvet lined with gold-colored satin, with three flaring collars trimmed with gold lace, and holding her nut-brown velvet skirt high enough to show bronze shoes with sharp, tiny points and Louis Quinze heels. “As high as stilts,” Aunt Priscilla thought, trying to squat a little to hide her own old cloth sided boots. A hat with an openwork jet brim and a crown of brown velvet wreathed with yellow velvet roses and black ostrich tips, perched high on her much too yellow hair; and turquoise lizards and enamelled spiders and beetles with garnet and diamond eyes crawled all over her.

“Daisy Blow’s in the parlor!” Aunt Priscilla panted to Maggie.

“Oh, Aunt Priscilla! Oh, I can’t come! Oh, bother⁠—oh, dear! What did she have to come for? Go on in, like an angel, and I’ll come just as soon as ever I can⁠—”

And she rushed around, taking the dye off the stove⁠—mercy! Of course, she had to splash some out! Then up the back stairs to scrub with soap and water⁠—she was purple from top to toe⁠—give a yank to her hair, and kick into her beaded slippers⁠—that would have to do. She looked like fury, but she couldn’t help it.

She didn’t like Daisy Blow. She looked fast, and she certainly was painted black around the eyes, for it had smudged a little. And what a lot of “Héliotrope Blanc,” perfume, the woman was drenched in it. And such airs over that huge bunch of violets, telling them that the fin de siècle girl wouldn’t consider herself dressed for out-of-doors without one. Maggie felt a sudden warm gush of affection for shabby, shy old Aunt Priscilla, with her corsets sticking out in a ridge and powdered sugar all down her front.

Conversation creaked along, heavy and slow.

“We thought you and Cousin Sam were still in New York.”

“We came down three days ago. Sammy wanted to rusticate a bit and see his beloved horses. I tell him he loves them much better than he loves poor little me. Just between you and I, my adored Sammy is one of those social Hottentots, who thinks the conventions of Society’s charmed circle are absurd, and pines for the wilds of the country, while I am désolée away from town.”

“You’ll find it’s right nice here now that it’s spring,” said Aunt Priscilla, and added in a little rush of confidence, “My peach tree is in bloom!”

“Is that so?”

Everyone paused.

“Meadowbrook’s such a nice house,” Maggie offered.

“Oh, my dear! It’s so old-fashioned! Of course, Sammy gives me carte blanche, as they say, and I’m going to try to brighten it up a little, but I fear me ’tis a hopeless task. Perhaps, it will be more liveable when we have a telephone put in, and electric lights.”

“Boastie!” thought Maggie, going into the dining-room, fiercely hospitable, to get out homemade wine and the Christmas fruitcake; and Aunt Priscilla’s eyes were nearly popping out of her head.

They sat making conversation together and taking little nibbles and sips of cake and wine; Maggie and Aunt Priscilla stiff and shy, the new Mrs. Blow grand and uneasy, until the door banged, and there was Victor. And then the caller came to life indeed. “My!” thought Aunt Priscilla.

“Whew!” cried Maggie, dashing around, flinging up windows as soon as Daisy Blow drove away. “Whew, whew, whew! I never smelled so much perfume in my life! Whew!”

“Methinks, my lady’s auriferous tresses are too good to be true,” said Victor.

“Hmm! Methinks, you seemed to admire them, all the same.”

“There aren’t any flies on Cousin Daisy,” Victor admitted, smiling complacently into the mantelpiece mirror.

“Well, there’s everything else⁠—turquoise bugs and things, I never saw anything like it. And she certainly ain’t a lady⁠—why, she don’t even speak good grammar. Here’s her handkerchief, absolutely reeking, now what am I going to do with that?”

“I have to go by there tonight, I’ll take it over,” said Victor, and he put it into his pocket and went upstairs, two steps at a time, singing at the top of his lungs:

“ ‘Daisy, Daisy,
Give me your answer true,
I’m half crazy,
All for the love of you⁠—’ ”

Maggie and Aunt Priscilla looked at each other.

“My!” said Aunt Priscilla.

On Saturday afternoons Victor taught Daisy to ride a bicycle. He rolled her round and round the drive at “Meadowbrook,” while she, in a balloon-sleeved pink shirtwaist with a stiff white linen collar, and a small grey Fedora hat, leaned against him shrieking at the top of her lungs. And Daisy in a white silk tea-gown with lace frills and a Watteau pleat, with red silk stockings and slippers, taught Victor to make Welsh rarebits in the chafing dish.

“Now the beer goes in,” and she leaned against him, her perfumed hair brushing his cheek. Heavens, he was slow! But there was something sweet about him, too, and she was bored to death with her poor, dear, old Sam, snoring in his den fit to raise the roof.

Or Victor took snap photographs of Daisy with her French poodle.

“Now waltz with Missy, Pompon,” Daisy would cry, seizing his paws when the posing was over, and the little black legs would scrabble as Victor whistled “Je t’aime.” “Muzzer’s precious pet!” Daisy murmured, covering Pompon with kisses, and looking up coquettishly at Victor. “It’s love me, love my dog, isn’t it, my poodlums?” Pompon had his own little bed, with tucked and lace-trimmed sheets and a blue silk coverlet, his own trunk to hold his ribbons and collars. “Imagine old Snap!” exclaimed Lily, awed, when Victor told the girls about it.

His sisters decided to give a party for Victor. Maggie said it was only polite when he’d gone to so many, and paid no attention to his protests. He didn’t want a party. The girls didn’t realize how elaborate parties were nowadays, and he couldn’t imagine his friends from town in the shabby dining-room, with Papa’s old desk and Mamma’s oil paintings, and the stains on the ceiling where the pipes had burst. But what could he feel but embarrassed gratitude, looking at his sisters’ glowing faces as they planned his party for him?

The supper table was really lovely⁠—May arranged it, humming to herself, happy and light, seeing herself as Wadsworth Robinson saw her. The centerpiece was a mass of pansies tumbling from a torn straw garden hat, glistening here and there with touches of gold paint. And over the pansies flights of yellow and violet butterflies trembled on finest wires from the new lampshade of violet crêpe paper.

Maggie was on a rampage in the kitchen, cutting up chickens for the salad, slicing cold ham that crumbled with tenderness, buttering bread for the cucumber sandwiches. She was going to have nice things for Victor’s party, if they had to live on mush and molasses for the rest of the year. She murmured to herself a rosary of delicious dishes.

“Salmon croquettes⁠—all ready to heat⁠—beaten biscuit⁠—they’re done⁠—angel’s food⁠—ice-cream⁠—Jake’s going to freeze it⁠—coffee⁠—I can tend to that when I slip out to heat the croquettes⁠—Ma-ay! Front door bell!”

“Li‑ly! Door bell!”

And there was Daisy Blow, with an armful of lace tablecloth, and her coachman with baskets of candlesticks and pink china and goodness knew what.

“My dear, I simply ran over with some little things for tonight⁠—oh, Pompon, petsums, did his Auntie Lily step on him? He says he fordives her, he knows she didn’t mean to hurt poor Pompon⁠—oh, shut up, Pomp! Is Snap around anywheres? He and Pompon⁠—Look! I brought this lace tablecloth and the pink satin one for underneath to show through⁠—that’s the dernier cri, you know. And the table mirror and the china swan to go on it are in one of the baskets⁠—bring them in, Pete⁠—see, isn’t that chick? I always put that in the center, then the flowers round it, and these silver candlesticks with the pink candles and sweet little pink silk shades⁠—I said to Cousin Victor last night, ‘I’m just going to bundle up some things and bring them over⁠—’ ”

“May’s finished the table, I’m afraid.”

“Let’s see! How do⁠—oh, gracious! Too bad I was so slow, but I’m such a sleepyhead in the morning, and my old Sambo spoils me⁠—oh, too bad you have a violet lampshade, I brought over everything pink. Haven’t you some pink silk or something you could just run up into a little shade?”

The butterflies that had been quivering in a delicate living cloud turned back into paper and wire; the new lampshade looked just what it was, a makeshift.

“Aren’t you girls the smart ones? Who else in the world would have fixed up an old hat for a centerpiece?” Who else would want to, her expression said. And though they didn’t want Daisy Blow’s lace tablecloth and bisque swan, somehow there they were on the table⁠—“just to try⁠—”

“Isn’t it a dream? Sure you don’t mind? Look at these little pink silk candleshades⁠—look! I paid ever so much for them in New York. All puffly ruffly, just like dreat bid drowed up lampshades, wasn’t they, Pompon? Pompon says, ‘yes, jus’ zackly’ And I brought over a box of pink and silver dragées I happened to have⁠—they’re not much to eat, in fact they’re left over from a couple of dinner parties, but they match the candles and candlesticks. Those butterflies⁠—hmm. They’re the cutest things I ever did see, but they don’t just exactly go with the pink, do they? I have an idea⁠—”

“Don’t let it get away,” said Lily, feeling daring. That was what Victor always said. It was exciting, to see all this pink and silver glowing and gleaming around their old dining-room⁠—horrid, if May minded, but exciting.

“I’ll dash home and get some accordion-pleated chiffon I’ve just had done for a tea-gown⁠—there’s yards and yards of it, we can catch it round the lamp⁠—we’ll all be raving beauties in its roseate glow. And Mose has a lot of pink begonias in the conservatory, they’d match better than the pansies⁠—do you want any more silver, while I’m over? Some bonbon dishes or anything? I said to Cousin Victor, I’d adore to bring anything, I know you live simply and why should you have a lot of things? Come on, Pompon, come on, Mudder’s boy⁠—”

Maggie came in from the kitchen, sniffing. “Daisy Blow’s been here,” she said, and then: “Oh, May! Your table!”

“Daisy’s been rearranging it,” said May listlessly.

“Why on earth did you let her? Such impertinence!”

“It’s the dernier cri,” Lily explained.

“Well, it looks like fury! We don’t want Mrs. Sam Blow’s things!”

“Oh, Maggie, who cares? Victor will think it’s perfect if wonderful marvellous Cousin Daisy did it.”

“Hmp! May Campion, where are all your butterflies?”

“I threw them away.” May opened her clenched hand, and looked at one little butterfly lying crushed on her palm. “Daisy didn’t think they went with the pink candleshades.”

“Oh, she didn’t, didn’t she? You’ve been working on those butterflies for nights and nights. Who’s giving this party, anyway?” asked Maggie furiously.

She asked it again through the evening, as Daisy dominated everything, a jewelled dagger thrust through her yellow hair, her cheeks plushy pink, as vivid as the great pink puffs of her sleeves. “That certainly is paint,” Maggie said to herself. Victor thought Daisy was all that was bright and beautiful, as she made him balance a caramel on his nose, pretending he was Pompon, slipped a piece of ice down Wadsworth Robinson’s collar, or led the chorus of groans and laughter when the booby prize was given to Raymond Line⁠—a stuffed calico rabbit, “Representing your hare-breadth escape from winning the first prize,” Victor said.

“Screeching like a guinea-hen!” thought Maggie. “What Victor can see in her⁠—”

Whatever it was he saw, Cousin Sam saw it too. Old and tired and silly, trying to act as young as the others, you could see his heart in his eyes as he looked at Daisy.

And just before supper, going out on the river porch to get the cream, where she had put it to keep it safe from Kitty, there were Daisy and Victor smoking together!

“I guess you think it’s real wicked for this little girl to be smoking a cigarette,” said Daisy, and Maggie answered, “No,” and stalked into the house, bursting to add, “Not wicked, just cheap and silly!” She pretended not to hear Victor call after her, “Cousin Daisy certainly has made the party a success, hasn’t she, Maggie?”

She had been afraid they would notice, when she went out to get the supper ready, and had thought what to answer if anyone asked, “Where are you going?” She would either say “To China!” or “Heigho for meddlers!” But no one noticed. “Well, I didn’t want them to,” she said, putting the croquettes into the oven and giving the door a good hard slam.

She had meant what she said when she told Aunt Priscilla that she wished Victor would fall in love with someone, but she certainly hadn’t been thinking of anyone like Daisy Blow.