XXVII

Summer came, and Miss Snaith and Miss Hopper, in piqué skirts, with chatelaine bags hanging from their straining belts, and lingerie waists with high boned collars, whose bones left cruel red marks on their necks, pretended to gather snowballs, while Mr. Neff took their photographs.

“Mercy, don’t take me, I’d spoil the picture! Really, I take an awful photograph,” Miss Hopper exclaimed, and Miss Snaith said, “I’d break the camera!” And then Miss Hopper, who had been looking at a snowball just above her head with a soulful expression, came to with a start, crying, “Oh, did you take it? Oh, I had no idea you were taking it!” They could hardly wait until Mr. Neff brought home the prints. Gracious, how dark they were! Miss Snaith could have cried, she looked so like a colored woman with a little white marble for a nose. “Oh, that’s very pretty!” Miss Hopper assured her. “I don’t think I’d know it was you, but it’s very pretty. I think they’re splendid, Mr. Neff, especially as my face hardly shows⁠—that’s a great advantage!”

Miss Hopper had a Teddy bear too. Hers had a blue ribbon, and Miss Snaith’s a pink, so they wouldn’t get mixed. “Theodore bears,” Mr. Neff called them in his funny way; and through them, through loving speeches and caresses lavished on them, each tragic virgin called to him, “Help me! Help me, before it is too late!”

They had given up trying to call to that standoffish Mr. Campion, although Miss Snaith’s heart fluttered whenever she saw him⁠—just to pass the door of his empty room gave her a queer little pang, half pain, half pleasure. “He said he was fond of pink,” she thought, hooking herself into her old rose pongee princess dress. “He said he liked womenly women, just after I said I hoped women would never have to vote⁠—I wonder if he meant anything⁠—”

The leaves turned red; the snow fell. And in the spring Mr. Neff left.

“It’s Miss May,” he explained to Mrs. Mittendorf. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her, she just sort of smoulders all the time, and some days she won’t even answer when you speak to her. I wouldn’t mind that, if her highness don’t want to talk to me, all right, she needn’t, I’m satisfied; but it’s the way she cries at night, her room’s next to mine, and I can’t get my sleep⁠—I just can’t stand it.”

“She’s a funny one,” agreed Mrs. Mittendorf, rocking back and forth, her hands crossed over her belt.

“She has bats in her belfry, that’s what’s wrong with her,” said Mr. Neff darkly.

Bats in her belfry! What would Mr. Neff say next! Mrs. Mittendorf swayed backward and forward, shaking with silent laughter. Bats in her belfry!

Summer again, and boiled cherry puddings. “Dr. Mittendorf was always the greatest one for boiled cherry pudding,” said Mrs. Mittendorf, really thinking of her dead husband for the first time in ever so long. “When cherries were in market, I’d only have to say to Doctor, ‘Well, Doctor, what would you like for dinner?’ ‘Boiled cherry pudding!’ ” Her little eyes swam, partly from sentiment, partly because the steaming purple-stained dough was so hot.

The mosquitoes were dreadful. Mrs. Hopper used up bottles of citronella. And it was so hot. The boarders rocked on the river porch, slapping and flapping their palm-leaf fans. Muggy, that’s what it was. The Hoppers decided they needed a change of air⁠—they would try Asbury Park for a while.

But the real reason was that May made them nervous. “I don’t see how you stand it, Ethel,” Miss Hopper said to Miss Snaith. They had grown quite fond of each other since Mr. Neff had gone. “She’s got a look in her eyes that sends the cold chills up my spine.”

Mrs. Mittendorf followed them. “I hate to go in a way,” she told Miss Snaith. “Miss Campion sets a lovely table, and there aren’t many places give you eggs, too, mornings you have scrapple. And I have to have plenty of good wholesome food, I’m stout, but I’m not strong. I haven’t any fault to find with Miss Campion, though she is outspoken, nor Miss Lily either, though she’s rather selfish for all she’s so religious⁠—deceitful, too. For instance, last Sunday I was just going to slip up to my room with the Sunday papers, just to glance through them, and I looked all round the parlor⁠—no papers! And there sat Miss Lily, as innocent as you please, reading ‘The Spirit of Missions.’ So I said, ‘Pardon me, but have you seen the Sunday papers?’ and she sat there looking around and said ‘I don’t see them.’ No, and do you know why she didn’t see them? She was sitting on them! I saw a corner sticking out⁠—I gave her a look! Still, that isn’t why I’m going, Miss Snaith, I haven’t any complaints to make about the house, though I never was in a place it was so hard to get hot water; but naming no names, there’s someone here that ought to be put away, and my nerves won’t stand it!”

And at last only Miss Snaith was left, poor Miss Snaith and her Theodore bear.

May was in the garden, cutting the big solid mauve-pink roses, dew-cool and sweet. She felt happy and young, she whistled to herself. He certainly wasn’t an ordinary plumber, anyone could see that. So handsome, with those thick lashes, curling back from bright blue eyes, those strong brown hands⁠—And the way he looked at her, the way he blushed when she spoke to him⁠—oh!

The trouble was, he probably thought of her as a sort of Madonna, so high above him. There ought to be some way of letting people know. Perhaps when he came this morning she could drop a rose at his feet while she was saying goodmorning⁠—everyone knew a rose meant love.

“What became of May Campion?”

“Didn’t you hear? She eloped with a plumber!”

“Good heavens! A daughter of that proud old family!”

“And the strange thing is, she is radiantly happy⁠—I have never seen her look so beautiful. He is utterly mad about her, everybody says.”

A bee circled buzzing about a rose, and lighted on it, clinging, burrowing into it, pushing deep into its sweetness; and May, watching it, felt the blood leap to her face, began to tremble.

“Isn’t the plumber coming today?” she asked Maggie casually as she put her flowers in water.

“He’s been and gone. He’s finished the job⁠—isn’t that nice? I was afraid he’d have to come two or three times again.”

“He’s through?”

“Yes⁠—May, what’s the matter? May!”

“I don’t mind for myself,” May said through strangled sobs. “But he’ll be so disappointed!” And then she began to scream; “You did it! You did it! You sent him away because you were jealous!”

“May!”

“You always have been of everyone who was ever in love with me! You stole Edward from me⁠—you did, you did! He came to see me, and you stole him, but you couldn’t keep him! Well, I hope you’re satisfied, you and Victor⁠—”

“Victor never harmed you or anyone in all his life.”

“Didn’t he? Didn’t he? He kept me from marrying Wadsworth Robinson. Oh, yes, he did; if it hadn’t been for Victor I’d have been happily married today⁠—Wadsworth loved me, and I’d have been happy with him, if Victor hadn’t shown me how silly he was, laughing and making fun of him. And he kept Mamma from marrying Mr. Lacey, he kept you from marrying Edward⁠—he’s done nothing but harm, all his life.”

She pressed her shaking hands against her mouth, she looked at Maggie with desperate, wet, red eyes.

“Oh, Maggie, I’m so unhappy⁠—I wish I could die⁠—”

Miss Snaith couldn’t decide whether or not to send Mr. Campion a valentine. Would he think it was funny of her? Of course, he might not guess who it came from⁠—but in that case there wouldn’t be much point in sending it.

There were some very pretty ones at Butler’s. “The is red, the blue”⁠—what did that mean? It didn’t make sense. Oh, yes, there were pictures of a rose and a violet, instead of the words. That was dainty! Quaint, too, once you caught on. And this red heart, with the border of forget-me-nots⁠—

A Teddy bear! What next! A Teddy bear looking through a hole in a pink heart, and a little verse:

“Please bear in mind, I hope you do,
A tender heart that beats for you.”

Just the thing! She would pretend it was from Theodore bear.

She could hardly wait for Jake to bring the mail on St. Valentine’s Day. There it was, her envelope with its printed address! She’d have fun watching him when he opened it⁠—but she knew she would blush. Another envelope for him, that looked like a wedding invitation, a postcard from Miss Lily⁠—just a guild-meeting⁠—an envelope that looked like a valentine for Miss May, and a florist’s square box⁠—violets, if Miss Snaith wasn’t mistaken. Now who could be sending violets? Nothing for herself.

“Saint Valentine’s been good to you, Miss May.”

“A valentine?”

“Yes, you and Mr. Campion seem to be the only ones favored.”

“Who’s been sending me a valentine? Oh, and violets! Oh, Miss Snaith, smell⁠—mm!” She pressed the violets she had sent herself against Miss Snaith’s nose.

“My, what a big bunch! Somebody must like someone, sure ’nuff!” Miss Snaith said, sniffing enviously. She wished Miss May would open her envelope⁠—not that she was curious, just interested. But May took it and went upstairs to her room, humming and smelling her violets.

Behind her locked door she dropped the violets on the floor and ripped open the envelope. There was a daub in red and green and yellow, a hideous sharp-nosed creature with a cat on her bony knees. “A Hopeless Old Maid,” the black letters said beneath the picture.

“ ‘Oh, for a man’ has been your prayer
For many long and weary years,
But all your wiles, both sly and bold,
The males have met with heartless jeers.
Now, surely, you must know, yourself,
That longer hope is wholly vain,
And that a pitiful, sour Old Maid
The rest of life you must remain.”

Miss Snaith wanted to get into the bathroom⁠—of course! May had been in there for hours⁠—over an hour, anyway. The water had stopped running ever so long ago, and yet every time Miss Snaith in her old rose flannelette wrapper looked out into the hall, the bathroom door was still shut.

Well, she’d just lie down on her bed and close her eyes a few minutes. They said that made one look fresh in the evening. “I wonder what he’ll say when he opens that valentine!” she thought.

She got up and had another look. The door was still shut. What smelled so good? Gingerbread baking for dessert. She hoped they’d have whipped cream with it, instead of lemon sauce⁠—she might just say she didn’t think lemon sauce agreed with her very well. Not in front of Mr. Campion, of course.

She got out her demi-trained brown skirt and her best waist of tan nun’s veiling, just back from the cleaner’s. Those bishop sleeves were always getting in the butter. They’d done it very nicely, but it did smell funny. Oh, dear! Perhaps if she sprinkled on a few drops of “Cashmere Bouquet”⁠—

Which would look nicer with it, her carved sandalwood beads or the repoussé silver bonbonnière that swung to her knees on its long chain? The bonbonnière was heart-shaped⁠—that would be appropriate to Saint Valentine’s Day, and there were some cachous left in it that she could pass around.

She pinned a crescent of “rat” on the top of her head, and turned her hair back over it in a high, hard pompadour. Then she looked into the hall again.

“Tock, tock, tock,” said the clock on the stairs. Why, she wouldn’t have time to wash her hands and face for supper, not to mention washing out a few handkerchiefs and a pair of stockings or so. She tiptoed to the bathroom door and listened⁠—not a sound! Well, she’d just say something tactful through the keyhole. She rattled the knob a little, and called humourously: “Anybody drownded?”

Victor had stayed in town for a rehearsal at the Century Club, and was having a pleasant time with a pair of pretty Chicago ears, in Wilmington on a visit. The Maples was becoming an old plantation as it entered their sympathetic pinkness, Jake and Ida were turning into any number of old family servants, speaking in anecdotes and full of devotion for “Mr. Victor.” Things grew more Southern every minute, and Mrs. Jenkins’ voice shattered through an atmosphere of magnolia trees and mocking birds.

“Where’s the Bachelor? Bachelor! Mr. Campion!”

“Present!”

“Well! I’ve been calling till I⁠—Margaret! Margaret Johnson! You stay right here! We’re going to run through the ‘Bachelor’s Revery.’ Now, listen everybody, please, we want to go through everything the way we’re going to tomorrow night⁠—no fooling or giggling. What, Mr. Burnett? Yes, certainly, the firelight glow and everything⁠—”

The firelight glowed⁠—electric lights covered with red crêpe paper. Victor walked to the middle of the stage, watched coldly by Mrs. Jenkins. It was plain from the look in her eye that she wasn’t going to like it, no matter what anyone did.

“ ‘Tomorrow is my wedding day,
Tonight, in the firelight’s glow,
I’ll sit and dream of bygone days,
And the girls I used to know.’ ”

“You’ll have to talk louder than that.”

“All right, I will tomorrow.”

“Well, I hope you do,” said Mrs. Jenkins dubiously. “School Girl! Please try to be right here for your cues, or we won’t get through tonight.”

Victor sank into a Morris chair before “the firelight’s glow,” lit his pipe, gave a great stretch, and sank into the revery, while Margaret Johnson in sunbonnet, pinafore, and curls, was hit now and then by Mr. Burnett’s wavering spotlight.

“Not yet, Débutante, not yet⁠—you must wait until School Girl’s through⁠—” and she prompted the Bachelor:

“ ‘And seem to see again
The little⁠—’ ”
“ ‘The little old red schoolhouse
At the bottom of the lane.’ ”

“Now, Débutante⁠—”

“Of course, I’ll have a bouquet to hold tomorrow night,” the Débutante explained, giving her satin girdle a good tug down in front, and patting the mass of curls that burst out from under her coiffure wreath of cotton English daisies with cotton and rubber tubing stems. Some of them didn’t feel any too secure.

“Indian Maiden!”

They only had an Indian Maiden because Gertrude Carr had the costume. That was silly for a Bachelor’s Revery, Victor thought. But the Athletic Girl had lots of style, with her red flannel shirtwaist and white stock, her Tam o’ Shanter and flung-back plaid golf cape.

“I thought you were going to carry a golf stick, Ada.”

“I am, Mrs. Jenkins, but I can’t borrow it until tomorrow.”

The Summer Girl⁠—how pretty she looked in her leghorn hat, wavy as a fluted cake-pan, trimmed with roses and set on a high bandeau. Her ingenuousness was quite a contrast to the Widow, draped in black, with her hands clasped behind her to show her fine bust and straight front.

“Bride! Bride! Where’s the Bride? Where’s Marguerite?”

“She isn’t here yet, Mrs. Jenkins, she and Scudder Tait were coming by auto, I guess that’s why they’re so late.”

Mrs. Jenkins folded her lips and sighed.

“Well, the ones of you that are going to be in the Gibson Tableaux needn’t wait any longer, but the Sunflower Belles and Beaux might go through their cakewalk again while we’re waiting for her. Please give us ‘Hello, Mah Baby,’ Mr. Sargent. Mr. Sargent! I said ‘Hello, Mah Baby.’ ”

But at last they were through, and Victor was going home on the Darby car, that connected Wilmington with Philadelphia now, was peering through the windows into the night⁠—here was his getting-off place.

The fields were white with snow, and snow fell cold and fresh on his face. He walked buoyantly up the lane, thinking of the way the Summer Girl had looked at him⁠—the Widow, too, for that matter. His mouth went up a little at the corners.

Maggie heard him singing “Hello, Mah Baby” as he climbed the porch steps, and flung the door open.

“Oh, Victor, I thought you’d never come⁠—”

“I forgot to tell you I was going to stay in for a rehearsal⁠—what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

“May⁠—May’s drowned herself⁠—in the bathtub⁠—”

“Maggie⁠—Mrs. Detweiler sent all these lilies⁠—I wish I’d never made fun of her⁠—”

“Bring them in, Victor. Doesn’t she look sweet and young? I keep thinking of the time she was the ‘Lady of Shalott’⁠—do you remember? She had lilies then, too.”

She looked from Victor’s red swollen eyes to her sister’s lovely tranquil face, and for a second it seemed as if an answer to all life’s questions had come to her, and gone before she could make it hers. May looked so young again, so happy. The room where she lay was in twilight, but out of doors sunlight on snow made a white flame too bright for mortal eyes.