XXXI

“Where you going, Maggie?”

Lily squatted back on her heels. A small limp pancake of homemade raffia hat, trimmed with rosettes of red raffia topped her mild apple face, every hair pin seemed about to spring from her hair, she bristled with them like a hedgehog. She was digging the holes for the new tulip bulbs⁠—the bulbs of the red and yellow parrot tulips, all feathered and fringed, that Mrs. Detweiler had sent from her garden.

“Heigho for meddlers!”

That was all Maggie would say. Where could she be going, in her best voile, and with her card-case? “I think it’s real mean in you not to tell me!” Lily called after her placidly.

It was quite a relief to have her go out, she had been so cross and brisk for the last week or two, cleaning the house, putting up preserves⁠—what had gotten into her? “I think I’ll go and have a little lie-down while she’s gone,” Lily said to herself, scrambling to her feet. She found the new Ladies’ Home Journal, tucked a lump of sugar into her cheek, and lowered herself onto the sofa. Oh, how nice to be able to rest and enjoy herself without feeling guilty, as she did when Maggie was dragging the furniture around or struggling to cut up quinces.

Mrs. Spear was in the midst of a rubber of bridge when the maid brought in Maggie’s calling card, ivory with age. “Oh, bother!” she said. “Still, I suppose I’ll have to see the poor old thing.” And she called to her daughter, who was sprawling on the sofa reading “Town Topics” and wishing they’d have more about Wilmington people in it, “Take my hand, Dot.”

Maggie had come to say goodbye to The Maples while she could. She knew the time was growing short. The maid had prudently hooked the screen door, leaving the shabby stranger outside in case she was just trying to sell something, but it hadn’t been like being locked out of her own home. Everything was so changed. The fountain gone, the peony beds gone, the grey house painted white, with awnings of orange Italian sailcloth. “Pity’s sake!” thought Maggie as she waited. “I don’t think much of their wonderful improvements!” Homesick for The Maples, on hot days remembering it veiled in snow, on cold days aching for it gilded with sunshine, netted down with shadows, she had felt that she would know a leaf from home, out of all the other leaves in the world. And now here was home itself, and it was strange to her.

This Mamma’s parlor? This room full of sleek rich-looking women, white terriers with green leather collars, magazines, open candy boxes, cigarette smoke, noise⁠—

“I know Miss Campion wants to see her garden. Miss Campion’s the most marvellous gardener, I’m petrified to have her see all the mistakes I know we’ve made. Of course, I needn’t tell you that at this time of the year⁠—oh, Simpson! Turn on the fountain for Miss Campion, will you? And I wonder if you could cut us a few flowers?” She added aside, “I’m terrified of my gardener! I wouldn’t dare pick a flower without his permission.”

“No, no! Stop him! No, don’t pick me any⁠—I have to go. Thank you just the same. Don’t come with me⁠—I’ll cut across⁠—”

She was desperate to get away. “What’s the matter with the crazy old thing?” Violet Spear wondered. Keeping away for twelve years, and then acting like this. And not a single word about all the improvements. Not much like her brother, who was almost painfully polite when he came to dine or to play bridge. But she did look sick⁠—such a color, and so thin that her clothes hung on her as if they were hanging from the wooden shoulders of a coat-hanger. She almost asked her to stay to tea⁠—then she thought irritably, “No, if she’s so crazy to go, let her!” She was a kind woman, but her new rubber reducing corset wasn’t by any means the dream of comfort she had expected, her satin slippers were soaking from the wet grass, and she felt that little muffled beat in her temple that meant one of her bad headaches was coming.

Maggie hurried up the lawn, straining towards escape. The beech tree was the same, anyway. And as she looked at it the mist of strangeness lifted, blew away, she saw her home again. Nothing was changed, really. Nothing was lost. Childhood’s sky arched up from childhood’s river, exquisitely reassuring. Small, chunky sunset clouds filled the west, cobblestones from the golden streets. Red leaves fell about her in a sudden shower⁠—the red of the wine and the blood of sacrifice. They were falling back to the earth from which they had sprung, making ready for winter’s death⁠—and yet nothing died, nothing! In the spring the buds would swell again.

“Lily!”

But Lily’s light whistling snores went on peacefully, so Maggie dragged herself out of bed, and downstairs to the pantry, for some cracked ice.

They had Lossie’s daughter Rose to do the cooking now that Maggie had to stay in bed. And her beau was there again⁠—there was a light in the kitchen shining through a haze of tobacco smoke. Rose’s alarm clock, waiting on a pantry chair to be taken up to bed, held up its black hands in horror at the lateness of the hour. “He ought to have gone home ever so long ago!” it said.

It was a panicky moment for the young ones. No mice were ever more still, and then⁠—crash! One of the mice knocked something over with its tail. “I ought to speak to them,” Maggie thought, getting her ice. But she put out the pantry light and climbed up the stairs.

The trained nurse was coming in the morning. Maggie had had to give up fighting against having her. Long before Lily was awake, she was up tidying her room, making the bed with fresh sheets, putting on her best nightgown, getting ready to be nursed. Lily had tried hard, but things were in an awful muddle. From time to time Maggie stopped, crouched in a knot of pain, her wet forehead pressed against the marble slab of the bureau. Then she straightened herself, gathered up sticky medicine spoons with her nose wrinkling in disgust, fished the wrapped circles of combings from the wastebasket, went to the linen closet for a fresh towel to cover her bedside table, before she climbed back into bed and gave herself up to the flame of anguish that was consuming her.

It was better after Miss McMurtrie came. Sometimes Maggie was given something to stop the pain, and she could smile at Lily’s and Victor’s scared, solemn faces that stretched into wide answering smiles when they saw she was looking at them.

“Kind of nice to lie here in a nice warm bed and not have to do anything, ain’t it?” she asked them. Nice not to have the alarm clock slash across her sleep, not to have to stagger up into the cold dark mornings, not to have to keep going when her legs felt like butter in the sun, nice to lie watching the gently falling snow. Oh, if she could only make herself believe that it was!

She wasn’t afraid of dying any more, for herself, but how could she leave the children?

The love that had lighted her life shone for her as she looked back through the years⁠—Edward⁠—Papa⁠—Victor. Memories came like the great silver bubbles that waver slowly up from the dark depths of a spring. Going for chestnuts with Edward when the air smelt of frost and the dead grasses were gold and silver⁠—there was a film of ice over the fallen leaves in the shadowy places, the small green hedgehogs of burs spilled out their brown satin nuts. Everywhere was the feeling of hidden life⁠—warm furry little bodies, bright eyes, and pattering feet. And suddenly he and she were dropping their baskets, rushing into each other’s arms, not able to stay apart another instant⁠—

Papa lifting her up to ride in front of him on his horse⁠—

“I won’t let you fall, Muggins.”

“Pooh! I’m not a bit scared! I could ride Gipsy bareback, Papa! I could ride standing up, if you’d let me!”

She and the children in the spring woods, where the dogwood trees in blossom floated like wreaths of cloud. She was trying to get unsteady little Victor across the stream on the wobbly stepping stones⁠—splash! In they both went, while May and Lily screamed with excitement, and Trusty barked fit to kill himself⁠—

And then she was holding the baby close to her heart. Mamma had given him to her wrapped in shawls. “Be careful of Baby, Maggie⁠—”

“Miss Lily! Miss Lily!”

“She’s just gone over to the store, Miss McMurtrie.”

“I think you’d better come right away, Mr. Campion⁠—”

He ran upstairs, his heart knocking against his side, and tiptoed into Maggie’s room. And something tore him, made him fling himself down by her bed, crying, “Maggie, don’t die! Don’t die!” But for the first time in his life she did not answer him.