“And Gilead, and the border of the Geshurites and Maachathites, and all mount Hermon, and all Beshan unto Salcah.”
God moves in a mysterious way. Perhaps this meant that she should take the best bit of advice out of three tries. She shut her eyes again, her finger fell:
“The salutation of me Paul with mine own hand.”
But what had Paul to do with Alfred?
“It’s the third time that counts,” said Mamma to herself, but her lifted finger paused. Suppose God should take it seriously this time, and advise against her union with Mr. Lacey? Better not run the risk. She put down the Bible.
Mr. Lacey! Mr. Lacey!
It was so thrilling! She was all soft pleasurable tremors. She smiled at herself in the mirror, her face like a full-blown pink rose. But the mirror was old and put a wash of faint green over the rose, that was not becoming. Oh, dear, she did wish she had the kind of toilet-table she had read about in novels, with a maid to change the lace and bows and flowers for each toilet.
“What does Madame wish to wear to the Duchess’s dinner this evening?
”
“My violet satin, Marie, and my pearls.
”
And when she came up to dress the toilet-table would look as if a flock of pale purple butterflies had floated in at the open window and lighted among the foamy laces, and the candlelight would fall on Parma violets—
Not much like this clumsy, dark old thing, with the wad of paper tucked in at the side to keep the mirror tilted at the proper angle. Perhaps—if—Mr. Lacey said his happiness would be to make her happy. And beauty made her so happy!
And what should she wear tonight? She really hadn’t anything fit to be seen. She opened her closet door and looked discontentedly at bustled dresses, dark sacques, a row of hats that looked like a poulterer’s window, and green and tobacco-brown parasols with rings in their noses, for carrying upside down. One dress of golden brown velvet and grey satin, with black lace and ruches and passementerie, she could never look at without a surge of self pity. It had been expensive—sombre browns and greys, colors resembling faded flowers and withered leaves, were the extreme of fashion and dear accordingly, and, of course, it was the truest economy to buy really handsome materials. Even though she had made it herself on the wonder of the neighborhood, her new Grover and Baker sewing machine, the cost of the velvet and satin and lace had given her a dizzy moment when she succeeded in adding up the sum to something approaching the right amount. But things were so high now, and it was so becoming, and anyway, she really and truly had needed it, for she had made her old dresses over and tried to freshen them with frills and bows until she was ashamed to be seen in them. And then Maggie had spoiled all her pleasure in it by saying she thought it was awful to spend so much on a dress while there were poor people who hadn’t enough to eat. Mamma had cried dreadfully, for nobody hated more than she to think that there was anyone in the world hungry or unhappy or poor—it made her feel perfectly wretched when she let herself remember it. And she always tried to be kind to the poor, and drove around at Christmas with baskets, and took nice flannel to all the new black babies, no matter how faint the stuffy, smelly cabins made her feel. Mr. Lacey called her an “angel of mercy.” Besides, Maggie didn’t understand at all; she never wanted anything but hideous sensible short dresses and mudproof galoshes of India rubber.
Mr. Lacey thought ladies were made for adorning—it would be so sweet to have sympathy!
Sympathy, servants, admiration, gowns—and he would do so much for Victor and the girls. Her thoughts drifted here and there like butterflies, floating with the sure instinct of those practical insects to sweetness after sweetness.
He would do so much for Victor—that mattered more than anything. Her eyes grew moist with the tears of tenderness that came so easily. Darling, darling little boy! But he did need a father’s guidance, a man’s strong hand. He had been hard to manage lately, making such a fuss over taking his boiled onions and molasses when he had a sore throat, stealing the strawberries he had been told not to touch, and amusing himself by drawing secular subjects on Sunday. Only this morning he had run away, gone fishing with Jake, old Chloe’s great-grandson, when he knew he wasn’t allowed to go on the river without a grownup. Mamma saw them toiling up the lane from the river, so small, so hot, and hardened her heart to scold him. But when he burst on her, wet, scarlet, dirty, with his face radiant with love, crying, “Mamma! Mamma! I caught a fish for your lunch!” what could she do but kiss him, and later eat the horrid thing—it was a catfish, and nothing but love would have made her touch it—with tiny bites cloaked with loud cries of rapture.
The memory of her lunch made her feel quite hungry, and she thought with pleasure of the creamed sweetbreads they were going to have for tea—had she given Martha the sherry for them? Potato salad, cubes of ivory, crisp little white leaves from the heart of the lettuce, and the mayonnaise she made herself so patiently, so beautifully. “It takes a lady to make mayonnaise”—that was one of her maxims. She loved to make it, hypnotized by the drop, drop of the oil, the steady beating of the fork, the smooth
