A frog! The little mermaid floats in the foam, the Lady of Shalott drifts down the river, and all the prince sees, all Sir Lancelot sees, is a frog!
So she gave up bathing in the dirty old river; and, because she was unhappy, became disagreeable and distant, until she began an affair with a new young man named Ralph Wither, who taught her the names of the stars.
They all went crabbing after supper on the tremulous pier that ran out from Uncle Willie’s boathouse. The blue crabs scrabbled and waved their claws in the old peach-baskets, the river clucked coolly under the pier, and May cried:
“Oh, Ralph! Help me! Oh, I’ve got such a big old one I’m frightened to death!”
“I don’t see why you’re so scared of the crabs, May. You never used to be,” said Lily, who always thought that what people said and what they meant were the same.
Edward and Maggie sat together, swinging their feet over the water. A light warm wind flowed over them, and up from the grey river into the grey sky floated an enormous apricot-pink moon. Silently they watched it, and then looked at each other, smiling faintly.
XIV
Now that they could only afford to keep Albert outside and Martha in the house, Mamma and the girls had ever so much more to do. They even had to let lame Joseph go. He had swept the porches and limped around the table in his white house-jacket; as Mamma said, he was awkward and slow, but he did. But they really couldn’t afford him any more.
And Martha wasn’t what she used to be. Whenever the weather was hot she groaned and held her side and mumbled so Mamma couldn’t understand a word.
“What, Martha?”
“Ah doan feel right good. Ah done got a misery.”
“Where is it? Does your head ache?”
“No, ma’am, taint ezzackly mah haid, but Ah doan feel like puttin’ out much today.”
“None of us do in this hot weather, but you don’t hear Miss Maggie and me going on as if we were dying.”
Mumble.
“What, Martha?”
But all you could hear was grumble, mumble, grumble. You couldn’t be sure she was being impertinent, but then you couldn’t be sure she wasn’t. She had been so cross and disobliging this morning that Mamma had punished her by making the piccalilli herself, with Maggie’s help.
Oh, what a day! The flies crawled ticklingly over their faces or buzzed despairingly from the saucer of molasses Martha had put on the windowsill to catch them—poor things, how they struggled. Mamma’s face was crimson and wet as she bent over the hot stove, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist, and her head buzzed like a thousand flies. Maggie chopped cabbages and peppers until her hands were shaking, carried leftovers out to the pig-bucket—pugh!—and felt as if the whole house was a bubbling pot of piccalilli, with herself boiling in the midst.
Later that afternoon, when the jars were all filled, she and Edward lay in canvas chairs under the pear tree. It was so hot, so still, a storm was coming. Pears had fallen in the grass, some of the ripest had burst, and wasps crawled over them. She was tired and languid, not only from her morning over the stove. Even the still air was heavy, pressing them down in their chairs, pressing the pears down on the grass until the juice ran out of their broken sides.
“Look, Maggie,” said Edward, speaking slowly, like someone half asleep. A butterfly, blue in the sunshine, black in shadow, had drifted through the heat and settled on a spot of squashed pear. She answered him—or did she? She was heavy with love for him as the yellow pears in the tree were heavy with sweetness. When he took her in his arms, she was so weak she could not have stood without him. His lips moved slowly over her face.
A blue-black curtain of clouds rolled over the sky, the wind turned the river to lead, flattened the grass in the fields, pelted down the pears. Up at the house shutters were banging, people were running to the windows, slamming them down before the storm should break. The wind kindled Maggie’s cheeks, strained back her thin, dark blue dress until she was a flying victory. And now she was all alive again, and light as a mounting flame, and Edward too was flaming—
“ ‘Je-ru-sa-lem the go-ol-den,’ ”
boomed Mr. Bates, up and down—much too loud, thought Miss Martin at the organ, it really drowned out all the rest of the choir. Something tactful would have to be said again—oh dear!
“ ‘With milk and honey blest—’ ”
The choir was marching out. Stewy Grant wondered if he could possibly hold in his sneeze until they got into the robing room—those wild asters and goldenrod sprays on the altar!
“ ‘Beneath thy contem-pla-shuhun—’ ”
That was where Mrs. Webster’s voice soared higher than the steeple!
“ ‘Sink heart and voice opprest.’ ”
Then, muted by the closed door, “A‑men,” and Stewy’s sneeze. Mumble, mumble, mumble, and then another “A‑men.” Miss Martin set the organ pealing, and the congregation could lift up its heads from the pew backs and go out into the sunshine.
Mamma was ashamed of herself—or at least she knew she ought to be—but she hadn’t heard a word of the sermon, for thinking of Edward and Maggie, and they had wandered even into the prayers and the benediction. She held quite a reception on the church lawn.
“Yes, indeed, we’re very much pleased,” said she. “Of course, it’s sad to lose a daughter; but as you say, I’ll be gaining a—Good morning, Mrs. Farley, isn’t it a lovely morning? Good morning, Hessie dear, how sweet you look! I never saw such a girl—a new dress every time I see you. Yes, indeed, we’re very much pleased, he’s a very dear boy. Good morning, Mr. Leaf. Yes, indeed. They’re walking
