“Oh, my poor little brother, I know!”
“Nobody knows! Nobody can know—”
“Sit down on the stairs a minute—no, the girls won’t come in till I call them, they’re picking currants in the truck patch. Here, take mine, it’s clean, for a wonder—”
“I wish I was dead.”
“The nasty little thing—I’d like to wring her neck!” Maggie thought to herself, her arm tight around his shaking shoulders, and added aloud:
“Don’t, Victor, don’t, she isn’t worth it.”
He looked at her tragically through red eyes.
“You mustn’t say a word against Lucy, Maggie. It isn’t her fault—I must have failed her some way—”
“It’s her mother’s doing, I bet you anything. French count! French no-account more likely. Ambitious old schemer! I never could bear that woman!”
Oh, how could she help him? A passion of pity flooded her. How could she comfort her little brother?
“I only want her to be happy.”
And in the dark night of his unhappiness one little star came out and shone faintly—he couldn’t help knowing that he was “taking it” wonderfully.
“That’s the only thing,” Maggie said, her voice gritty with effort. “Don’t let love turn into bitterness. And pity Lucy because she’s hurt you—you’ve only been hurt, it won’t be so hard for you.”
But Victor, still shaking with sobs, did not hear her, for he was looking at Lucy at the end of a vista of years, a tragic figure saying to him through her tears:
“Ah Victor! If only—”
XXII
Ridiculous to feel positively lightheaded with high spirits when one is in the middle thirties—Maggie couldn’t understand it. Yet that was how she did feel. She wanted to go bounding up into the sky, like a balloon, to sing, shout at the top of her lungs, laugh, not just a little, but loud, with her head back and her mouth wide open. What had gotten into her? She hadn’t felt like this for heaven knew how many years. It was the spring, perhaps. Just the first beginning of spring, the soft boundless sky, the flowing wakening air, the sudden, sweet warmth of the sun, the smell of everything, that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time, not gently or sentimentally, but as hard as she could. Spring is not gentle or sentimental, for all its pretty pink and white cloak of blossoming boughs. The wet, new green in the woods, intense in the sunlight, is as fierce as a sword-thrust, flowers in the grass are as awful as stars in the sky. Spring is terrible and divine, tearing the earth wide open, tearing the children of earth.
She really wanted to go to the wedding in Wilmington—not because Victor was going to be an usher, but just because she was bursting for some fun. She hadn’t anything fit to wear, but never mind—her black silk covered her, and nobody would be looking at her, anyway.
But after she put it on, it looked so poky and old-lady that she cut some geraniums as bright as wet, scarlet paint, and a velvet leaf, to put in her belt. She didn’t care if it was silly, and her cape would cover them up on the train. And whisking around, getting tea and bread and butter and cottage-cheese, for they didn’t need much supper with a wedding reception to look forward to, she sang a song she hadn’t thought of for ever so long.
“ ‘I feel, I feel, I feel,
I feel like a morning star!
I feel, I feel, I feel,
I feel like a morning star!
Shoo fly! Don’t bother me!
Shoo fly! Don’t bother me—’ ”
Squeak, squeak, squeak, went the pump-handle, out gushed the water. Clash! went the kettle cover. Maggie took a few dance steps on the kitchen floor.
“ ‘Shoo fly! Don’t bother me!’
“Ma-ay! Plenty of extra hot water, if you want any! Get-tout, kitty, or I’ll step on you!
“ ‘Shoo fly! Don’t bother me!’
For I belong to Company G!’ ”
“Maggie! I’ve ripped under my arm!” That was Lily’s wail.
“Wait a minute—I’ll come and sew you up.
“ ‘Shoo fly! Don’t bother me!
Shoo fly—’ ”
May was a picture in dark red, so much handwork that it made your eyes ache to think of it, and with Mamma’s garnet necklace. In the soft afternoon light you couldn’t see the fine lines that had come around her mouth and eyes. Lily was in snuff color, with dark blue velvet bows. It was her best dress. She hadn’t worn it for months, and it had become ever so much too tight. She couldn’t take a long breath, she couldn’t lift her arms. Her nose was pink, and tears stood in her eyes.
“Goodness, Lily! This silk gives with every stitch I take. Stop breathing—turn around to the light—turn round. Oh, Lily! I do believe you’ve got a big spot on the front—”
“I just can’t go,” Lily quavered.
“Let me think—” And she tried to frown and think about poor fat Lily, but she began to smile, to hum:
“ ‘I feel, I feel, I feel—’
Look—you can take Mamma’s lace shawl, it’ll hide everything if you’re just a little bit careful.”
They had put on their best bustles that had been Christmas presents from Aunt Priscilla. For every day May wore a homemade horsehair pad, and Maggie and Lily rolls of soft paper. These best ones were so large and elaborate that they made the sisters feel fashionable but apprehensive. Lily’s was forever getting to one side, and when it came to sitting down gracefully, they all had their bad moments.
They walked down the lane to the station, holding their skirts well up out of the spring mud. Their party slippers, and Cousin Jennie Blodgett’s Christmas present gloves still folded in yellow tissue paper, were in bags that swung from their arms, and white zephyr nubias covered their careful coiffures.
“Mercy, this mud is awful—go slowly, girls, we have heaps of time.”
“Lily, did you—look out, don’t catch your cloud on those twigs. Wait a minute—hold still, I’ll get it off—there! Did you remember to put kitty
