XXVIII
“Yes, the rooms are lovely and big—but so little closet space! Lovely high ceilings—they must make it a very hard house to heat, don’t they? See, Homer, it would have to be painted all over—see, it’s all chipping off here, it comes off wherever I touch it. See? Everywhere. Careful, dear, the stairs are rather steep.”
“Here’s the kitchen,” said Maggie severely.
“Hmm. Nice and big, isn’t it? It would take a good many steps to get around this kitchen, wouldn’t it? Not much like the way they’re building them now. No electric light, have you, or even gas? Where do you get hired girls who’ll take care of lamps nowadays? Look out, Homer, the floor’s uneven, don’t trip.”
“Here’s the river porch.”
“Oh, yes. I guess the view must be very pretty when there isn’t quite such a glare.”
“Now I’ll show you the garden.”
“Want to see the garden, Homer? We might as well. What do you call those pink and awrnge flowers? Oh, yes, snapdragons! Remember the beautiful snapdragons we saw at Mrs. Proudie’s, dear? They were simply enormous! Oh, yes, there’s your little pool. Have you ever seen Mr. Beswick’s water garden, over near Kennett Square? Fountains and everything, and the goldfish in it are this big!”
And then she was saying, “Well, thank you, I’m afraid it’s a little big, but we’ll let you know if we—ah—” They were buttoning up their linen dust coats, he was pulling on his gauntlets and settling his goggles and she was tying yards and yards of chiffon veil over her visored cap, and their Royal Tourist was coughing and jerking out of the drive.
“Such people!” said Maggie. She felt faint with the torture of showing the place to so many, listening to their criticisms, torn between the hope of her mind that it would be bought and the hope of her heart that it wouldn’t.
And then it was sold. The Maples sold! The rich Bayard Spears bought the place. “Of course, you must consider your lovely, lovely garden just as much yours as ever,” Violet Spear told the Campions.
Maggie and Lily were clearing out the box-room, getting ready to move.
“What are those big things done up in newspaper? Our old bustles! I guess no one will want them again. Here’s Cousin Jennie Blodgett’s ‘God Bless Our Home’ motto that Victor spoiled when she was making it here—don’t you recollect; he was just a little fellow, and he fell off the footboard of the bed into her lap? She cried, and we were so scared—see, it’s all broken—why do you suppose we’ve kept it so long? Look, Lily, these old hats! Did you ever see anything so ridiculous, and yet we thought they were lovely—look at this one the size of a butterplate trimmed with a wreath of white clover and a seagull—and yet May looked as pretty as a picture in it! And look at this teeny, weeny muff—it looks like a mouse’s muff—and it’s full of moths—I guess we’d better throw them all away—”
“Shall we keep this lampshade pattern, Maggie?”
“That isn’t a lampshade, that’s Miss Snaith’s pattern for circular drawers.”
“Oh, is it? I guess that’s why I had such a hard time making that yellow lampshade from it. Here’s Victor’s old silver mug—how did that get up here? And Mamma’s Wardian case—”
“The Wardian case! Remember how we used to get ferns in the woods for it? And the woods are all cut down and built over now.”
“Look, Maggie, Mamma’s beadwork! Recollect how we would string the beads for her? And she let us have enough for necklaces for all the dolls—oh, dear, of course, I had to spill them!”
Mothballs rattled to the floor and rolled into corners with the rolling beads, as Maggie pulled out Grandfather’s old shawl. And here were rolls of wall paper, Mamma’s moss rosebuds, the buff lozenges of the bedroom they had slept in as little girls, a diamond pattern of crossed mauve ribbons that Maggie just remembered in the parlor. Here was a box full of crêpe veils, calling up visions of sadness.
“Oh—”
“What is it?”
“It’s Victor’s old autograph album—look, don’t you remember, May copied that dove with the banner in its mouth for him. ‘Please do not tear out any leaves. Victor Campion. The Maples,’ ‘Remember our school days at Rugby. Very truly, Your friend, J. W Harris.’ Who was he, one of the teachers?”
“No, he was a little boy who came out for over Sunday once, don’t you remember, he and Victor got a bag of black walnuts and got walnut stain over everything? And he was homesick and cried after they went to bed.”
“ ‘Tell me not in mournful numbers
Flirting is an empty theme,
For all school boys have their pleasures
When the girls upon them beam.
Your friend, Emmie Holly.
Did you have a nice time hunting the pump that night?’
“Well, for pity’s sake! Emmie Holly!”
“Oh, Maggie—”
“What?”
“Here’s Edward—‘Ever your friend, Edward Post.’ ”
“I didn’t know Victor had this book so long ago.”
“Here’s poor Aunt Priscilla—‘The night is’ something—a big blot—‘that never finds a day.’ ”
“ ‘In sailing down the stream of life
In your little canoe
May you have a pleasant voyage
And room enough for two.
Your friend, Bessie Schmalsweiden.’
“Bessie Schmalsweiden! What a name! Who’s she? I never heard of her in my life! Here’s another:
“ ‘You may dream of poetical fame
But your wishes may chance to miscarry,
The best way of sending one’s name,
To posterity, Victor, is to marry.
M. C.’
“Who’s M. C.? Lily!
“ ‘Remembrance is all I ask,
And if remembrance prove a task
Forget me!
You true friend, Lucy Hawthorn.’ ”
“Here’s another book—shall I give it to Jake for the children?”
“Look and see if there isn’t a picture of a little girl, carrying her baby brother across stepping stones over a brook and trying to hold on to a bunch of wild flowers—yes, there it is! Why did that picture always make me feel so happy? We better keep all these old songs of Mamma’s.”
She turned over the yellow sheets of music. “All That’s Bright Must Fade.” “Where Is
