Uncle Willie tried to explain the state of Papa’s financial affairs to Mamma.
“Do you mean we’re paupers?”
“No, no!” Good heavens, was she going to cry again? “You’re very well-to-do, only Victor didn’t leave as much as I expected him to. The war’s hit us both; though nothing to compare to any number of others.”
“But I don’t see how the war concerns us—we haven’t any slaves.” For Victor’s grandfather had freed his slaves by manumission long before, though they had gone on living with the family, and were buried, when they died, at the feet of their masters and mistresses in the family burying-ground.
“Well—there are other considerations,” said Uncle Willie, prudently skipping on. “But the point is, you won’t be able to go on quite as you have been going. Have you any idea what you’ve been spending a year?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand anything about figures,” Mamma replied complacently.
“No, ladies aren’t to be expected to. But, of course, you’ll want to be near your father and mother now, and a smaller house would make a great difference.”
“Oh, no, Willie! I could never leave The Maples.”
“But it’s a big place, and expensive to keep up.”
“Dearest Victor would wish us to stay,” said Mamma with placid finality. It was her answer to everything. “Dearest Victor would wish it,” or “Dearest Victor wouldn’t,” and simply meant “I will” or “I won’t.”
“God give me patience!” Uncle Willie cried within himself; and he thought quite kindly of Aunt Priscilla, who at least knew she didn’t know anything.
“We can economize in so many ways, now that darling Victor’s gone,” Mamma said through her pocket handkerchief, when Willie’s conscientious floods of figures ceased. “The meat bills will be nothing! Gentlemen have such hearty appetites. But I’m sure I don’t care if I never see a roast of beef again—just a little dish of creamed sweetbreads now and then, and we have our own chickens. And clothes! The price of a gentleman’s top hat alone! And, perhaps, I might possibly let Susannah go—she’s very lazy. I don’t know what girls are coming to nowadays,” she added, but absently, not receiving or expecting an answer. She had said it so often, and would say it so often again.
“But Victor wouldn’t want me to give up the conservatory, or the horses and carriages. And I suppose, after all, the children should have roast beef—and Susannah is very fond of the baby.”
“Well, you’ll still save on poor old Victor’s hats,” said Uncle Willie sardonically.
“Oh, yes! And coats as well, and waistcoats and—and other things.” She blushed brightly. She had nearly said “trousers” to a gentleman.
“The woman’s a fool,” he thought, though not with any shock of discovery. But the May day was warm and beautiful, the lilies of the valley growing beside the porch sent up their perfume, and Mamma looked pretty and appealing, though plump, in her black dress and little white crêpe “Marie Stuart” bonnet, so that presently, his nose buried in mint and the frost thick on his glass, he was thinking indulgently, “Poor little woman!”
V
The baby wailed and drooped through the heat of his first summer; but, when Mamma cut long sprays of pungent chrysanthemums for the brass vases that stood on the altar to the glory of God and in memory of Mary Clarissa Campion, when burrs pattered down from the chestnut trees, and the frost touched the persimmons with orange and vermilion, he grew stronger, looked about him with interest, and presently was amiably plunging from outstretched hands to outstretched hands.
Other events beside Victor’s first steps, his first words, his teething, and his whooping-cough took place, though none seemed so important. Trains grew on to dresses, and crinolines were full at the bottom instead of the top, so that ladies turned from tulips to morning glories. Pamela bonnets, like saucers with strings, became so fashionable that even Mamma, who prided herself on being conservative, succumbed; although she only wore hers in the carriage, considering it far too conspicuous and coquettish to wear when she was on foot. Lizzie Blow stopped going to church and took up Spiritualism, tipped tables, and asked for one loud rap if “yes,” two if “no.” One day, when the stars were full of portent, the Prince and Princess of Wales were married in London and old Toot died in his whitewashed cabin under the weeping willow. His place was taken by Caesar, who, under Mamma’s direction, planted ribbon borders and the fashionable new pincushion beds here and there about the place; and two new iron urns on the terrace boiled over with petunias and sent up jets of ornamental grass. In winter, when she could not be among her flowers, Mamma learned new stitches in knitting and crochet, and everything in the house became covered with wool-work as things in damp countries are covered with mold—even the bird cages dripped crochet borders. And, when she was not busy with other things, she wound bandages and felt badly about the war—almost as badly as she felt about Victor’s croup and the naughty way in which Lily had taken to stealing sugar.
Terrible and stirring names sounded through those days, piercing even her dreamy mistiness, the Seven Days’ Battles, Fredericksburg and Gettysburg, Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge, the Battle of the Wilderness. Her eyes would brim over with tears, and whispering, “Oh, the poor mothers!” she would catch her son to her breast.
The soldiers went south past The Maples, on foot, by train, or sailing down the river in great fleets of many-masted schooners. The sails of the full-rigged ships swelling in the wind, shining in the sun, stirred the heart and made war wonderful and romantic; but the tired men plodding past in clouds of dust on the road were different. Looking at them, the bugle-calls sounded faintly, the glory dimmed, and pity filled the heart. The little girls watched them from behind the hedge, and once Lily thought she saw Papa marching past,
