Deep Summer

by Gwen Bristow

  Philip grinned. “But if we’re returned to France we won’t be able to ignore decrees that don’t suit our convenience by saying we couldn’t read them.”

  Gervaise smiled coolly at Philip, and then at Judith, who was riding alongside him. “Monsieur, madame,” she said, “you were brought up in the English colonies. You don’t understand that we would put up with a few annoyances to see the Bourbon lilies in the square.”

  “It wouldn’t be the lilies this time, ma’am,” Philip reminded her. “It would be the tricolor. We live in an age of revolutions.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Gervaise. “I reckon I’m getting old. Louis was shocked only this morning when that impudent Emily said to him, ‘But who cares if we turn French? Who cares what we are?’ She is so young she thinks nothing that happened before she was born was of any possible importance.”

  Philip was laughing. “Shall we marry David and Emily under crossed flags?”

  “My dear Philip, have you no manners? They haven’t signed any betrothal-papers yet.” She laughed back at him. “Now I really must go. I’ve been buying a new house-boy for two weeks and I’ve got to haggle some more about the price. I’ve got him down to a hundred pounds of cotton, but I won’t give more than ninety and the trader won’t believe me.”

  “Shall we see you at dinner tomorrow?” Judith asked as Gervaise beckoned her maid.

  “Certainly.” She kissed her hand. “Que le bon Dieu vous bénisse!”

  Philip and Judith rode off to the stalls where traders were displaying silks and muslins. Rita had demanded a trousseau fit for a princess. Her betrothal to Carl Heriot was to be formally announced the next day at a dinner-party, and Judith was too busy to be much concerned about pending political changes.

  The next morning, however, when she was on her way out to the kitchen to supervise the stuffing of the turkeys, she heard David say something about the supposed transfer to France and asked him what he thought about it. David reined his horse, for he was riding into town.

  “I don’t think anything about it,” he said. “If they’re going to hand us about without asking our opinion they’ve got no right to expect us to stand up and cheer every time they do it.”

  He laughed and rode off, and Judith laughed too, thinking his nonchalance was typical of what most of them felt. She shivered, and reminded herself there must be a fire in every room of the house before the guests arrived.

  When they did begin to come, she was so occupied with greeting them and admiring Rita, who curtseyed and received congratulations with only the proper shade of girlish fluttering, that she paid very little attention to what anybody said. But when she finally paused by the punch-table to catch her breath over a glass she sensed an eager shrillness of talk that was hardly to be accounted for by Rita’s approaching bridal. “What’s all the excitement?” she asked Louis Valcour.

  He paused with his wineglass halfway to his lips, astonished. “My dear Mrs. Larne, haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “A boat arrived this noon with the news. The transfer to France was only a formality. Louisiana has been sold to the United States of America.”

  “Good heavens!” said Judith, and nearly spilt her punch. “Do you mean we’re Americans now?”

  Gervaise approached and held out her hand. “What do you suppose we’ll be next? Dutch?”

  “With yet another language to learn?” objected David, who had come up with Emily very slim and adoring at his elbow. “At least the Americans speak English.”

  Judith sighed. “Seriously, how long do you suppose this will last?”

  “What? The American dominance?” asked Louis. “Not very long, if our history’s any criterion.”

  “Sold,” said David with a shrug. “Not even ceded.”

  Rita approached them with Carl. Carl was saying, “Just wait till my mother hears of this!”

  “How much were we worth?” Judith asked.

  “Fifteen million dollars,” said Louis Valcour.

  “And how much is that?”

  “Madame,” he returned, “I haven’t the remotest idea. But it sounds like a stupendous sum.”

  “Where’s Christopher?” Rita demanded. “He always understands about money. Cicero,” she said to one of the servants, “go find Mr. Christopher and bring him here at once. Tell him it’s a matter of business. That,” she added twinkling to the others, “always makes him run.”

  “At any rate,” murmured Judith, “it’s something to live in a country worth fifteen million dollars.”

  When Christopher appeared, Rita asked, “Who is the president of the United States, and how much is fifteen million dollars?”

  “His name is Thomas Jefferson,” said Christopher promptly, “and fifteen million dollars is four hundred and thirty-three tons of silver.”

  “Holy angels,” murmured Gervaise. “How under heaven do you know so much?”

  “The boat brought copies of the Congressional debates,” Christopher responded smiling. “The Congressmen raised a big row about it. They said Louisiana couldn’t possibly be worth so much. No country on earth could. One pious old speechmaker from New England said he would advocate that the older Anglo-Saxon states secede and make their own government rather than be overwhelmed by foreigners and heathens from the Mississippi valley.”

  “It’s all fantastic,” murmured Judith, and Rita said, “I’m still puzzled.”

  “Look,” said Christopher. He took a coin out of his pocket. “This is a picayune. It’s worth approximately half an American dime. Their monetary system is very simple—ten dimes to the dollar. That’s all.”

  “Two picayunes to a dime, ten dimes to a dollar, fifteen million dollars—Oh Lord,” said Rita, “I can’t count that far. I don’t blame them for not wanting to pay it.”

  “Carl!” said a sharp voice, and Carl Heriot turned to see his mother approaching them. “What’s this nonsense about Louisiana’s having been sold to the Americans?”

  Carl smothered a chuckle. He was a merry-faced young man with a freckled nose and a lock of hair that no amount of brushing would keep from standing straight up on the crown of his head. “It’s true, ma’am,” he answered. “We were just talking about it.”

  “And after all I’ve been through!” said Mrs. Heriot. “We might just as well have stayed in Pennsylvania.”

  Judith linked her arm in that of Rita’s prospective mother-in-law. “It probably won’t make much difference. Just some new parades. I don’t think you’ll mind it.”

  But after the guests had gone that evening, and she was changing into a simpler gown for supper, she asked Philip if he thought there was anybody in Louisiana who really liked the idea of being American. “There are the Spanish,” she said, “who would rather be Spanish; there are the French who’d rather be French; and there are lots of people like the Heriots—”

  “And people like ourselves,” said Philip, “who are so used to being nothing at all that we don’t care. However, Chris says it will be good for trade on the river. The Americans are supposed to be very enterprising.”

  “Carl wants to be married immediately,” said Judith irrelevantly, “but Rita wants to put it off till April so she can wear real orange blossoms.”

  “Tell her,” said Philip, “April will do very well, because Emily is trying to induce David to wait till June so she can carry calla lilies. Let’s go to supper.”

  Rita had her wish about the orange blossoms, and she was married in the parlor of the Ardeith manor under an arch of white roses. One of the newly opened residence streets ran across the Heriot property, and Carl built her a house there, not large but invitingly gracious, set in a broad garden. Rita said, “It can be a really superb estate when we get it all planted,” which meant when the timber and firewood business improved sufficiently for her to afford a landscape artist. Judith was
glad Carl and Rita had such confidence in their future; building a little house on a vast piece of ground was gratifyingly indicative of the spirit that seemed to animate everybody of their generation.

  Two months after Rita’s wedding came David’s. He and Emily spent their honeymoon in New Orleans, and one day in July he brought her home.

  Judith put bowls of roses in their chamber and big dishes of gardenias on the tables in Emily’s sitting-room. How quiet the house was, she thought as she arranged the flowers. The weeks of David’s honeymoon had been the first time she and Philip had been alone together since they lived in the log cabin. When she thought of how different Emily’s homecoming would be from hers it gave her a curious, inexplicable feeling that was somehow pride and somehow sadness.

  She looked out to make sure everything was ready that Emily might receive the welcome due a bride. They were all in front, the house-folk and field-slaves and overseers, for it was a holiday on the plantation. How many of them there were—three or four hundred Negroes and ten overseers with their families, waiting before the big house to pay respects to the young lord and lady who would one day rule them all.

  Judith caught sight of a carriage approaching on the road and went hurriedly to the upper gallery and down the stairs. On the gallery below was Philip, with Caleb Sheramy and Roger and Roger’s wife Martha, and Rita and her husband, and Christopher with Audrey. “They are coming,” Judith said to Philip.

  He went to the steps and pulled the rope of the great plantation bell. The bell rang so rarely that it had a sound of oracular authority. It was there for great occasions or dire emergencies, and when it rang it meant that every soul on the plantation must drop his tools where he stood and come to the big house.

  The bell clanged, and Martha covered her ears. “What a noise!” she exclaimed. “Like the crack of doom.”

  The slaves, who had been lounging on the grass, scrambled to their feet. The family on the porch stood up. The band of musicians in the parlor began to play softly. Judith went to the steps and waited opposite Philip.

  The carriage turned into the avenue and stopped. The coachman, grand in black coat and high hat, grinned at the fieldhands from haughty distance. The footman sprang down and opened the door. David got out, sweeping his hat toward the slaves as they began to cheer. Emily put her hand into his and followed.

  For an instant she stood there, looking with a faint, half-abashed little smile at the slaves and the big house, as though hardly sure all this could be for her. She was slim and apple-breasted, in a sheer blue gown that fell straight and narrow to her feet, girdled high with a chain of rosebuds on a velvet ribbon. Below her little puffed sleeves her arms were covered with long gloves of white lace. The brim of her hat was drawn close to her cheeks on each side by wide blue ribbons that tied under her chin. She regarded them all with wide dark eyes, pleased and yet very shy, and her hand still held David’s as though but for him she would have run away. David was looking at Emily with such proud adoration that he hardly seemed aware of the others except as audience for what he had brought home. “Aren’t they sweet?” Philip said suddenly to Judith.

  “He loves her very much,” said Judith softly.

  Behind her she heard Carl Heriot murmur to Rita, “She’s scared to death.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Rita retorted. “So was I. And I’m not usually bashful.” The house-girls to whom had been given the honor tossed flowers for Emily to walk on. The others began to exclaim, “Evenin’, young miss! Evenin’, young massa!”

  Emily smiled and looked up at David. He tucked her hand under his arm, and as they began to walk toward the house other Negroes behind the curtseying house-folk shouted “Marriage gif’!”

  Emily began to laugh. David dropped her arm and felt in his pockets. Emily cupped her hands, and when he had filled them with coins she flung her bride’s largesse to the slaves. They cheered and scrambled. The footman brought a bag of coins from the carriage and David held it open so Emily could dip in her hands for more.

  The slaves tumbled down and got up, shouting, “Happy days foh de missis! Happy days and plenty chirren!” Judith laughed softly as David and Emily made their slow progress to the house. When they reached the steps Philip went down and took Emily’s hands in his and kissed her. “Welcome to Ardeith, daughter.”

  Emily said, “Thank you, father.”

  She turned to Judith. Judith put her arms around her. “We wish you every happiness, my dear.”

  “And for you,” said Emily.

  Judith took up the keys hanging from her girdle and detached two of them from the chain. “Your rooms, Emily.”

  Emily accepted them smiling. She went to the others, to have her cheek kissed by the ladies and her hand by the gentlemen, and Judith put her arms around David. In the garden the slaves were singing. Judith whispered, “She’s a darling, David. You’re going to be very happy.”

  David glanced after her. “I know it. But thanks.”

  They reached the front door. Philip and Judith held it open, but David and Emily paused outside the threshold. Emily shook her head. Judith smiled as she went in first. How properly the child was doing everything. Nobody could say Gervaise had brought up an ill-bred daughter. From within the hall she glanced back at them. Emily turned her face up to David’s. She looked so happy and trustful that her somewhat irregular little features were beautiful for a moment as she put her arms around his neck and he carried her over the threshold.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The boss said there would be no more work on the wharfs this afternoon. The cotton boat would be loaded tomorrow right around sunup, and them as wanted jobs was to be on hand bright and early.

  Gideon Upjohn sat on an empty wheelbarrow to rest. He was disappointed, for he had counted on loading that cotton boat today and having work tomorrow on the sugar boat. Now they’d probably load the two boats at once and a man couldn’t work at but one of them.

  Damn them merchandise boats from downriver, he thought sullenly. Cluttering up the wharfs so there wasn’t no room for the cotton. Looked like them fancy-pants on the bluff would buy enough wine and shoes and mirrors to get satisfied sometime.

  Maybe he’d better look see how Esther was coming along. If she’d sold all her fruit by now they could take a stroll through the park. Do her good. Esther sure had a bad time, working like a mule and her old man taking all her money to buy corn liquor so he could lie around drunk. Gideon skirted cottonbales and hogsheads, pushed his way among the men bringing crates to the Valcour warehouses, and went down as far as the slave-market. There were a lot of high-class ladies and gentlemen around the slave-market, bowing and curtseying and kissing hands and smirking like they were already dead and reading on their own tombstones how good they were. Gideon stuffed his hands into his pockets and got past them, closer to the riverfront, where some stevedores were lying around. He saw Esther walking about with her basket. She was so slim and nice, with yellow hair that had a soft shine like daffodils even though she said she didn’t have time to comb out the braids except on Sunday nights, she was so tired. Must be awfully hard on a girl, walking these hot docks all day long.

  As he went toward her one of the men to whom she had offered her fruit leered and stroked her neck. Esther jerked back, and he tried to put his arm around her. Gideon rushed at them and shoved the man so hard he tumbled down.

  “You goddamn grasshopper,” he cried, “you keep your hands off’n this here lady!”

  The others laughed as the fallen stevedore blinked up at Gideon. He was too drunk even to fight. Gideon took Esther’s arm. “You come on with me, honey.”

  Esther hugged her basket, looking like a scared rabbit. He led her away from the group to an empty goods-box near the stalls of the traders.

  “You sit down here a little bit,” said Gideon gently.

  She looked up, her eyes deeper blue than ever under tears. �
��There wa’n’t no need of you doing that, Gideon. Not that it wa’n’t mighty fine of you.”

  “I ain’t gonta let nobody treat you like a dock-woman,” Gideon retorted hotly. He sat on the box by her.

  Esther looked down, running her bare toe along a crack in the board floor of the wharf. “You might have got hurt,” she said in a low voice. “And I’m used to looking out when men pester me. I mean—” Her voice trailed off with a little choke. She reached for the basket standing at her feet, but her throat choked again and she burst into tears. Gideon put his arm around her and patted her shoulder.

  “Don’t you go crying now, sugar,” he begged her awkwardly. “It ain’t no use.”

  “Oh, I know it.” Esther dried her eyes on her sleeve and swallowed hard. “Only sometimes—” She put her forehead on her hands. “Only sometimes I go crazy, like, every damn day selling, and keeping off men, and two or three picayunes all you can make if you sell every banana you’ve got.”

  “Sure, honey, I know.” Gideon sat forward and looked at the wharf-boards. After awhile he blurted, “Esther, you got to get off these here docks.”

  “God knows I wish I could.” But she shook her head hopelessly.

  “Honest, Esther,” he persisted, “it ain’t right. A nice girl peddling. You know where you’ll wind up.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Yes you will. There ain’t a woman can hold out. “Specially one like you that ain’t tough. Some night your pa’ll beat you one lick too many and you’ll run down here and any drunk sailor’ll look better to you than going home—”

  Esther sat back and gripped the sides of the box with both hands. “Why don’t you hush up, Gideon? You know ma ain’t fitten to work, and she’s gotta eat.”

  “And your pa’s gotta drink too, I reckon.”

  Esther sighed helplessly. “Gideon Upjohn, you drive me outen my head. Ma says he can’t help drinking. Him with his peg-leg and can’t work good and all. He worked all right when I was little, sure enough he did. But them keelboats jammed and he got his leg took off—oh, my Lord.” She sighed again, and she looked so tired and so powerless against the universe that Gideon was filled with rage. There had been six children in Esther’s family, but two of them had died as babies and three more in the fever year, and now Esther who was the youngest had been left to hold everything on her thin little shoulders.