by Gwen Bristow
Everybody laughed. “Well, I hear they’re offering a bounty for Ku Kluxers,” said Dawson. “Only you got to bring in the scalp with the hair on.”
They chuckled again at that, and Corrie May shrugged. “I always say if the niggers is fools enough to have the breath scared out of ’em by men in white sheets, leave ’em alone. It amuses the population and a good time is had by all. Look here, Sam Gilday. If you ain’t got sixty dollars, say so, only if you ain’t I can’t get my gown and I won’t be able to give no party Tuesday because I won’t have nothing to wear.”
One of the men named Cockrell, who was literary, began to murmur,
“Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square …”
The whole crew took it up. Corrie May listened impatiently. Seemed to her somebody was always quoting that doggerel. Gilday, who to her private annoyance often read books, came out with the lines,
“Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her,
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her—”
Corrie May interrupted, “Are you devoting your time to poetry these days, Samuel, or are you gonta give me that air sixty dollars?”
“Well, I’m a fool,” Gilday announced to the company. “Every time I lay eyes on Corrie May she’s got on a different dress. But now I got to give her money because she ain’t got nothing to wear. Lord have mercy on my sinful soul.”
The others laughed again. Corrie May sensed proudly that their laughter was less to express amusement than to cover envy. The carpetbagger gentlemen were combing the South for women to satisfy their suddenly expensive taste. But the beautiful women were likely to be the sort who stood shabbily disdainful behind their magnolias, and not many of these men had Gilday’s talent for discovering beauty under gingham aprons.
“Say listen,” said Corrie May. “It’s after four o’clock and I ain’t got all day.”
Gilday indulgently pulled open a drawer of the desk. It was full of money, the collections of land-taxes. Gilday had a way of altering the books to make it appear that the land had been appraised for less than its worth and consequently that the taxes paid were less than the sum he actually collected, and he spent the difference. He gathered some bills in his hand.
“Let’s see,” he said. “This here seems to be a hundred and ten dollars. Need it?”
“Sure,” said Corrie May.
With a smile he handed it to her. As Corrie May stuffed the notes into her portemonnaie she heard the door open, and there was a faint rustle of petticoats. She glanced up, and saw Ann Sheramy Larne standing just inside the room.
For a fraction of a minute Ann stood where she was, hesitating before approaching the desk. In that flash of time Corrie May saw her more clearly than she had ever seen anything before in her life. It was the first time she had laid eyes on Ann since her last day at Ardeith, nearly five years ago, and her first thought was one of astonishment that anybody could have changed so much and so curiously.
Ann’s face had grown so thin and hard that it looked like something cut out of a rock. Her whole person had a rigidity that reminded Corrie May of a carved figure on a monument. She wore a dress of the plainest gray poplin with narrow white bands at the throat and wrists, the skirt made scant as though there had not been cloth enough for fashionable puffery. Between her gray-gloved hands she held a purse. As Ann advanced toward the desk Corrie May observed that she wore only her own hair, rolled into a bun below her bonnet—a sure sign either of poverty or disdain of the fashions, and she knew Ann well enough to be sure it was not the latter.
Ann was so intent on her errand that she did not notice anybody in the room. She went directly to the desk and stood before Gilday, but evidently she hardly saw him, as if he were not a person but a symbol. In an expressionless voice she said,
“I have come to pay the last installment of this year’s land-taxes on Ardeith Plantation.”
“Well now,” said Gilday. He leaned forward, and removing his arm from around Corrie May he rested both elbows on the desk. He smiled slowly, his odd mirthless smile that was merely a stretching of his lips. “Don’t tell me I’m meeting up with an old acquaintance. Miss Ann Sheramy, as I live and breathe.”
With a flicker of astonished recognition Ann’s eyes went to his face. She said coldly,
“My name is Larne.”
“Sure, now, my mistake,” said Gilday. He spoke with deep satisfaction. “Just like me to forget a lady changed her name when she got married. Don’t say you’ve gone and forgot me, now.”
“I believe your name is Gilday,” said Ann. She spoke with so slight a movement of her lips that her face looked more than ever like something cut out of a rock. Corrie May observed that her hands had tightened on her purse till the knuckles stood out under the cotton gloves.
“Right, right the first time,” said Gilday expansively. “Now ain’t this a pleasure, us meeting again after all this time. Must be seven or eight years, think of that. Pleased to see you, I’m sure.” He held out his hand.
Ann’s chest rose with a quick intake of breath. Corrie May nearly laughed out loud at the thought of one of these furious aristocrats shaking hands with a carpetbagger. With a helpless rage that was no less evident from its boiling behind its white mask of self-control, Ann took one of her hands from her purse. As it moved from the purse to meet Gilday’s Corrie May triumphantly observed that two of the glove-fingers were darned, not the sort of little darns she used to be paid to put at the fingertips, but heavy woven darns that implied decency maintained at the point of desperation. Gilday clasped Ann’s hand lingeringly.
“It sure is a pleasure to renew old friendships, ain’t it?” he was saying. “Let me make you acquainted with these here gentlemen. Mrs. Larne, folks, old friend of mine before the war. Mr. Dawson, now he’s a bridegroom, think of that, and Mr. Cockrell and Mr. Reed and Mr. Farnsworth and Mr. Higgins, and this young lady I’m sure you remember, old friend of yours.”
“How do you do?” said Ann coldly. She had regained her hand. The glove was stained with perspiration from Gilday’s palm. Gilday was beaming with sneering pleasure. Ann’s eyes fell on Corrie May.
“Hello,” said Corrie May.
Gilday’s arm had fallen around her shoulders again, possessively. Corrie May smiled. A flicker of expression moved across Ann’s frozen face. Her eyes took in Corrie May as quickly and as completely as Corrie May had seen her. Corrie May knew Ann was aware of her train and her flounces and her blue velvet sash and her false braids. It happened in an instant: Ann’s eyes narrowed and the corner of her mouth curled in understanding contempt. Then it was gone, and Ann’s face was again like a rock, and her eyes were back on Gilday as if he were the remotest stranger.
“I have brought you the tax in full,” she said. “Will you take it, please?”
“Sure, sure,” Gilday responded easily. He reached for his record book. “Only ain’t no use to be in such a hurry. Mighty hot day. Would you sit down and be sociable?”
“No, thank you,” said Ann.
She stood motionless while Gilday ruffled the pages of his ledger. Corrie May’s eyes went over her searchingly. She observed the smoothness of Ann’s plain coiffure and the immaculacy of her dress. Such instinctive gestures toward the past struck her for an instant as pitiful. But she smothered the feeling at once. She wouldn’t be sorry for her, not after that curl of her lip. How she would like to do something to pay her back for that! Not merely watch Ann pay taxes. But something that should take place between the two of them to demonstrate that at last it was herself and not Ann Sheramy who fitted the scheme of things.
Gilday found the page.
“Right here,” he said easily, speaking slowly as though to prolong the pleasure he derived from this performance. “Ardeith Plantation. Property of Denis Larne, Junior, a minor. In custody of Mrs. Denis Larne, Senior, mother of the owner and guardian d
uring his minority. I expect that’s as it ought to be, now?”
“Yes,” said Ann. She unclasped her purse. “I have the statement sent me by this office,” she continued. “The statement says the plantation still owes one hundred and ninety-eight dollars, payable today.”
“Right,” nodded Gilday. There was a greasy look about him. “Right as rain. A hundred and ninety-eight dollars. This sure is the last day, too. If you hadn’t turned up here before six o’clock we’d have had to put some of that fine sugar land up for a tax sale, and we sure would have hated to do that, now you know we would.”
“I have the money,” Ann said quietly.
“Well, if you’ve got it,” said Gilday, “let’s see it.”
Ann took a roll of bills from her purse and handed them to Gilday. Corrie May observed that she moved the bills toward him endwise, so that he took them without touching her.
Gilday’s hairy fingers went slowly through the bills. He moved his lips inaudibly as he counted. At last he looked up.
Ann took a folded paper from her purse. “Will you sign the statement, please?”
“Well now,” said Gilday. His finger fluttered the edges of the greenbacks.
She pushed the paper toward him.
“Hm,” said Gilday. “Hm.” His little eyes went up to meet hers. “Dear lady, I sure would like to sign that statement. I’d be glad to sign it if you had paid the full tax. But this ain’t the full tax. Now lady, dear lady, you know I can’t sign a United States government receipt till I get all that’s owing.”
Ann’s throat moved as she swallowed. Her shoulders gave a little involuntary shiver. But her voice was even as she said,
“I believe you are mistaken, Mr. Gilday. I am sure I gave you one hundred and ninety-eight dollars.”
Gilday smiled. “Now Mrs. Larne, really now you’re a friend of mine and I’d like to make things easy for you, but I’m an officer of the government. I got responsibility. You know there ain’t but a hundred and eighty-eight dollars here. I ain’t one of these fool niggers that can’t count, and you wouldn’t expect me to cheat the United States out of ten dollars, now would you really?”
Ann drew a deep inaudible breath. She said with terrible steadiness,
“Would you oblige me by counting it again?”
Gilday chuckled. At the warm pleased sound of it Corrie May began to feel a little soothing of her own resentment. He pushed the bills back across the desk.
“Suppose you count it, lady.”
Ann caught up the notes and went through them. She made a little gasp in her throat. She started again, counting slowly this time, her lips moving as his had. She laid down the roll and looked in her purse. It contained nothing but her handkerchief and a bunch of keys.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I must have dropped a ten-dollar note on the street.”
“Well now,” murmured Gilday. “Ain’t that just too bad.”
“I’ll get it somehow,” Ann said breathlessly. “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
Gilday shook his head with lingering enjoyment. “Ain’t it a shame, now. You know, this is the last day to pay them taxes. That statement you got says six o’clock today, plain as writing can be.”
Ann’s eyes went to the clock on the wall. “Mr. Gilday,” she urged desperately, “it’s half-past four. To drive from here to Ardeith in a carriage takes two hours. It would be two hours back. I couldn’t possibly bring you that ten dollars before six o’clock.”
“Well, well,” said Gilday. He leaned back in his chair. His fingers began to play with the watch-chain across his middle. “That paper says six o’clock today, right out in the English language.”
Corrie May would not have thought it possible for a face to get whiter than Ann’s already was. But her skin got like chalk. Gilday smiled insolently. He jiggled his watch-chain.
Ann gripped the edge of the desk. “Just what does that mean?” she asked.
“Well now, we got orders to put tax-delinquent property up for sale.”
“The Ardeith sugar land—for sale—for ten dollars?” The words came out almost like a scream. One or two of the other men, who had been listening with a mild interest, began to chuckle.
“That’s the government’s orders,” said Gilday. He had twined the chain about his thumbs and was rocking back in his chair.
Ann was taking off one of her gloves. She drew her wedding ring from her finger. “I suppose you’ll allow me ten dollars for this?” she asked.
The ring clattered on the desk. Gilday picked it up. He turned it in his thick fingers.
“Why, it’s got writing in it,” he remarked. “Such little bits of letters. Wonder could I read ’em.” He held the ring up to the light. “Why sure, I can read ’em. ‘Denis to Ann, December 6, 1859.’ Such little writing, now.”
There was a pause. Ann’s ungloved hand gripped the desk. Corrie May saw that it was reddened as though with work, and where the ring had been was a streak of white.
“You sure this is real gold?” queried Gilday.
“Of course,” Ann returned with more scorn than she had yet let herself display.
Gilday flung the ring back on the desk. “Oh now, I tell you. We’ve been really weighted down with this junk. Everybody wanting to give rings and breastpins instead of money for taxes. If it was old-time gold money, now, we’d know. But how’re we gonta tell which of this stuff is gold and which ain’t? We got no time to be pouring acid over everything. I expect, tell the truth frankly, I wouldn’t be able to allow you more’n five dollars for this thing.”
“You—” said Ann, and she swallowed the last word into violent silence.
Gilday waved his hand. “Not me. The United States.”
Ann stood up straight. “Yes, I know,” she said slowly. “The United States.” She took a deep quiet breath. “The United States.”
Gilday twiddled his thumbs in his watch-chain. Dawson nudged one of the others and they both grinned with amusement. Cockrell tilted a bottle and refreshed himself with a drink.
In Corrie May’s head an idea exploded. It was like stars and songs and banners of victory. She could feel a quiver of joy run through her.
She opened her portemonnaie. Slowly and deliberately, she extracted a ten-dollar bill.
“Here it is,” she said. “Put on your ring.”
For the second time that day Ann looked at her, this time incredulously. Corrie May put her arm around Gilday’s neck. With one hand she patted his thick greasy hair, and with the other she tossed the bill into Ann’s insufficient pile.
Gilday began to ask “What’s the idea?” But Corrie May paid him no attention. She said clearly to Ann,
“You take it. I got plenty more where that came from.”
For a second Ann did not move. Then, very slowly, she picked up her ring and put it on. As though weighing the Ardeith sugar land against her own humiliation she closed her fingers on Corrie May’s ten-dollar bill. Without looking up she said,
“Thank you. I’ll send it back to you.”
“You needn’t bother,” Corrie May returned casually. “You need it more than me, I reckon.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Gilday exclaimed. “That’s my money.”
“Shut up your noise and sign that receipt,” Corrie May ordered in a low voice. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Gilday frowned, puzzled, then gave her a one-sided smile as he obeyed. Ann put the receipt into her purse. She looked at Corrie May.
“You are very kind,” she said with a strained attempt at graciousness.
“You’re welcome,” said Corrie May.
Ann picked up her glove. She turned around and went out.
As the door clicked shut behind her Gilday burst out laughing. “Gee, baby, that was funny,” he exclaimed to Corrie May. “I didn’t get the idea
at first. But did you see her droop her feathers?”
Corrie May did not answer. She had begun to stare at the closed door.
“I couldn’t have sold more than a few acres of that land anyway,” Gilday was chuckling. “Only she didn’t know it.”
Corrie May slipped off the arm of his chair and stood up. “I reckon I better go get my dress,” she said.
“All of you,” Gilday reminded the others, “be sure to come around to our house Tuesday night. It’s going to be some party.”
Corrie May went out. On the courthouse steps she stood still a moment. She saw the Ardeith carriage, with Napoleon in the coachman’s seat, go around the corner. Corrie May doubled her fists under her chin. She did not feel at all as she had expected to feel. She had resented Ann so deeply for so many years; she had thought when she threw that ten-dollar bill at her that her own reaction would be one of unmarred triumph. But it wasn’t. She felt ashamed of herself. For the first time in her life she had deliberately done something mean and horrid, and for the first time since she had begun her association with Gilday she had discovered that she could not make herself be like him. She stood on the steps uncertainly, until she remembered she was going to the dressmaker’s. She tried to recapture her earlier pleasure at the thought of her gown and its train edged with peacock feathers, but her whole party seemed suddenly like something that just had to be gone through with whether she felt like it or not.
Telling herself not to bother about what was over and done, she got into her own carriage and started for the dressmaker’s. But she could not rid herself of the wish that when for the first time she had had a chance to act like a great lady, she had had the grace to act like one.
Chapter Eleven
1
Lying back in the carriage while Napoleon drove it along the bumpy road to Ardeith, Ann covered her face with her hands and pressed back the sobs that rose with little shoots of pain into her throat. “I am not going to cry,” she told herself angrily. “It doesn’t do any good. And they’d enjoy it so if they knew I was crying.”
But she was so tired that fighting any sort of physical battle was too much for her, and her tears slipped between her fingers and ran down her wrists. Though she was used to it by now there came times, like this, when her desperation swept over her as though she had never felt it before. She was so tired! She was so tired cooking and scrubbing floors and doing the laundry and hoeing the vegetable patch; cutting up an old petticoat to make a dress for her little girl, raveling a shawl to knit gloves for Denis, covering a frayed hem with a flounce from another dress so she herself would not be ragged; hoarding for taxes and having Negroes elbow her off the sidewalks and hearing the tax-gatherers make obscene remarks at her as she passed. She was so tired of this whole battle to maintain decency and self-respect in a world where those qualities seemed to have no more existence. It was hard to remember that there had actually been a time when such things were taken for granted. Her memories of those lost years had withered up, like old flowers in an attic; it was almost as though that vanished world had never existed at all.