30 Magic moonlight

The next day I had little time to worry about Gordon Bannister, although, as might be expected, mamma demanded a character sketch. What sort of person was this young man, she wanted to know? Did brother know anything about his people? Brother thought they were sound in mind and marrow, but Gordon was a fickle wretch, and I’d be well advised to remember that he was not a kid like myself.

‘I don’t expect my daughters to be fools!’ snapped mamma. With which remark Bannister was shelved, and a real grievance presented. We were short of milk for the baby! The folk from whom we had purchased the vital supply had lost their cow. That is to say, it had wandered away, and no one had sufficient energy to hunt for the beast. Cows, like pigs, were free souls in these parts, and usually paraded whither they listed, companioned by nudging calfs. Cannibalism would have shocked mamma less. Fancy fighting with a calf for your milk each evening! Was ever such thriftlessness? And what to do? The baby couldn’t digest condensed milk, nor could he wait upon the whim of a cow making an infrequent social call.

Oh, it would work out somehow, papa comforted, nervously helping himself to a pinch of snuff. The cow was sure to tum up sooner or later. If he knew what the creature looked like, he’d hunt for her himself. My sister-in-law had a more concrete suggestion. The Wilmots, on the far side of the river, had a good milch cow on which they kept a sharp eye because of their own brood of young ones. They might spare us a pint or two, she imagined. In any case, it would be a pleasant trip for me. Betty Wilmot was about my own age, and quite a nice girl.

This enheartened mamma, who fetched another difficulty. There were no decent washing facilities. Just a huge, black cauldron in the back-yard. How on earth was she to struggle with the laundry under such circumstances? Oh, that was nothing, shouted my little sister. All you did was light a fire under the pot, fill it with water and soap, pitch in the clothes, and stir with a stick. She had seen it done in the next yard, and it looked awfully jolly. She was sure she could do it herself. She’d prove it by doing the baby clothes. And so she did, making a better job at eight than I at thirty.

The problem was not so easily settled, however. No self-respecting white woman did her own laundry. Whatever the pinch of the purse, a negress must do the wash and save our face. Heavens above! Mamma sank down weakly. Here was a pretty tangle of thistles! Imagine being above a healthy tussle with the washtub, when everything else was primitive as Noah’s Ark! Nothing irritated mamma so much as vanity, unless it was a dishcloth that could not hold its own with a summer cloud for cleanliness. She had nothing whatever against coloured people—the Lord must have known what he was doing when he made them—but that was no reason to trust them with the few bits of household linen that doubtless would have to serve for the rest of our lives.

Small wonder I should forget Mr. Bannister and his blandishments when our very sheets were threatened! Small wonder I should gape like a ninny when, about sundown, a tattered little messenger staggered up the steps with a huge basket of fruit, bedecked with tissue paper and bow knots. It was for me, the beaming black midget assured me. But that could not be! There was some mistake. Who on earth would be sending me a carload of fruit?

‘Don’t stand there arguing with the child!’ Mamma’s voice was faintly amused. ‘Suppose you try looking inside. That might tell the tale.’

Sure enough, there was the card, with my name on it, written in a beautiful, flowing hand, and something else, which, to read under mamma’s scrutiny, turned me red as a tomato.

‘Well, don’t be foolish—who sent it? The dangerous young man, I’ll be bound!’

‘Yes, he did,’ I mumbled. ‘Mr. Bannister, I mean—he didn’t seem so dangerous to me.’

‘So that’s the kind of a lad he is!’ twinkled mamma, and, laughing for the first time in days, she resumed her interrupted task.

That was the beginning. Two days later, another mysterious package found its way to the house. Then three days went by, and along came little Moses with a huge box of candy. This time, a note was tucked under the wrapping.

‘A discreet opening, don’t you think?’ it said, and I could almost hear the letters laughing in every loop arid line.

It was enough to give any girl palpitation of the heart, especially when another week-end went by without a sign of the mischievous sender. By midweek I could have scratched his eyes out. He was making a fool of me, I felt sure. Why, every time I went to the store Bob, now grave as a bishop, asked after these odious parcels, their assembling having been left to him’. But he studiously avoided recalling that he had promised to show me some of the places of interest.

Mad as a hornet, I laid myself out to flatter a susceptible cornet-player who came to practise with my brother, and was rewarded with an invitation to go driving the next Sunday night.

All a-flutter, and carefully arrayed in the second best of my two good dresses, a violet-coloured garment which I had made with great care, there I sat, in the gentle dusk, triumphantly waiting the carriage wheels. Eight o’clock came and went, and minutes slowly ticked off another hour. By half-past nine I was in a pretty dither, and by ten o’clock I was so boiling mad that I could have kicked a cat. There was nothing I could do about it, however, except to demonstrate contentment whenever mamma came to the door for a whiff of air. The night was so beautiful, the moonlight so lovely, I could sit there for ever! Which, thought I viciously, was exactly what I’d have to do for the rest of my natural life, if this kept up.

Then, materializing so suddenly that I could scarcely believe my eyes, Mr. Gordon Bannister spoke out of the dusk:

‘What a waste of fine weather! Surely you haven’t been sitting here, alone, all night?’

‘I’m not such bad company,’ I snapped crossly, wondering what had become of the clever things I had meant to say, completely forgetting to thank him for all those suspicious presents.

‘I’d never have guessed it,’ he laughed at me. ‘You have such a nasty way of hiding it. I could have sworn you were cursing your poor grandmother, just now. Or was that rapture on your innocent brow?’

No use fencing with the amiable wretch. Whatever I said, he’d make hash of it. And, besides, if I were rude, mamma would be sure to hear it through the open window, and upbraid me soundly for lack of manners. I parried with a question in my nicest voice:

‘Why aren’t you in Mobile? I thought you went there every week-end?’

‘Oh, tastes change. I got tired of red hair. Look here, couldn’t you enjoy your own company just as well, down the road a bit? Perambulating meditation is so good for the soul.’

‘I’d like to see Hell’s Half-Acre,’ said I. ‘That’s the kind of mood I’m in.’

‘Don’t doubt it,’ he laughed. ‘Just the same, you’ll get the opposite direction, my sweet. I want to show you something to touch the heart of a stone.’

What we went to see was a glorious old oak that stood by itself at the crook of the river. A tree so perfect it might have been the model for all sublime poetry. Covered in trailing Spanish moss that looked like silver veils in the moonlight, it had an unearthly beauty, as of something seen in a vision, full of mystery and significant beyond immediate comprehension.

I have always been susceptible to such impressions—quickly elated, yet as quickly depressed with a feeling of limitation. A finer spirit must sense so much hidden from me: draw so much closer to the heart of beauty. There is always an element of sadness in deeply moving loveliness. It was so now. Speechless, scarcely conscious of my fumbling reactions, I could only watch the sweet wizardry of the moonlight playing upon the lovely shoulders of the bridal oak; stand there, faintly sad in a silence that pressed upon consciousness, forcing the heart to quicker rhythm, the mind to subtler comprehension. Here, if anywhere, are all dreams gathered up. Time loses its relative meaning, and the ghost of all treasured desire blossoms with life.

From across the woodland the melancholy cry of the whippoor-will thrust its little sword of sweet complaint; a tiny, troubled sound that shook the silence. Apprehensively, I glanced at my unknown companion, and saw, with relief, how still he was, stripped of the smart mask that grinned at the world. Then, snapping back to the familiar, he said impatiently:

‘It’s too easy to lose one’s self. Come away, before we forget how bright we are.’

Back we went to the little bridge, and now I remembered how cross I was with this cheerful imbecile, who, I somehow felt, was responsible for my frustrated evening’s pleasure. As though he caught the changing mood, he forestalled with able strategy my boiling accusation by calmly telling me that poor Jim had had some trouble with the buggy. That’s what he had really come to tell me—that, and, of course, to offer Jim’s apology.

Thought I, whatever the mischief, you are the cause! But I realized there was no use charging the gentleman with grappling-irons. However, I wriggled in my skin—knowing that he was laughing at me, I doffed my spleen before a seemingly impenetrable armour. Nevertheless, there is always some vulnerable space even in coats of mail, I reminded myself, and devoutly vowed to find it. Somehow, I’d make this charming creature squirm. He was so sorry I should have been disappointed. It broke his heart to think of my anxious hours on the porch watching the moon flirting through the tree-tops! ‘Well then,’ said I, sweet as carbolic acid, ‘while you’re so full of pity, why not offer to show me that plantation you were talking about.’

A bright thought, he agreed, his brown eyes crinkling at me, but naturally, he would have to sleep on it a week or two. Since I refused to be tormented, he tacked round to current gossip and local history, all dressed with ironic humour. So we parted in amicable spirits, and, said he, if I really behaved myself, I should see that forlorn reminder of a glorified myth.

But I did not behave myself. By midweek I was full of nagging aches and pains, sudden waves of fever, and gripping sensations in my midriff. For a day or two, I kept to my feet, then, in a surge of fury, the fever mounted, my head hummed like a hive of bees, and nothing but pain had any meaning. I had malaria.