Deep Summer

by Gwen Bristow

  “Good evening,” said Philip, and went off through the wood.

  Mark came up to Judith and put his arm around her. “Come with me, daughter,” he said gently. He did not seem angry with her, only grave and very sad, and it made her feel more guilty than any reproaches could have done. They walked along in silence, but when they came in sight of the campfire he asked:

  “Do you want to wait here awhile before we join the others?”

  “Yes sir,” said Judith, and her voice broke and she began to sob. He made her sit by him on a fallen tree, holding her like a child and stroking her hair. After awhile she managed to ask:

  “Why did you say you would kill him?”

  “Because I will if he touches you again.” There was a pause, then Mark added, “I love you too dearly, Judith, to give you to a man like that.”

  “Like what?” she demanded rebelliously. “He hasn’t told you anything about himself!”

  “No, he doesn’t need to. Dear child, can’t you see that he’s godless, improvident, untrustworthy—that he’d neglect you, and put his own love of pleasure before your need of protection? No, Judith. You are not to see him again.”

  Judith held to a broken branch jutting out of the trunk. “He says he loves me very much, father.”

  “Daughter, trust me,” said Mark. He moved his hand along the bark until it rested on hers. “You would be cruelly unhappy with such a husband. More unhappy than I can tell you. You’re too young to understand. When a worthy young man comes courting you, I’ll be as glad as you. I want you to have a husband. But a good husband, Judith.”

  Judith was silent. A week ago she would have marveled that any girl could dare to doubt her own father. But in seven days Philip had shaken all her standards, though his values were still so new that she had no words with which to explain them. Mark said:

  “Marriage isn’t a moment’s desire, Judith. It’s a holy sacrament that lasts a lifetime.”

  “Yes sir,” said Judith. And then, because he seemed so troubled, she added, “I want to do right, father.”

  “I know you do,” he said, and pressed her hand.

  Caleb called them. The men were untying the boat for the afternoon journey.

  “What on earth were you and Judith doing off in the woods?” Mrs. Sheramy asked as they came near the fire.

  “Just talking,” said Mark. “We’ll have to get along if we want to reach Baton Rouge tomorrow.”

  It was not until they were under way that Judith remembered she had left two good cooking-pots by the pool. Her mother scolded her for being so careless, but Mark said, “Don’t be too stern with her, Catherine. She’s more biddable than most girls her age.”

  Judith walked away and sat down on deck, watching Philip’s boat rounding the curves a long way ahead. Evidently her father was not going to say any more to her about Philip. He was taking it for granted that she would obey him now as she had done all her life. A pirogue from Illinois came alongside, the traders singing a lusty French song as they pushed ahead. Behind it came a canoe piled with beads and blankets, paddled by Indians who took the swirls with silent ex-pertness. After awhile she heard her father responding to greetings from another flatboat belonging to a family named St. Clair from Pennsylvania. She caught sight of Philip’s boat again, further ahead now. He was keeping his word and leaving her as fast as he could.

  Judith clasped her hands around her knee and leaned back against the cabin wall. No matter what her father said or did, Philip would find her. And what was she going to say to him?

  She wanted him so! Knowing he would not be there when the boat tied up tonight gave her a sense of dreadful vacancy. She wanted him there, talking to her of pirate fights or duels or anything he felt like talking about, telling her again that he loved her and holding her in an embrace that would not have to be interrupted. She was aware of a new, unconfessable need of him that was no less real for being beyond her own comprehension. Judith began to wonder again what it was men wanted of women. It was something beautiful or terrible or perhaps both—strange that though she knew so little about it she could be sure it was something beautiful now that she knew Philip Lame wanted it of her.

  She felt a vague urge to cry. Idling like this was wrong. One should be always doing something useful—or was that only another of the New England rules that had no meaning under the river sun?

  She went into the cabin and got out a kerchief she was hemming. How mousy her clothes were by Philip’s blue and claret satins. And if she obeyed her father how mousy her whole life would be. Until they built a house of their own they were going to be guests of Walter Purcell, son of her father’s oldest friend. Walter Purcell was an industrious young man with all the virtues. Judith puckered her mouth distastefully as she sewed. No doubt his house would be crisp and staid, where she would be expected to be a sober young person in a cap and kerchief sitting at her spinning-wheel until another sober young person in a fustian coat and nankeen breeches came to woo her into a sober marriage. Oh, she didn’t want any of that! Why should God create this delirious landscape but for frivolity and laughter and men like Philip Larne?

  At last they came to the Dalroy bluff.

  Below Baton Rouge the river banks had been low and soft, but suddenly the east bank went up in a hump and a bluff hung like a shelf over the water. At the lower end was the wharf, so wild with flatboats and keels and pirogues that the Sheramys thought their boatmen would never land at all. But by what looked like a creation of space they tied up the boat. Judith scrambled ashore after her father.

  They stood together on the swarming wharf while the men shoved their boxes ashore. Judith was suddenly frightened to think that this wild place was where she was going to live. This confusion of shouting flatboatmen, Negroes rolling hogsheads down the planks, Indians singing to the incoming boats and catching the melons and coins their hearers flung to them, this muddle of wagons and wheelbarrows and fruit-crates—this was the town of Dalroy in the province of West Florida in the country of Louisiana. This was home. Philip would like it. Philip would laugh at her for being scared. She looked around, wondering if he was here, but all she could see was a mob of strangers and merchandise. Of course he was not here. He was back in the forest, and it might be days before he even knew she had arrived.

  Then, jumping over hogsheads and ordering Negroes out of the way, came a figure that she recognized with amazement as that of staid-minded Walter Purcell of Connecticut. But Mr. Purcell was burnt brown as an Indian and his coat was of apple-green satin and his breeches were buckled with silver. He shouted and waved to them, leaping over a wheelbarrow to grasp Mark Sheramy’s hand with delighted welcome.

  Judith took a step backward and stared at him with sudden secret glee. It was really true, then. Nobody could bring New England to Louisiana. Somewhere on the river they all crossed a dividing line, and Philip belonged on this side of it.

  The wagon bounced along a trail through the woods, here and there passing an indigo clearing with a cabin or sometimes a more pretentious house of pink clay-and-moss plaster, till they came to the home of Walter Purcell. The estate, he said, was called Lynhaven. His house was bright pink, built with a passage down the middle and five rooms on each side, and in front a white wooden porch that Mr. Purcell called a gallery, explaining when they asked him that the Creole word was galérie and in Louisiana the English language was enriching itself with a great many Anglicized Creole words. Mark asked dubiously if one had much association with the Creoles. But certainly, said Mr. Purcell. He himself had a wife from New Orleans. Charming people, these colonial French.

  Half a dozen Negroes ran out of the house to meet them, and while they jabbered and unloaded the boxes a small black-haired girl came out on the gallery. She looked like a doll with her gown of pink dimity and little curls dancing on her neck, and so young that Judith was surprised when Mr. Purcell said, “My wife, ladies and gent
lemen. Gervaise, my friends from Connecticut.”

  Gervaise smiled and curtseyed, her little hands holding back her panniers. “You are so welcome,” she said in a soft exotic accent, and with as little fluttering as if receiving four guests was the most ordinary of occurrences. “Every day for a week my husband has looked for you at the wharfs.” She gestured toward the bowing Negro man holding back the door. “You will step inside?”

  As she followed her mother indoors Judith glanced sideways at Gervaise. She had never seen any girl who looked so self-possessed and cityfied. Judith wondered if she wore those curls and ruffles every day. She must; there was no way for her to have known in advance when the Sheramys were coming and so be dressed up in their honor. Gervaise was speaking to her husband.

  “Walter, the chambers at the left back are for monsieur and madame and the young gentleman. I will conduct the young lady.” She tucked her hand into Judith’s, paused to give orders half in French and half in English to a cluster of black attendants, and led Judith into a pink-walled room with long windows reaching to the floor and a high narrow bed draped with a mosquito bar. A Negro girl whom Gervaise called Titine came after them carrying a wooden tub and a jug of hot water.

  “You’re being very nice to us,” Judith ventured as she untied the strings of her sunbonnet. “I hope we aren’t going to be a lot of trouble.”

  “But certainly not.” Gervaise laughed a little as though in surprise. “I like having guests. Walter is out half the day, and one gets bored with only servants and a baby for company.”

  “Have you really got a baby?” Judith exclaimed.

  “Yes, a little girl. Her name is Babette. What makes you so astonished?”

  “Why—you look like such a little girl yourself.”

  Gervaise laughed again. “Because I’m so tiny, I suppose. But I’m seventeen. I’ve been married three years.” She put her hand on the latch. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll tell the girls to put on the extra plates for supper. Ask Titine for anything you want, and please don’t feel shy. We want you to be comfortable.” She curtseyed and closed the door, leaving Judith looking after her while Titine uncorded the box holding her clothes. Judith was conscious of a sense of awe. Such a casual, self-confident little person Gervaise was, as though she had never had a disturbing moment in her life. It must be women like her Philip had known on the gullah coast, women who knew how to meet strangers and supervise slaves and wear exquisite gowns, and move always with an air of smiling sophistication. Judith tossed her bonnet on the bed with dissatisfied vehemence. She was sophisticated about things like mutton-pies and chilblains. She felt out of place.

  “Young miss ready for de bath?” said a soft voice behind her.

  Judith turned around. Titine was standing respectfully by the wooden tub. She was slim and black, in a dress of blue calico and a yellow kerchief wrapped around her head.

  “Why yes,” said Judith, “as soon as I undress.”

  She wished Titine would go away. She was not used to taking off her clothes before strangers. But Titine came up to her and unpinned her dress and with deft hands began loosening the drawstrings of her petticoats. Judith smothered her astonishment. Evidently this was the custom of the country, though it was very odd to stand up stark naked in front of a slave-girl and then to be bathed like a baby. But after her first shock she found that though it might be immodest it was very convenient. She had always had trouble washing her back. Being a helpless female was really quite nice. This must be what Philip meant when he said he would make her a great lady.

  “Miss wear dis here to supper?” Titine inquired.

  She was holding up Judith’s best gown, a blue muslin that her father had said was too frail to bring into a jungle, but which seemed very sturdy beside the flimsy elegance of Gervaise. “Oh yes,” said Judith, noticing that Titine had laid fresh stockings and underwear in a neat line across the bed. Placing the blue muslin by them, Titine held out a chemise Judith had washed three days ago in a bayou. Judith stepped into it obediently, and sat down while Titine fetched her stockings. It was hard to see how anybody could put on anybody else’s stockings, pulling backwards, but Titine evidently took it for granted that no white lady could be expected to perform such a task for herself, and she knelt and drew the stockings up with expert speed.

  It was all strange, but surprisingly easy to get used to.

  Then Titine brought curling irons and a lighted candle in a wire frame and a pink jar holding scented pomade. She put the irons on the frame to heat, and combed Judith’s hair high over strips of cotton. Little ringlets were patted over her forehead with pomade, and the irons set curls to bouncing on her neck. When everything was done Titine set a mirror on the chest of drawers and Judith turned around slowly.

  The mirror was narrow, but long enough for her to see herself halfway down. Her head felt as if she were carrying a basket balanced on it and her stays were laced so tight she could hardly breathe, but she gave a little gasp of joy at her reflection. Nobody had ever told her how gracefully her shoulders sloped or how small her waistline was. She looked fragile, delicate, crushable—she looked—Judith leaned over the drawers and stared at herself—she looked like the kind of girl Philip was used to. If everything else was as easy as this—?

  There was a tap on the door and Gervaise came in.

  “If you are ready, shall we go to the dining-room?” Then she stopped. “But how different you are, now that you’re dressed! It’s such a relief, isn’t it, to end a hard journey and get back to civilized living!”

  “Why—yes,” said Judith.

  She hesitated, looking at the mirror and then back at Gervaise, wondering if she dared confess how unused she was to what Gervaise called civilized living, but she did not quite have the courage.

  Still she did consider the possibility of telling Gervaise about Philip. Gervaise was young and she must know what it was like to be in love, for she was married.

  But she did not do that either. Everything about the house was romantic—the rice and crabs they ate, the soft-footed servants, the little black boy who pulled the fan of turkey feathers above the table—but Gervaise herself was so tranquilly matter-of-fact that Judith could not imagine her having any experience of ecstatic recklessness. Gervaise did not talk much, except when she answered Mrs. Sheramy’s questions about housekeeping in Louisiana, and she was as polite to her husband as if he and she had just been introduced. Walter and Mark and Caleb talked about crops and wharf business. Her father did not comment on Judith’s tight lacing or her extravagant coiffure; she concluded he had resolved to be lenient about minor matters to repay her for giving up Philip. Which she had not promised to do, Judith told herself fiercely, though she was realizing it was something she must decide all alone. There was nobody she could talk to. She felt remote from the others, and was glad when it was time to go to bed.

  After Titine had undressed her and retired Judith stood by the window in her bedgown, looking at the trees and the quiet moonlit fields of indigo. Somewhere out there was Philip, Philip who loved her, Philip whom she loved in spite of all her father could say. “You would be cruelly unhappy with such a husband … you are too young to understand.” She could almost hear him say it, sitting on that fallen tree by the river, so stern and yet so gentle that it hurt her to think how it would hurt him if she chose Philip in defiance of his wishes. He was so much older and wiser than she, and so good—but Judith re-remembered how Philip had kissed her by the pool and wondered if anything he could do to her could be as dreadful as living without him. She blew out her candle and tumbled into bed, lying with her face buried and her arms around the pillow. Wasn’t there anybody who understood? Was she the only girl in the world who had been swept into a whirlpool of stars and fire because a man had kissed her?

  It was so quiet. Everybody must be asleep but her.

  “Judith! Judith, my darling!”

 
She sat upright. It had been a whisper hardly louder than the rustle of the wind in the palms outside, but she knew it was Philip, and in the moonlight she saw him step over the low sill of the window. Judith pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

  Philip pushed back the mosquito bar and dropped on his knees by the bed.

  “Sweetheart, is it really you?”

  “Philip,” she gasped trembling, “they’ll kill you if they find you in here! Go away!”

  “Judith,” he said as though he had not heard her, “come with me. I have a house—a log cabin my slaves pegged together, but it will do until we can build a moss house like this—I can’t wait for you any longer! I’ve a horse outside, and the clergyman from St. Margaret’s chapel is at the cabin waiting to marry us—”

  “Not tonight, Philip!” she protested in a frightened whisper. “Not all of a sudden like this—not tonight!”

  Philip sat on the bed and slipped his arms around her. “Dearest, it will have to be like this. They’ll never give you to me. You know that. Don’t you love me enough to come with me now?”

  He kissed her lips and eyes and throat, and the ghosts of her grandfathers who had come to America to save their souls melted into the moonlight. Judith reached up and felt his hair, and the scar that crossed his face invisibly in the dark.

  “I love you so much, Philip. I’ll go with you.”

  He took her hands in his and kissed the palms. After a moment she raised up. “Go outside till I can put on a dress.”

  “Hurry,” said Philip softly. “And don’t make any noise.”

  When he had slipped through the window Judith got out of bed. In the moonlight she groped for her clothes. But she could not put up her hair as the slave-girl had done and she was unwilling to pin it in somber braids again, so she stepped across the window-sill with it blowing loose on her shoulders.

  “Philip!” she whispered.

  He caught her in his arms. “How lovely you are with your hair down! I never knew you had such hair.”