Deep Summer

by Gwen Bristow

  Dolores caught fire. “Oh, you were such a yokel! You were going to get trouble in that town anyway—you better thank God on your knees you got nothing worse than me!” She walked to the other end of the room and back again, beating her fists on each other. At last she held out her hands to him and began to plead. “Caleb, I did not think it was so awful. I did so bad want to be quality. Aunt Juanita beat me when she got drunk because she said I try to be too uppity. I had no place to go. I could not make a marriage with anybody except maybe some tipsy sailor that wanted a woman to cook for him. Then you came and it was so easy. You was believe everything I said—”

  “Where did you get that nigger woman that went about with you?”

  “I hired her. She was not speak English so it was all right. I was having fun even if you didn’t marry me. But when you said you were in love with me I was so happy I could die, and I swore on the cross I would make you a good wife. And I did, didn’t I? You liked me yesterday! I am the same as I was then!”

  “Oh, go to bed,” said Caleb. He felt as if there were sand in his eyes and he ached all over. This had lasted hours and had got nowhere. He couldn’t bear any more of it.

  “Yes,” said Dolores. She went to their bedroom, hesitated on the threshold a moment looking back at him, then shut the door. Caleb sent a servant in for what clothes he needed and slept in another chamber at the back.

  The days after that were worse and worse. His father said, “I am very sorry, son. She’s not worth all this.” But Caleb could not keep from talking to her. Sometimes Dolores pled, almost meekly; at others she was a screaming little vixen, lashing him with profanity until he ordered her into her room. When she came to the table she rarely said anything at all, but sat in a stubborn silence that killed his appetite.

  Philip sent over a brief note, saying only. “I deeply regret the unfortunate scene on the Ardeith gallery Monday. If you feel in need of counsel or assistance, pray let me be of service. I remain, sir, your obedient servant, Philip Larne.” Caleb blessed him for keeping away.

  Philip would have kept away indefinitely, having an almost religious abhorrence for meddling in other people’s affairs, but Judith was not so impersonal. Ten days after Mr. Thistlethwaite’s unhappy visit Judith went to Silverwood with the avowed purpose of rescuing Dolores and bringing her to Ardeith. She did so over Philip’s protests. Not only did he feel that Caleb and Dolores should be let alone to solve a situation primarily concerning only themselves, but he reminded Judith that Dolores’ behavior had been pretty cheap and Caleb couldn’t be blamed if he felt aggrieved.

  But Judith insisted, eloquent with pity. She knew the men of her family better than he did. The Sheramys were descendants of the old puritans who had had women put into stocks for laughing in the street on Sunday.

  “Philip Larne,” she exclaimed finally, “you don’t know how cruel a good man can be.”

  Philip shrugged.

  “Anyway,” Judith persisted, “aren’t there any respectable barmaids?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I never heard of any.”

  “Is that why you don’t want her here?”

  “No, dearest, I’d like to be kind to her. But she’ll get in the way, you’ll wish you hadn’t done it, and Caleb won’t thank you for interfering. However, if you’ve got your mind made up, go ahead and don’t blame me if she brings trouble.”

  Caleb and his father were in the fields when Judith got to Silverwood, and though Dolores was not cordial Judith was glad she had come. Dolores looked thinner and there were hollows under her eyes. Her dress was crumpled as if it had been worn yesterday and the day before, and for the first time it was apparent that she was going to have a child, for her usually erect little figure had slumped wearily. She listened without a sign of gratitude when Judith said she wanted to bring her to Ardeith until she felt stronger.

  “I feel all right,” said Dolores coldly.

  But she yielded and climbed to the pillion on Judith’s saddle as though it was easier to do what she was told than to initiate her own actions. They rode to Ardeith, Angelique riding behind with a box holding Dolores’ clothes. Judith took her into one of the spare bedrooms and gave her a girl named Christine to wait on her.

  She drew Angelique into her room. “Get this riding skirt off me and put me into something fit to wear to dinner. Angelique, what am I going to do with Miss Dolores now she’s here?”

  Angelique laughed confidingly. “Give her something to do. Let her help sew for the children, maybe.”

  “With the servants? I can’t do that.”

  “It will make her feel useful,” said Angelique. “If you let her sit with her hands in her lap she’ll just mope and be unhappy.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Judith said slowly, after a moment’s consideration.

  Angelique was holding up a sprigged dimity dress Judith usually saved for church. “Why don’t you wear this pretty gown to dinner? You’ll want to look very nice when you tell Mr. Philip she’s here. And let me get some roses. He likes you with flowers in your hair.”

  “Oh dear,” said Judith. “You’re so clever. Tell Josh to get out the English port too.”

  Philip, however, heard the news with fairly good grace. He only said, “With two children and twenty servants you want to take on more responsibility! All right. But if she starts throwing things at any more of my guests—”

  “She won’t. Anyhow, I don’t blame her for throwing wine at Mr. Thistlethwaite. We can tell people Dolores hasn’t been well since she got with child and we brought her here so I could look after her. Nobody will believe it, but it will sound passable.”

  Philip chuckled indulgently.

  The next day Caleb rode over on his way to the wharfs to supervise the loading of an indigo boat. Judith, who was on the gallery teaching David to build a house with a set of cypress blocks, went down the steps to meet him.

  “Where is Dolores?” Caleb asked shortly, without dismounting.

  “She’s indoors.” Judith added eagerly, “Won’t you let her stay here awhile?”

  “How long does she plan to stay?”

  “Till after her confinement.”

  Caleb bent his riding whip in two. His face had a look of adamant self-control, like the expression years of disappointment had stamped on her father, but softened by none of Mark’s gentleness.

  “How is she?” he asked finally.

  “Well. May I keep her, Caleb?”

  “Yes. See that she’s taken care of. And whatever she needs—clothes for the child, or anything for herself—get it and have the bills sent to me.”

  “Very well. Caleb—” as he started to turn his horse—“don’t you want to see her?”

  “No,” said Caleb. He rode away.

  Judith wondered if she would have stiffened like him if she had not married Philip so young. David was pulling at her skirts, clamoring for completion of his block-house. She sat down on the step and drew him to her, glad he resembled his father. He had the Larne beauty and the Larne winsomeness; she could not imagine his growing up to be ruthless toward anybody.

  She did her best to make Dolores feel welcome, but having her in the house proved to be not the pleasantest situation on earth. Though she evidently tried not to, Dolores did get in the way. When there was a stranger on the other side of the candle Judith and Philip couldn’t exchange scraps of loving nonsense as they used to, or talk over the thousand details of their life together that were too tender for anybody else’s ears. She was as cordial as she could be to Dolores, and told her how sweet it was of her to help with the children’s sewing, but she could not help wishing her gone. Dolores was very quiet except when she played with the children. Then she laughed merrily, teaching them folk-songs in gumbo Spanish and inventing funny little games. Judith asked her sometimes if they weren’t a bother. “Mammy can take care of them,” she urged. But
Dolores shook her head eagerly. “Please let them play with me! I love children, Judith!” So Judith left them with her.

  Except with the children, she rarely showed much of the sparkle that had attracted Judith when Dolores first came to Silverwood, and she hardly talked about herself at all. But Judith had no cause to be really irritated with her until an afternoon in November when she had a group of her women friends in to dinner and they played cards afterward. Gervaise was there and Sylvie Durham, and half a dozen others. Dolores was expecting her child in a week or two, but she insisted she felt well and that she liked cards. There had been no cards at Silverwood, and Judith recalled her own qualms when she discovered that in Louisiana everybody played for money, but she had found that she liked it.

  Dolores was in good spirits, though at first she played badly and lost. But she laughed at herself, and kept everybody chuckling with her remarks. Judith had not seen her so jolly since she came to Ardeith, and she rebuked herself for not discovering sooner how much Dolores liked cards, for they could have done this often. Even Sylvie Durham, whom Judith had never liked very much because she was so arrogantly Creole and so vociferously convinced of the superiority of everything Creole to everything English, unbent and had a hilarious time. Dolores began to win, but she won as graciously as she had lost. It occurred to Judith that she might have been a social asset if Mr. Thistlethwaite had waited another year to put in an appearance, and she regretted his coming for her own sake, for society on the bluff was not so varied that one could afford to dispense with anybody who was entertaining in company. Maybe Caleb might be propitiated and in the course of time people would forget everything. By the time the others rose to go home Dolores had won all the stakes and everybody seemed to be glad of it. Sylvie Durham exclaimed as they left the table:

  “My dear, I don’t know when I’ve had such an amusing time! Dolores, as soon as you’re going about again you must come to see us.”

  “I will be most pleased,” said Dolores. “Shall I go with you to get your hat?”

  “Yes, do. You know I’m Creole too—you speak French, don’t you?”

  They drifted off, arm in arm. Judith walked out to Gervaise’s horse with her. Gervaise smiled down at her as she mounted.

  “We had a lovely time, chère.” She glanced around and added in a lower voice, “Do you need any help?”

  “No, thank you. She’s all right.”

  “Yes, she is.” Gervaise pressed her hand. “I hope, chère, your brother stops being a fool, but it is easier to be a fool about marriage than anything else, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. So few people seem to have judgment enough to accept what heaven sends.”

  Dolores came out with Sylvie and they made affectionate farewells. As the guests rode away Dolores linked her arm in Judith’s and they went back up the steps. “It was nice, wasn’t it?” said Dolores.

  “A lot of fun. Are you tired?”

  “No, not a bit. I am not an invalid.” She glanced at the sky. “The sun is nearly going down. If they do not hurry they will be riding in the dark.”

  Judith gave orders to light the candles and began gathering up the scattered cards. She glanced up as Philip came in. “Dolores won all the money,” she told him.

  “Good. You like cards, Dolores?”

  “I always did,” said Dolores. Mammy brought in David and Christopher to say good night. Dolores gathered up her winnings in both hands and ran to them.

  “Good night, darlings.”

  “Good night, Aunt Dolores,” they said together. They did not share grown folks’ prejudices and adored her.

  “Here. I have something for you. Look. Tomorrow you make go to town with mammy, and you can buy something pretty. A present from Aunt Dolores. Half for you, David, and half for Christopher—”

  “Dolores!” Philip exclaimed. “Don’t give it to the children!”

  “Please don’t,” protested Judith.

  “Oh, but that’s why I wanted to win. They are so sweet!”

  She was so eager neither of them had the heart to stop her. David and Christopher, who hardly knew what money was, were nevertheless speechless with delight at the pretty coins.

  “Ain’t you got no manners?” mammy was scolding them. “Li’l gennulmen says thanky when they gets presents.”

  “Thanky, Aunt Dolores,” said David. “Chris, you say thanky too.”

  Christopher mumbled his thanks. Though Judith still doubted the wisdom of their having so much money all at once she could not bring herself to spoil Dolores’ pleasure. She only said, as they went out, “That was very sweet of you, Dolores.”

  “But I wanted to.” Dolores smiled at the moths fluttering about the candle on the table. “You have been most good to me—I like to do something for the children. I would like,” she added softly, “to do something for you.”

  Philip, always embarrassed by gratitude of any sort, said, “I wish you could teach me to play cards as well as you do.”

  “Oh.” Dolores took up the pack. “I show you. I do not know much. But look.”

  She shuffled the cards and began to deal. Judith caught her breath and put her hand over her mouth. Philip came close and looked over her shoulder.

  Dolores flipped the cards so fast one could hardly watch her fingers. She dealt hands all of one color and hands where the two colors alternated. She whisked the cards back together and dealt hands containing all high cards and other hands containing only low ones, giggling softly as she did so.

  Philip said, “Christ, is that what you’ve been doing in my house?”

  “But yes,” said Dolores. “I will show you. A gentleman who played on the boats taught me. Much of his tricks I cannot learn; I am too stupid. But these are simple. At first I had forgotten. Then I remembered—it is very easy if you know.”

  Philip gathered up the cards in his hand and threw them into the fire. He said nothing.

  But Judith had found her voice.

  “You—nasty—little—sneak,” she said.

  Dolores pushed back her chair with a gasp. “Why—Judith!”

  Judith could feel herself getting hot and then cold. “Oh Dolores, Dolores,” she said slowly, “how could you!”

  “Be quiet, Judith!” said Philip.

  Dolores was standing up, holding the mantelpiece. Philip took her arm gently. “Don’t you want to go to your room, Dolores? We can’t help being shocked, but we know you didn’t understand how we’d feel about it.”

  “Let me alone!” She shook herself free. “You can be good. It takes money to be good on. You try sometimes taking charity. Knowing every time you eat a bite of rice it’s somebody’s else’s rice. I hope I die and my baby dies and you will be rid of us. Damn your souls.”

  “Cheating my friends,” Judith said half under her breath. “You do belong in a tavern.”

  “Judith,” said Philip, “will you for the love of God hold your tongue?”

  He led Dolores into her room. She flung a couple of ugly epithets at Judith as she went out. Philip closed the door after her and told the servants to take her supper on a tray. Judith was sitting in the parlor with her head on her hands.

  “I hope,” said Philip, “you enjoyed that diatribe.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have talked like that. I know I shouldn’t. But why does she have to be so unspeakably common?”

  “You brought her here, you know,” said Philip.

  “I know it! And she’s knocked my home into a shambles. Why do you have to remind me—”

  “Because I’m as tired of her as you are. But since you can’t send her away now, you might practice keeping quiet while she’s here. Lord, how you can talk!”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I’ve heard that before. What am I going to do with that money she gave the children? I can’t
let them keep it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s hardly decent.”

  “Then give it to the church. But whatever you do, don’t mention this again to Dolores.”

  Judith did not, but Dolores’ white face and resentful silence told her it was no use to pretend to have forgotten it. She tried to take the money from David and Christopher, but they put up such a howl her stringy nerves gave way and she decided they might as well spend it, since they didn’t understand the moral implications of cheating at cards anyway.

  Dolores’ baby, a boy, was born the following week. Judith was as congratulatory as she could be, and gave Dolores an embroidered baby-dress that had come from France, but she found it hard to conceal her thankfulness that this much at least was over, and now there was less reason why Dolores should not remove her annoying presence from Ardeith. She wrote Caleb a note telling him the baby had been born and Dolores was doing well.

  Mark came over at once, though without Caleb. He looked so stern and forbidding that Judith forebore asking him if Caleb was not interested enough in his child to want to see it. She took him into the nursery. Mark bent over the cradle, and she saw a flicker of tenderness on his worn face.

  “A fine healthy child,” he said softly. “We will name him Roger.”

  “Roger?” she said doubtfully. “Was any of our family named that?”

  He shook his head, letting the baby’s hand curl around his finger. “In memory of Roger Williams of Rhode Island. Leader of heretics, but a man of great courage.”

  “Is that what Caleb wants him named?” Judith asked after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Caleb has said nothing of it to me,” said Mark. Then he asked, “Is Dolores well enough to see me?”

  “Why yes. She’s in the next room.”

  Her father withdrew his finger from the baby’s clasp and came with her to the door. “It is good of you to give her shelter, daughter,” he said fumblingly. “If your mother had been alive it might not have been so hard for her at Silverwood.”

  Judith wondered. But she said nothing. She went to Dolores’ bedside and said, “Dolores, father is here. He wants to see you.”