The Romance of a Plain Man

by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow

  CHAPTER II

  THE ENCHANTED GARDEN

  The funeral was not until nine o'clock, but at seven my mother served usa cold breakfast in order, as she said, that she might get the disheswashed and the house tidied before we started. Gathering about the baretable, we ate our dismal meal in a depressed silence, while she bustledback and forth from the kitchen in her holiday attire, which consistedof a stiff black bombazine dress and the long rustling crape veil shehad first put on at the death of her uncle Benjamin, some twenty yearsbefore. As her only outings were those occasioned by the deaths of herneighbours, I suppose her costume was quite as appropriate as it seemedto my childish eyes. Certainly, as she appeared before me in her hard,shiny, very full bombazine skirt and attenuated bodice, I regarded herwith a reverence which her everyday calico had never inspired.

  "I ain't et a mouthful an' I doubt if I'll have time to befo' we start,"she was saying in an irritable voice, as I settled into my bib and mychair. "Anybody might have thought I'd be allowed to attend a funeral inpeace, but I shan't be,--no, not even when it comes to my own."

  "Thar's plenty of time yet, Susan," returned my father cheerfully, whilehe sawed at the cold cornbread on the table. "You've got a good hour an'mo' befo' you."

  "An' the things to wash up an' the house to tidy in my veil and bonnet.Thar ain't many women, I reckon, that would wash up china in a crapeveil, but I've done it befo' an' I'm used to it."

  "Why don't you lay off yo' black things till you're through?"

  His suggestion was made innocently enough, but it appeared, as heuttered it, to be the one thing needed to sharpen the edge of mymother's temper. The three frowning lines deepened across her forehead,and she stared straight before her with her perplexed and anxious lookunder her rustling crape.

  "Yes, I'll take 'em off an' lay 'em away an' git back to work," sherejoined. "It did seem as if I might have taken a holiday at a time likethis--my next do' neighbour, too, an' I'd al'ays promised him I'd seehim laid safe in the earth. But, no, I can't do it. I'll go take off myveil an' bonnet an' stay at home."

  Before this attack my father grew so depressed that I half expected tosee tears fall into his cup of coffee, as they had into mine. Hishandsome gayety dropped from him, and he looked as downcast as waspossible for a face composed of so many flagrantly cheerful features.

  "I declar, Susan, I wa'nt thinkin' of that," he returned apologetically,"it just seemed to me that you'd be mo' comfortable without that sheetof crape floatin' down yo' back."

  "I've never been comfortable in my life," retorted my mother, "an' Idon't expect to begin when I dress myself to go to a funeral. It's gotto be, I reckon, an' it's what I'm used to; but if thar's a man alivethat would stand over a stove with a crape veil on his head, I'd beobliged to him if he'd step up an' show his face."

  At this point; the half-grown girl who had promised to look after thebaby arrived, and with her assistance, my mother set about putting thehouse in order, while my father, as soon as his luncheon basket waspacked, wished us a pleasant drive, and started for old Timothy Ball'smarble yard, where he worked. At the sink in the kitchen my mother, withher crape veil pinned back, and her bombazine sleeves rolled up, stoodwith her arms deep in soapsuds.

  "Ma," I asked, going up to her and turning my back while she unfastenedmy bib with one soapy hand, "did you ever hear anybody call you common?"

  "Call me what?"

  "Common. What does it mean when anybody calls you common?"

  "It means generally that anybody is a fool."

  "Then am I, ma?"

  "Air you what?"

  "Am I common?"

  "For the Lord's sake, Benjy, stop yo' pesterin'. What on earth has gonean' set that idee workin' inside yo' head?"

  "Is pa common?"

  She meditated an instant. "Wall, he wa'nt born a Savage, but I'd neverhave called him common--exactly," she answered.

  "Then perhaps you are?"

  "You talk like a fool! Haven't I told you that I wa'nt?" she snapped.

  "Then if you ain't an' pa ain't exactly, how can I be?" I concluded withtriumph.

  "Whoever said you were? Show me the person."

  "It wa'nt a person. It was a little girl."

  "A little girl? You mean the half-drowned brat I wrapped up in yo'grandma's old blanket shawl I set the muffin dough under? To think of mysendin' yo' po' tired pa splashin' out with 'em into the rain. So shecalled you common?"

  But the sound of a carriage turning the corner fell on my ears, andrunning hastily into the sitting-room, I opened the door and looked outeagerly for signs of the approaching funeral.

  A bright morning had followed the storm, and the burnished leaves, sorestless the day before, lay now wet and still under the sunshine. I hadstepped joyously over the threshold, to the sunken brick pavement, whenmy mother, moved by a sudden anxiety for my health, called me back, andin spite of my protestations, wrapped me in a grey blanket shawl, whichshe fastened at my throat with the enormous safety-pin she had takenfrom her own waist. Much embarrassed by this garment, which draggedafter me as I walked, I followed her sullenly out of the house and asfar as our neighbour's doorstep, where I was ordered to sit down andwait until the service was over. As the stir of her crape passed intothe little hall, I seated myself obediently on the single step which ledstraight from the street, and made faces, during the long wait, at themerry driver of the hearse--a decrepit negro of ancient days, whogrinned provokingly at the figure I cut in my blanket shawl.

  "Hi! honey, is you got on swaddlin' close er a windin' sheet?" heenquired. "I'se a-gittin' near bline en I cyarn mek out."

  "You jest wait till I'm bigger an' I'll show you," was my peaceablerejoinder.

  "Wat's dat you gwine sho' me, boy? I reckon I'se done seed mo' curusthings den you in my lifetime."

  I looked up defiantly. Between the aristocratic, if fallen, negro andmyself there was all the instinctive antagonism that existed in theVirginia of that period between the "quality" and the "poor whitetrash."

  "If you don't lemme alone you'll see mo'n you wanter."

  "Whew! I reckon you gwine tu'n out sump'im' moughty outlandish, boy.I'se a-lookin' wid all my eyes an I cyarn see nuttin' at all."

  "Wait till I'm bigger an' you'll see it," I answered.

  "I'se sho'ly gwine ter wait, caze ef'n hits mo' curus den you is en datar windin' sheet, hit's a sight dat I'se erbleeged ter lay eyes on.Wat's yo' name, suh?" he enquired, with a mocking salute.

  "I am Ben Starr," I replied promptly, "an' if you wait till I getbigger, I'll bus' you open."

  "Hi! hi! wat you wanter bus' me open fur, boy? Is you got a pa?"

  "He's Thomas Starr, an' he cuts lambs and doves on tombstones. I've seen'em, an' I'm goin' to learn to cut 'em, too, when I grow up. I likelambs."

  The door behind me opened suddenly without warning, and as I scrambledfrom the doorstep, my enemy, the merry driver, backed his creakingvehicle to the sidewalk across which the slow procession of mournersfiled. A minute later I was caught up by my mother's hand, and borneinto a carriage, where I sat tightly wedged between two sombre females.

  "So you've brought yo' little boy along, Mrs. Starr," remarked a thirdfrom the opposite seat, in an aggressive voice.

  "Yes, he had a cold an' I thought the air might do him good," replied mymother with her society manner.

  "Wall, I've nine an' not one of 'em has ever been to a funeral,"returned the questioner. "I've al'ays been set dead against 'em forchildren, ain't you, Mrs. Boxley?"

  Mrs. Boxley, a placid elderly woman, who had already begun to doze inher corner, opened her eyes and smiled on me in a pleasant and friendlyway.

  "To tell the truth I ain't never been able really to enjoy a child'sfuneral," she replied.

  "I'm sure we're all mighty glad to have him along, Mrs. Starr," observedthe fourth woman, who was soft and peaceable and very fat. "He's a fine,strong boy now, ain't he, ma'am?"

  "Middlin' strong. I hope he ain't crowdin' you. Edge closer to me
,Benjy."

  I edged closer until her harsh bombazine sleeve seemed to scratch theskin from my cheek. Mrs. Boxley had dozed again, and sinking lower onthe seat, I had just prepared myself to follow her example, when achange in the conversation brought my wandering wits instantly together,and I sat bolt upright while my eyes remained fixed on the small,straggling houses we were passing.

  "Yes, she would go, rain or no rain," my mother was saying, and I knewthat in that second's snatch of sleep she had related the story of ourlast evening's adventure. "To be sure she may have been all she ought tobe, but I must say I can't help mistrustin' that little, palaverin' kindof a woman with eyes like a scared rabbit."

  "If it was Sarah Mickleborough, an' I think it was, she had reasonenough to look scared, po' thing," observed Mrs. Kidd, the soft fatwoman, who sat on my left side. "They've only lived over here in the oldAdams house for three months, but the neighbours say he's almost killedher twice since they moved in. She came of mighty set up, high falutin'folks, you know, an' when they wouldn't hear of the marriage, she ranoff with him one night about ten years ago just after he came home outof the army. He looked fine, they say, in uniform, on his big blackhorse, but after the war ended he took to drink and then from drink, asis natchel, he took to beatin' her. It's strange--ain't it?--how easilya man's hand turns against a woman once he's gone out of his head?"

  "Ah, I could see that she was the sort that's obliged to be beatensooner or later if thar was anybody handy around to do it," remarked mymother. "Some women are made so that they're never happy except whenthey're hurt, an' she's one of 'em. Why, they can't so much as look at aman without invitin' him to ill-treat 'em."

  "Thar ain't many women that know how to deal with a husband as well asyou an' Mrs. Cudlip," remarked Mrs. Kidd, with delicate flattery.

  "Po' Mrs. Cudlip. I hope she is bearin' up," sighed my mother. "'Twasthe leg he lost at Seven Pines--wasn't it?--that supported her?"

  "That an' the cheers he bottomed. The last work he did, po' man, was forMrs. Mickleborough of whom we were speakin'. I used to hear of her befo'the war when she was pretty Miss Sarah Bland, in a white poke bonnetwith pink roses."

  "An' now never a day, passes, they say, that Harry Mickleborough doesn'tthreaten to turn her an' the child out into the street."

  "Are her folks still livin'? Why doesn't she go back to them?"

  "Her father died six months after the marriage, an' the rest of 'em liveup-town somewhar. The only thing that's stuck to her is her colouredmammy, Aunt Euphronasia, an' they tell me that that old woman has mo'influence over Harry Mickleborough than anybody livin'. When he getsdrunk an' goes into one of his tantrums she walks right up to him an'humours him like a child."

  As we drove on their voices grew gradually muffled and thin in my ears,and after a minute, in which I clung desperately to my eludingconsciousness, my head dropped with a soft thud upon Mrs. Kidd'sinviting bosom. The next instant I was jerked violently erect by mymother and ordered sternly to "keep my place an' not to make myself anuisance by spreadin' about." With this admonition in my ears, I pinchedmy leg and sat staring with heavy eyes out upon the quiet street, wherethe rolling of the slow wheels over the fallen leaves was the only soundthat disturbed the silence. After ten bitter years the city was stillbound by the terrible lethargy which had immediately succeeded the war;and on Church Hill it seemed almost as if we had been forgotten like thebreastworks and the battle-fields in the march of progress. The grip ofpoverty, which was fiercer than the grip of armies, still held us, andthe few stately houses showed tenantless and abandoned in the midst oftheir ruined gardens. Sometimes I saw an old negress in a colouredturban come out upon one of the long porches and stare after us, herpipe in her mouth and her hollowed palm screening her eyes; and once anoisy group of young mulattoes emerged from an alley and followed uscuriously for a few blocks along the sidewalk.

  Withdrawing my gaze from the window, I looked enviously at Mrs. Boxley,who snored gently in her corner. Then for the second time sleepoverpowered me, and in spite of my struggles, I sank again on Mrs.Kidd's bosom.

  "Thar, now, don't think of disturbin' him, Mrs. Starr. He ain't theleast bit in my way. I can look right over his head," I heard murmuredover me as I slid blissfully into unconsciousness.

  What happened after this I was never able to remember, for when I cameclearly awake again, we had reached our door, and my mother was shakingme in the effort to make me stand on my feet.

  "He's gone and slept through the whole thing," she remarked irritably toPresident, while I stumbled after them across the pavement, with thefringed ends of my blanket shawl rustling the leaves.

  "He's too little. You might have let me go, ma," replied President, ashe dragged me, sleepy eyes, ruffled flaxen hair, and trailing shawl overthe doorstep.

  "An' you're too big," retorted my mother, removing the long black pinsfrom her veil, and holding them in her mouth while she carefullysmoothed and folded the lengths of crape. "You could never have squeezedin between us, an' as it was Mrs. Kidd almost overlaid Benjy. But youdidn't miss much," she hastened to assure him, "I declar' I thought atone time we'd never get on it all went so slowly."

  Having placed her bonnet and veil in the tall white bandbox upon thetable, she hurried off to prepare our dinner, while President urged mein an undertone to "sham sick" that afternoon so that he wouldn't haveto take me out for an airing on the hill.

  "But I want to go," I responded selfishly, wide awake at the prospect."I want to see the old Adams house where the little girl lives."

  "If you go I can't play checkers, an' it's downright mean. What do youcare about little girls? They ain't any good."

  "But this little girl has got a drunken father."

  "Well, you won't see _him_ anyway, so what is the use?"

  "She lives in a big house an' it's got a big garden--as big as that!" Istretched out my arms in a vain attempt to impress his imagination, buthe merely looked scornful and swore a mighty vow that he'd "be jiggeredif he'd keep on playin' nurse-girl to a muff."

  At the time he put my pleading sternly aside, but a couple of hourslater, when the afternoon was already waning, he relented sufficientlyto take me out on the ragged hill, which was covered thickly withpokeberry, yarrow, and stunted sumach. Before our feet the ground sankgradually to the sparkling river, and farther away I could see thesilhouette of an anchored vessel etched boldly against the rosy cloudsof the sunset.

  As I stood there, holding fast to his hand, in the high wind that blewup from the river, a stout gentleman, leaning heavily on a blackwalking-stick, with a big gold knob at the top, came panting up theslope and paused beside us, with his eyes on the western sky. He washale, handsome, and ruddy-faced, with a bunch of iron-grey whiskers oneither cheek, and a vivacious and merry eye which seemed to catch at atwinkle whenever it met mine. His rounded stomach was spanned by amassive gold watch-chain, from which dangled a bunch of seals thatdelighted my childish gaze.

  "It's a fine view," he observed pleasantly, patting my shoulder as if Iwere in some way responsible for the river, the anchored vessel, and therosy sunset. "I moved up-town as soon as the war ended, but I stillmanage to crawl back once in a while to watch the afterglow."

  "Where does the sun go," I asked, "when it slips way down there on theother side of the river?"

  The gentleman smiled benignly, and I saw from his merry glance that hedid not share my mother's hostility to the enquiring mind.

  "Well, I shouldn't be surprised if it went to the wrong side of theworld for little boys and girls over there to get up by," he replied.

  "May I go there, too, when I'm big?"

  "To the wrong side of the world? You may, who knows?"

  "Have you ever been there? What is it like?"

  "Not yet, not yet, but there's no telling. I've been across the ocean,though, and that's pretty far. I went once in a ship that ran throughthe blockade and brought in a cargo of Bibles."

  "What did you want with so many Bibles? We've got o
ne. It has giltclasps."

  "Want with the Bibles! Why, every one of these Bibles, my boy, may havesaved a soul."

  "Has our Bible saved a soul? An' whose soul was it? It stays on ourcentre table, an' my name's in it. I've seen it."

  "Indeed! and what may your name be?"

  "Ben Starr. That's my name. What is yours? Is yo' name in the Bible?Does everybody's name have to be in the Bible if they're to be saved?Who put them in there? Was it God or the angels? If I blot my name outcan I still go to heaven? An' if yours isn't in there will you have tobe damned? Have you ever been damned an' what does it feel like?"

  "Shut up, Benjy, or ma'll wallop you," growled President, squeezing myhand so hard that I cried aloud.

  "Ah, he's a fine boy, a promising boy, a remarkable boy," observed thegentleman, with one finger in his waistcoat pocket. "Wouldn't you liketo grow up and be President, my enquiring young friend?"

  "No, sir, I'd rather be God," I replied, shaking my head.

  All the gentleman's merry grey eyes seemed to run to sparkles.

  "Ah, there's nothing, after all, like the true American spirit," hesaid, patting my shoulder. Then he laughed so heartily that hisgold-rimmed eye-glasses fell from his eyes and dangled in the air at theend of a silk cord. "I'm afraid your aspiration is too lofty for myhelp," he said, "but if you should happen to grow less ambitious as yougrow older, then remember, please, that my name is General Bolingbroke."

  "Why, you're the president of the Great South Midland and AtlanticRailroad, sir!" exclaimed President, admiring and embarrassed.

  The General sighed, though even I could see that this simple tribute tohis fame had not left him unmoved. "Ten years ago I was the man whotried to save Johnston's army, and to-day I am only a railroadpresident," he answered, half to himself; "times change and fames changealmost as quickly. When all is said, however, there may be more lastinghonour in building a country's trade than in winning a battle. I'll havea tombstone some day and I want written on it, 'He brought help to thesick land and made the cotton flower to bloom anew.' My name is GeneralBolingbroke," he added, with his genial and charming smile. "You willnot forget it?"

  I assured him that I should not, and that if it could be done, I'd tryto have it written in our Bible with gilt clasps, at which he thanked megravely as he shook my hand.

  "An' I think now I'd rather be president of the Great South Midland andAtlantic Railroad, sir," I concluded.

  "Young man, I fear you're with the wind," he said, laughing, and added,"I've a nephew just about your age and at least a head shorter, what doyou think of that?"

  "Has he a kite?" I enquired eagerly. "I have, an' a top an' ten checkersan' a big balloon."

  "Have you, indeed? Well, my poor boy is not so well off, I regret tosay. But don't you think your prosperity is excessive considering theimpoverished condition of the country?"

  The big words left me gasping, and fearing that I had been too boastfulfor politeness, I hastened to inform him that "although the balloon wasvery big, it was also bu'sted, which made a difference."

  "Ah, it is, is it? Well, that does make a difference."

  "If your boy hasn't any checkers I'll give him half of mine," I addedwith a gulp.

  With an elaborate flourish the General drew out a stiffly starchedpocket handkerchief and blew his nose. "That's a handsome offer and I'llrepeat it without fail," he said.

  Then he shook hands again and marched down the hill with his gold-headedstick tapping the ground.

  "Now you'll come and trot home, I reckon," said President, when he haddisappeared.

  But the spirit of revolt had lifted its head within me, for through acleft in the future, I saw myself already as the president of the GreatSouth Midland and Atlantic Railroad, with a jingling bunch of seals anda gold-headed stick.

  "I ain't goin' that way," I said, "I'm goin' home by the old Adams housewhere the little girl lives."

  "No, you ain't either. I'll tell ma on you."

  "I don't care. If you don't take me home by the old Adams house, you'llhave to carry me every step of the way, an' I'll make myself heavy."

  For a long minute President wrinkled his brows and thought hard insilence. Then an idea appeared to penetrate his slow mind, and hegrasped me by the shoulder and shook me until I begged him to stop.

  "If I take you home that way will you promise to sham sick to-morrow, soI shan't have to bring you out?"

  The price was high, but swallowing my disappointment I met it squarely.

  "I will if you'll lift me an' let me look over the wall."

  "Hope you may die?"

  "Hope I may die."

  "Wall, it ain't anything to see but jest a house," remarked President,as I held out my hand, "an' girls ain't worth the lookin' at."

  "She called me common," I said, soberly.

  "Oh, shucks!" retorted President, with fine scorn, and we said no more.

  Clinging tightly to his hand I trudged the short blocks in silence. As Iwas little, and he was very large for his years, it was with difficultythat I kept pace with him; but by taking two quick steps to his singleslow one, I managed to cover the same distance in almost the same numberof minutes. He was a tall, overgrown boy, very fat for his age, with afoolish, large-featured face which continued to look sheepishly amiableeven when he got into a temper.

  "Is it far, President?" I enquired at last between panting breaths.

  "There 'tis," he answered, pointing with his free hand to a fine oldmansion, with a broad and hospitable front, from which the curved ironrailing bent in a bright bow to the pavement. It was the one great houseon the hill, with its spreading wings, its stuccoed offices, its massivewhite columns at the rear, which presided solemnly over the terracedhill-side. A moment later he led me up to the high, spiked wall, andswung me from the ground to a secure perch on his shoulder. With myhands clinging to the iron nails that studded the wall, I looked over,and then caught my breath sharply at the thought that I was gazing uponan enchanted garden. Through the interlacing elm boughs the rosy lightof the afterglow fell on the magnolias and laburnums, on the rosesquares, and on the tall latticed arbours, where amid a glossy bower offoliage, a few pale microphylla roses bloomed out of season. Overheadthe wind stirred, and one by one the small yellow leaves drifted, likewounded butterflies, down on the box hedges and the terraced walks.

  "You've got to come down now--you're too heavy," said President frombelow, breathing hard as he held me up.

  "Jest a minute--give me a minute longer an' I'll let you eat myblackberry jam at supper."

  "An' you've promised on yo' life to sham sick to-morrow?"

  "I'll sham sick an' I'll let you eat my jam, too, if you'll hold me alittle longer."

  He lifted me still higher, and clutching desperately to the iron spikes,I hung there quivering, breathless, with a thumping heart. A glimmer ofwhite flitted between the box rows on a lower terrace, and I saw thatthe princess of the enchanted garden was none other than my little girlof the evening before. She was playing quietly by herself in a bower ofbox, building small houses of moss and stones, which she erected withinfinite patience. So engrossed was she in her play that she seemedperfectly oblivious of the fading light and of the birds and squirrelsthat ran past her to their homes in the latticed arbours. Higher andhigher rose her houses of moss and stones, while she knelt there,patient and silent, in the terrace walk with the small, yellow leavesfalling around her.

  "That's a square deal now," said President, dropping me suddenly toearth. "You'd better come along and trot home or you'll get a lamming."

  My enchanted garden had vanished, the spiked wall rose over my head, andbefore me, as I turned homeward, spread all the familiar commonplacenessof Church Hill.

  "How long will it be befo' I can climb up by myself?" I asked.

  "When you grow up. You're nothin' but a kid."

  "An' when'll I grow up if I keep on fast?"

  "Oh, in ten or fifteen years, I reckon."

  "Shan't I be big enoug
h to climb up befo' then?"

  "Look here, you shut up! I'm tired answerin' questions," shouted myelder brother, and grasping his hand I trotted in a depressed silenceback to our little home.