THE ENCHANTED GARDEN
The funeral was not until nine o'clock, but at seven my mother served us
a cold breakfast in order, as she said, that she might get the dishes
washed and the house tidied before we started. Gathering about the bare
table, we ate our dismal meal in a depressed silence, while she bustled
back and forth from the kitchen in her holiday attire, which consisted
of a stiff black bombazine dress and the long rustling crape veil she
had first put on at the death of her uncle Benjamin, some twenty years
before. As her only outings were those occasioned by the deaths of her
neighbours, I suppose her costume was quite as appropriate as it seemed
to my childish eyes. Certainly, as she appeared before me in her hard,
shiny, very full bombazine skirt and attenuated bodice, I regarded her
with 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 my
chair. "Anybody might have thought I'd be allowed to attend a funeral in
peace, 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, while
he 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 crape
veil, 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 he
uttered it, to be the one thing needed to sharpen the edge of my
mother's temper. The three frowning lines deepened across her forehead,
and she stared straight before her with her perplexed and anxious look
under her rustling crape.
"Yes, I'll take 'em off an' lay 'em away an' git back to work," she
rejoined. "It did seem as if I might have taken a holiday at a time like
this--my next do' neighbour, too, an' I'd al'ays promised him I'd see
him laid safe in the earth. But, no, I can't do it. I'll go take off my
veil an' bonnet an' stay at home."
Before this attack my father grew so depressed that I half expected to
see tears fall into his cup of coffee, as they had into mine. His
handsome gayety dropped from him, and he looked as downcast as was
possible 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 sheet
of crape floatin' down yo' back."
"I've never been comfortable in my life," retorted my mother, "an' I
don't expect to begin when I dress myself to go to a funeral. It's got
to be, I reckon, an' it's what I'm used to; but if thar's a man alive
that would stand over a stove with a crape veil on his head, I'd be
obliged to him if he'd step up an' show his face."
At this point; the half-grown girl who had promised to look after the
baby arrived, and with her assistance, my mother set about putting the
house in order, while my father, as soon as his luncheon basket was
packed, wished us a pleasant drive, and started for old Timothy Ball's
marble yard, where he worked. At the sink in the kitchen my mother, with
her crape veil pinned back, and her bombazine sleeves rolled up, stood
with her arms deep in soapsuds.
"Ma," I asked, going up to her and turning my back while she unfastened
my 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 gone
an' set that idee workin' inside yo' head?"
"Is pa common?"
She meditated an instant. "Wall, he wa'nt born a Savage, but I'd never
have 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 with
triumph.
"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 my
sendin' yo' po' tired pa splashin' out with 'em into the rain. So she
called you common?"
But the sound of a carriage turning the corner fell on my ears, and
running hastily into the sitting-room, I opened the door and looked out
eagerly for signs of the approaching funeral.
A bright morning had followed the storm, and the burnished leaves, so
restless the day before, lay now wet and still under the sunshine. I had
stepped joyously over the threshold, to the sunken brick pavement, when
my mother, moved by a sudden anxiety for my health, called me back, and
in spite of my protestations, wrapped me in a grey blanket shawl, which
she fastened at my throat with the enormous safety-pin she had taken
from her own waist. Much embarrassed by this garment, which dragged
after me as I walked, I followed her sullenly out of the house and as
far as our neighbour's doorstep, where I was ordered to sit down and
wait until the service was over. As the stir of her crape passed into
the little hall, I seated myself obediently on the single step which led
straight from the street, and made faces, during the long wait, at the
merry driver of the hearse--a decrepit negro of ancient days, who
grinned provokingly at the figure I cut in my blanket shawl.
"Hi! honey, is you got on swaddlin' close er a windin' sheet?" he
enquired. "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 peaceable
rejoinder.
"Wat's dat you gwine sho' me, boy? I reckon I'se done seed mo' curus
things den you in my lifetime."
I looked up defiantly. Between the aristocratic, if fallen, negro and
myself there was all the instinctive antagonism that existed in the
Virginia of that period between the "quality" and the "poor white
trash."
"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 dat
ar 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 get
bigger, 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 like
lambs."
The door behind me opened suddenly without warning, and as I scrambled
from the doorstep, my enemy, the merry driver, backed his creaking
vehicle to the sidewalk across which the slow procession of mourners
filed. A minute later I was caught up by my mother's hand, and borne
into a carriage, where I sat tightly wedged between two sombre females.
"So you've brought yo' little boy along, Mrs. Starr," remarked a third
from the opposite seat, in an aggressive voice.
"Yes, he had a cold an' I thought the air might do him good," replied my
mother 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 for
children, ain't you, Mrs. Boxley?"
Mrs. Boxley, a placid elderly woman, who had already begun to doze in
her corner, opened her eyes and smiled on me in a pleasant and friendly
way.
"To tell the truth I ain't never been able really to enjoy a child's
funeral," she replied.
"I'm sure we're all mighty glad to have him along, Mrs. Starr," observed
the 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 the
skin from my cheek. Mrs. Boxley had dozed again, and sinking lower on
the seat, I had just prepared myself to follow her example, when a
change 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 knew
that in that second's snatch of sleep she had related the story of our
last evening's adventure. "To be sure she may have been all she ought to
be, but I must say I can't help mistrustin' that little, palaverin' kind
of a woman with eyes like a scared rabbit."
"If it was Sarah Mickleborough, an' I think it was, she had reason
enough to look scared, po' thing," observed Mrs. Kidd, the soft fat
woman, who sat on my left side. "They've only lived over here in the old
Adams house for three months, but the neighbours say he's almost killed
her 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 ran
off with him one night about ten years ago just after he came home out
of the army. He looked fine, they say, in uniform, on his big black
horse, but after the war ended he took to drink and then from drink, as
is natchel, he took to beatin' her. It's strange--ain't it?--how easily
a 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 beaten
sooner or later if thar was anybody handy around to do it," remarked my
mother. "Some women are made so that they're never happy except when
they're hurt, an' she's one of 'em. Why, they can't so much as look at a
man without invitin' him to ill-treat 'em."
"Thar ain't many women that know how to deal with a husband as well as
you an' Mrs. Cudlip," remarked Mrs. Kidd, with delicate flattery.
"Po' Mrs. Cudlip. I hope she is bearin' up," sighed my mother. "'Twas
the 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 for
Mrs. 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 bonnet
with pink roses."
"An' now never a day, passes, they say, that Harry Mickleborough doesn't
threaten 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 live
up-town somewhar. The only thing that's stuck to her is her coloured
mammy, Aunt Euphronasia, an' they tell me that that old woman has mo'
influence over Harry Mickleborough than anybody livin'. When he gets
drunk 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 eluding
consciousness, my head dropped with a soft thud upon Mrs. Kidd's
inviting bosom. The next instant I was jerked violently erect by my
mother and ordered sternly to "keep my place an' not to make myself a
nuisance by spreadin' about." With this admonition in my ears, I pinched
my leg and sat staring with heavy eyes out upon the quiet street, where
the rolling of the slow wheels over the fallen leaves was the only sound
that disturbed the silence. After ten bitter years the city was still
bound by the terrible lethargy which had immediately succeeded the war;
and on Church Hill it seemed almost as if we had been forgotten like the
breastworks and the battle-fields in the march of progress. The grip of
poverty, which was fiercer than the grip of armies, still held us, and
the few stately houses showed tenantless and abandoned in the midst of
their ruined gardens. Sometimes I saw an old negress in a coloured
turban come out upon one of the long porches and stare after us, her
pipe in her mouth and her hollowed palm screening her eyes; and once a
noisy group of young mulattoes emerged from an alley and followed us
curiously 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 sleep
overpowered 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 the
least bit in my way. I can look right over his head," I heard murmured
over me as I slid blissfully into unconsciousness.
What happened after this I was never able to remember, for when I came
clearly awake again, we had reached our door, and my mother was shaking
me in the effort to make me stand on my feet.
"He's gone and slept through the whole thing," she remarked irritably to
President, while I stumbled after them across the pavement, with the
fringed ends of my blanket shawl rustling the leaves.
"He's too little. You might have let me go, ma," replied President, as
he dragged me, sleepy eyes, ruffled flaxen hair, and trailing shawl over
the doorstep.
"An' you're too big," retorted my mother, removing the long black pins
from her veil, and holding them in her mouth while she carefully
smoothed and folded the lengths of crape. "You could never have squeezed
in between us, an' as it was Mrs. Kidd almost overlaid Benjy. But you
didn't miss much," she hastened to assure him, "I declar' I thought at
one time we'd never get on it all went so slowly."
Having placed her bonnet and veil in the tall white bandbox upon the
table, she hurried off to prepare our dinner, while President urged me
in an undertone to "sham sick" that afternoon so that he wouldn't have
to 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 you
care 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!" I
stretched out my arms in a vain attempt to impress his imagination, but
he merely looked scornful and swore a mighty vow that he'd "be jiggered
if he'd keep on playin' nurse-girl to a muff."
At the time he put my pleading sternly aside, but a couple of hours
later, when the afternoon was already waning, he relented sufficiently
to take me out on the ragged hill, which was covered thickly with
pokeberry, yarrow, and stunted sumach. Before our feet the ground sank
gradually to the sparkling river, and farther away I could see the
silhouette of an anchored vessel etched boldly against the rosy clouds
of the sunset.
As I stood there, holding fast to his hand, in the high wind that blew
up from the river, a stout gentleman, leaning heavily on a black
walking-stick, with a big gold knob at the top, came panting up the
slope and paused beside us, with his eyes on the western sky. He was
hale, handsome, and ruddy-faced, with a bunch of iron-grey whiskers on
either cheek, and a vivacious and merry eye which seemed to catch at a
twinkle whenever it met mine. His rounded stomach was spanned by a
massive gold watch-chain, from which dangled a bunch of seals that
delighted my childish gaze.
"It's a fine view," he observed pleasantly, patting my shoulder as if I
were in some way responsible for the river, the anchored vessel, and the
rosy sunset. "I moved up-town as soon as the war ended, but I still
manage 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 the
other side of the river?"
The gentleman smiled benignly, and I saw from his merry glance that he
did not share my mother's hostility to the enquiring mind.
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised if it went to the wrong side of the
world 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 through
the blockade and brought in a cargo of Bibles."
"What did you want with so many Bibles? We've got one. It has gilt
clasps."
"Want with the Bibles! Why, every one of these Bibles, my boy, may have
saved a soul."
"Has our Bible saved a soul? An' whose soul was it? It stays on our
centre 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 out
can I still go to heaven? An' if yours isn't in there will you have to
be damned? Have you ever been damned an' what does it feel like?"
"Shut up, Benjy, or ma'll wallop you," growled President, squeezing my
hand so hard that I cried aloud.
"Ah, he's a fine boy, a promising boy, a remarkable boy," observed the
gentleman, with one finger in his waistcoat pocket. "Wouldn't you like
to 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," he
said, patting my shoulder. Then he laughed so heartily that his
gold-rimmed eye-glasses fell from his eyes and dangled in the air at the
end of a silk cord. "I'm afraid your aspiration is too lofty for my
help," he said, "but if you should happen to grow less ambitious as you
grow older, then remember, please, that my name is General Bolingbroke."
"Why, you're the president of the Great South Midland and Atlantic
Railroad, sir!" exclaimed President, admiring and embarrassed.
The General sighed, though even I could see that this simple tribute to
his fame had not left him unmoved. "Ten years ago I was the man who
tried to save Johnston's army, and to-day I am only a railroad
president," he answered, half to himself; "times change and fames change
almost as quickly. When all is said, however, there may be more lasting
honour in building a country's trade than in winning a battle. I'll have
a tombstone some day and I want written on it, 'He brought help to the
sick land and made the cotton flower to bloom anew.' My name is General
Bolingbroke," he added, with his genial and charming smile. "You will
not forget it?"
I assured him that I should not, and that if it could be done, I'd try
to have it written in our Bible with gilt clasps, at which he thanked me
gravely as he shook my hand.
"An' I think now I'd rather be president of the Great South Midland and
Atlantic 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 do
you think of that?"
"Has he a kite?" I enquired eagerly. "I have, an' a top an' ten checkers
an' a big balloon."
"Have you, indeed? Well, my poor boy is not so well off, I regret to
say. But don't you think your prosperity is excessive considering the
impoverished condition of the country?"
The big words left me gasping, and fearing that I had been too boastful
for politeness, I hastened to inform him that "although the balloon was
very 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 added
with a gulp.
With an elaborate flourish the General drew out a stiffly starched
pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. "That's a handsome offer and I'll
repeat it without fail," he said.
Then he shook hands again and marched down the hill with his gold-headed
stick tapping the ground.
"Now you'll come and trot home, I reckon," said President, when he had
disappeared.
But the spirit of revolt had lifted its head within me, for through a
cleft in the future, I saw myself already as the president of the Great
South Midland and Atlantic Railroad, with a jingling bunch of seals and
a gold-headed stick.
"I ain't goin' that way," I said, "I'm goin' home by the old Adams house
where 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'll
have 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 in
silence. Then an idea appeared to penetrate his slow mind, and he
grasped 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, so
I 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 I
was little, and he was very large for his years, it was with difficulty
that I kept pace with him; but by taking two quick steps to his single
slow one, I managed to cover the same distance in almost the same number
of minutes. He was a tall, overgrown boy, very fat for his age, with a
foolish, large-featured face which continued to look sheepishly amiable
even 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 old
mansion, with a broad and hospitable front, from which the curved iron
railing bent in a bright bow to the pavement. It was the one great house
on the hill, with its spreading wings, its stuccoed offices, its massive
white columns at the rear, which presided solemnly over the terraced
hill-side. A moment later he led me up to the high, spiked wall, and
swung me from the ground to a secure perch on his shoulder. With my
hands 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 upon
an enchanted garden. Through the interlacing elm boughs the rosy light
of the afterglow fell on the magnolias and laburnums, on the rose
squares, and on the tall latticed arbours, where amid a glossy bower of
foliage, a few pale microphylla roses bloomed out of season. Overhead
the wind stirred, and one by one the small yellow leaves drifted, like
wounded butterflies, down on the box hedges and the terraced walks.
"You've got to come down now--you're too heavy," said President from
below, breathing hard as he held me up.
"Jest a minute--give me a minute longer an' I'll let you eat my
blackberry 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 a
little longer."
He lifted me still higher, and clutching desperately to the iron spikes,
I hung there quivering, breathless, with a thumping heart. A glimmer of
white flitted between the box rows on a lower terrace, and I saw that
the princess of the enchanted garden was none other than my little girl
of the evening before. She was playing quietly by herself in a bower of
box, building small houses of moss and stones, which she erected with
infinite patience. So engrossed was she in her play that she seemed
perfectly oblivious of the fading light and of the birds and squirrels
that ran past her to their homes in the latticed arbours. Higher and
higher rose her houses of moss and stones, while she knelt there,
patient and silent, in the terrace walk with the small, yellow leaves
falling around her.
"That's a square deal now," said President, dropping me suddenly to
earth. "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, and
before me, as I turned homeward, spread all the familiar commonplaceness
of 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 enough to climb up befo' then?"
"Look here, you shut up! I'm tired answerin' questions," shouted my
elder brother, and grasping his hand I trotted in a depressed silence
back to our little home.