Authors: Gilbert Morris
After the service was over, they filed out but were stopped when Lucy Daimen and her father, Leo, intercepted them.
“We saw you come in, but we couldn’t get to you in time.” She turned and looked expectantly at Clint, waiting for an introduction.
There was an awkward silence, and then Lewis said quickly, “Clint, may I introduce my fiancée, Miss Lucy Daimen, and her father, Mr. Daimen. May I introduce Clint Longstreet.”
Clint shook hands with Mr. Daimen while they exchanged hellos. The two were intensely curious but did not ask any questions. As they filed out of the church, however, Lucy held Lewis back so that she could whisper without being overheard. “What a fine-looking man. Is he one of Jenny’s young men? I’ve never met him.”
“No, he’s not.”
“What does he do?”
Lewis could not find any answer to give except the truth. “He’s our gardener,” he remarked and then waited for the shock to register.
As he expected, Lucy gasped and said faintly, “Your . . . your gardener?”
“Yes—a good one too. And as you say, he is a fine-looking man, isn’t he?” He knew he would hear more about this later, but for some reason her obvious displeasure pleased him. He left feeling much better and wondering whether he ought to inform Leo Daimen that he had gone to church with their gardener.
The trip home was, once again, mostly punctuated by Kat’s remarks, but when they got out of the car and Clint started to walk away, Hannah followed him and called his name. He paused and she said quietly, “Thank you for coming with us, Clint. I know it may have been a little uncomfortable.”
“I was glad to do it, Miss Hannah.” He looked into her eyes and said, “I’ll go again if you ask me.”
“Oh yes, please do!” She turned and left, and Clint watched her, thinking,
She’s sure an easy woman to please.
CHAPTER FIVE
October 24, 1929—Black Thursday
Clint stood in the shaft of pale sunlight that rose in the east and found its way to the Winslow garden through the tall city buildings. For the space of half an hour the garden stood bathed in the morning freshness, and he loved its coolness and the peaceful quiet of the autumn morning. Over the wall to the west he could see the sunlight filtering through the trees along Fifth Avenue and those of Central Park, their fall colors intense in the light. It was a clear and brilliant time that soon passed away and brought with it the activities of the day.
His thoughts went back to the many fall seasons he had endured on the small mountain farm in Tennessee. The land had been half dirt and half rocks, and the struggle to wring a living from it had made women and men prematurely old, disillusioning their bright childhood hopes. Still, he remembered the pleasant things—the vegetables layered between straw and earth and the garden corner, the corn dried and milled, the flour sacked in the pantry, the apples packed away in the barn. And always during harvest season there had been something that had been fulfilling and satisfying, a fatness and a comfort that gave the illusion of security. Now he remembered the smells of the earth that he enjoyed with the keen pleasure of a man whose feet had to know the touch of earth—the odor of the dead grasses from the past year, the acrid sharp smell of burning leaves, the smell of freshly turned loamy dirt.
He lifted his head to see an arrow-shaped flock of geese
and wondered for the thousandth time how they knew when to leave their summer home and how they knew where they were going and what power it was that put this instinct in them. He envied their clear purpose in life as they pierced the blue morning skies, flying so definitely toward a goal. He wondered who decided which one would be at the point of the arrowhead and which ones would fall back into lesser positions.
The peacefulness of the morning was an illusion. He knew life was not like that but could be caught only in fleeting fragments, and he remembered a woman who had once told him,
“You have to kiss joy as it flies.”
He had pondered that for years. She had also told him,
“You’re so innocent, Clint. You’re like a wild beast prowling around, and you know there are a lot of beasts out there, but you think nobody’s ever going to get killed in the fight. I guess you think everybody’s a gentleman.”
Her name was Drucilla, and he had thought for a time that perhaps she would be a permanent part of his life. But she had gone, faded away, and now he had only a memory of her.
One day she’ll be old with silver hair,
he thought,
perhaps without any teeth, but I’ll still think of her as a young girl—starry-eyed and anxious for love.
Taking the spade, he turned over another shovelful of earth where he was planning a new flower bed and savored the odor of it. He moved steadily, enjoying the work. He was glad that there were rare times like this when the purposes of living were clear and uncomplicated and sweet. He thought suddenly of Kat. “She’s like that,” he murmured. “I wish she could always stay the way she is now.” He knew she could not, but he still longed for it. He hated to think that she would change and become less than she was now in the dewy time of life between childhood and womanhood.
He straightened up when he heard someone approaching. He turned to see Jenny Winslow, dressed in a gold wool dress under a snow-white coat that came down to her fingertips.
Her red hair caught the rays of the sun. He saw that her face was drawn into a tense expression. Her lips were tight and her eyes half shut as if she were about to leap off of a high place into the unknown. He did not speak, but as she drew up in front of him, he nodded and removed his hat.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she said breathlessly. The bony structures of her face made definite and pleasing contours. Her eyes glanced at what was left of the wound on his face, and she swallowed hard, then threw back her head. “I was wrong to hit you, and I . . . I apologize.”
Clint was touched with the difficulty she had getting the words out. He had disliked her intensely, but he knew what it had cost her to finally make this apology. He smiled slightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Not necessary.”
“Maybe not for you . . . but it is for me. I . . . I hate to be wrong, and I hate to apologize.” She started to turn as if to move away but then wheeled to face him again. “It’s taken me all this time to work up to this.”
Clint’s voice was soft. “I guess everybody hates to say they’re wrong.”
“Kat doesn’t.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Hannah doesn’t either. I’m the black sheep in this family.” Suddenly she put her hand out, and he took it, feeling its warmth and strength. He returned the pressure of her hand, and suddenly she blurted out, “I’m sorry.” She turned and ran back toward the house.
“That was pretty hard for her to do,” Clint murmured. “I don’t think she’s had much practice at such things.”
He continued to work for another thirty minutes before Jamie came to tell him it was time for breakfast.
“Sounds good,” Clint said, laying down his spade.
The two men started toward the house. The old man had been more talkative since he had made his peace with his daughter. As they rounded the house heading toward the back door, they saw Mabel Bateman, the young maid, struggling
to get away from Earl. Clint’s anger flared, and he rushed to them, grabbed Earl by the arm, and forcibly wheeled him around. Without pause he smashed the big man in the face, throwing his weight into the blow.
Jamie was shocked at the sight of Earl flying through the air and landing on his back. Blood spurted out of his nose and down his chin, and as he struggled to get up, it dripped onto his white shirt. His eyes were glazed, and he put his hands up in a defensive gesture and began to mumble, “What are you—”
“Shut your mouth, Crane! You say one more word, and I’ll put you in the hospital!”
Silence fell across the small group. Mabel’s eyes were wide with shock, Jamie saw, and he himself felt a brassy taste in his mouth.
Earl Crane was a tough man, but it looked like the blow had broken his nose. He glared at Clint Longstreet and then whirled away without another word.
Clint turned to Mabel and said, “He won’t bother you anymore, Mabel.”
The maid backed away at the look in Longstreet’s eyes and swallowed hard. “Thank you, Clint.”
Clint turned to the gardener and said, “Let’s eat, Jamie.”
Jamie saw that the mood had passed. It had been like a mindless flash of lightning striking Earl Crane down with force and violence. He nodded and said in a subdued voice, “All right, Clint.”
Clint seemed perfectly normal during breakfast, even joking with Cook, but Jamie had been shocked by what he had seen. He left before the others were finished and started back to his cottage, encountering Hannah on his way out. He did not know the woman well, but she stopped him to ask about planting some bulbs for the spring. As he struggled to answer her, she said, “Is something wrong, Jamie? You look disturbed.”
Jamie hesitated, then told her what had happened. She
listened carefully, and he finished by saying, “The violence just seemed to leap out. I never would have guessed it was in him.”
Hannah studied the face of the gardener, then said, “I think we’ll have to let Earl go. He’s been causing such trouble with the maids.”
“It might be best, Miss Hannah.”
“I’ll discuss the situation with Father. He may need to reprimand Clint as well.”
Hannah turned away and tried to picture the scene in her mind. She had received complaints about Earl before, but she had not seen this side of Clint Longstreet, and it troubled her.
****
Hannah had been listening to the New York Philharmonic on the radio, but at two o’clock a program of popular music came on. She was writing a letter and listening only halfheartedly as they played the new record “Happy Days Are Here Again” and then “Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Old Gang of Mine.” She listened as a singer named Hoagy Carmichael, who couldn’t sing very well, introduced one of his songs called “Stardust,” which she didn’t care for.
“They ought to slow that down,” she said, getting up and turning the radio dial to a newscast.
The announcer seemed disturbed as he said, “ . . . and although stock prices opened steady, the unexplainable has happened. Everyone seems to be selling, and prices are plummeting. United States Steel opened at $205 but dropped to $200 and is now at $193. Other stocks are plummeting faster than anyone has ever seen in the history of the stock market. A spirit of fear appears to be ruling the day, and no one is buying. Everyone is trying to sell. Exactly where this will stop no one knows, but one thing is certain. We are witnessing an event in America that has never happened before. The big bull market, for all intents and purposes, is over.” The announcer
hesitated and then said, “If you have stocks, you’d better sell them, folks, while they’re still worth something.”
Hannah turned off the radio with a frown on her face and went downstairs. She was aware of her father’s recent anxiety over the stock market. For months now he had been troubled. Just two days ago he had said, “Hannah, America’s been on a wild spending spree, and they’re buying almost everything—including pianos, records, and radios—on the credit installment, and people are doing the same thing with stocks—margin buying. That simply means they’re buying shares on credit. It wouldn’t take much to tip the whole structure over.”
Hannah found Joshua in the kitchen fixing a sandwich. He had come home sometime after three, obviously inebriated, and now there were deep circles under his eyes. She did not rebuke him, for that did no good, but she asked, “Have you heard the news on the radio?”
“No, what is it?”
“Something’s happened to the stock market. All the stocks are going down. I’m worried about it.”
Joshua took a bite of the sandwich and shook his head. “It’s gone down before. Dad will know what to do.”
****
Hannah had stayed close to the radio all day. She cared as little about money as Kat did, but she knew that her father would be worried.
At suppertime all the children sat down for the evening meal.
“Where’s Dad?” Kat piped up.
“There’s a problem at the office,” Hannah said quietly.
Jenny looked up. “What kind of problem?”
“Haven’t you been listening to the radio?” Hannah asked.
“No, what is it?”
“The stock market has gone crazy. The bottom is dropping out of it.”
Jenny knew nothing about the stock market and shrugged her shoulders. “I hate for Daddy to work this hard. He’s got enough to do thinking about making wedding plans.”
“I think this is more serious than usual,” Hannah said anxiously.
Josh stubbornly shook his head. “That stock market goes up and down all the time. It’ll come back.”
They had almost finished their meal when they heard the front door close.
“There’s Dad now,” Jenny said.
They all turned to look at the door, and as soon as Lewis entered, they could see that he was shaken. He stood behind his chair, his hands resting on the back, pale and holding himself up with great effort.
“Is it bad?” Hannah said. “I’ve been listening to the news on the radio.”
“Yes, it’s bad,” Lewis said, his face stiff and his voice hoarse.
“What’s bad?” Kat piped up.
Josh studied his father’s face and asked, “What’s happening, Dad?”
“I think the crazy way this country’s been living lately has caught up with us, son. Everybody’s buying everything on credit and it has turned the economy upside down.”
“But it’ll be all right, won’t it, Dad?” Jenny asked, looking to her father for reassurance. It frightened her to see him so troubled. He could barely keep his hands from trembling as he clung to the back of the chair.
Lewis dropped his head for a moment, then looked up and said, “You’ll have to know about this. It’s worse than anything I could imagine.” He struggled to get the words out, and he looked at each one of them, misery written on his face. “You’ll find out sooner or later, but the truth is—I’ve lost everything!”
The children all stared at him, shocked into silence. Josh
was the first to speak. “Well, I know it’s bad, but surely there must be something left.”