The Ghost of Destiny
David Goode
Miss Charlotte put aside the Sir Walter Scott novel she was reading and turned her face toward the soft, cool breeze that wafted across the shaded veranda. She lay her head back against the cane chair and closed her eyes in an effort to envision that long ago time, an era of Middle Age romanticism and pageantry.
Dreamily, she pictured herself living in that former day. It was a mental activity she engaged in occasionally, and her daydreaming followed its usual progression. She first envisioned herself in a lush and neatly trimmed garden. Then, He appeared, the shadowy hero of her dreams, that indistinct figure who stirred her desires and made her heart smile.
These thoughts would ultimately give way to ruminations of what society must have been like then, as compared to her time. Was that world so much different from the class-conscious gentility of the mid-1800's Virginia that she lived in now? This tightly controlled social structure in which a patriarchal master with his pure and charitable wife presiding over the institution of slavery, could be seen as very much like the caste system of that long-ago time. She also wondered about the role she played in her well-mannered society.
Was the whole system just a veneer, covering something dark and combustible?
Her thoughts were interrupted as the front door abruptly swung open and her younger sister Julia hurried across the veranda and down the steps. Miss Charlotte opened her eyes and watched as her gentle, naive sister cut a large magnolia blossom from the huge tree in the front yard.
“You can drag that whole tree into Mother’s musty old parlor and it still won’t help the smell,” Miss Charlotte said sarcastically. Julia didn’t reply. She continued to inspect the blooms, as if searching for the perfect one. Miss Charlotte loved Julia dearly, but being the older sister by several years, she also took elder sibling delight in bedeviling her. She tried another tack.
“Does this mean that your lover is coming to propose? Finally?”
“Charlotte,” Julia cried as she spun around. “He is not my lover. I am going to tell Mother you said that,” she stated emphatically, feeling the blood rush to her face. “There’s a big difference between being loved and being a lover.”
“And what is that difference, my darling sister?” Miss Charlotte asked sweetly.
“A wedding ring, if you must know. And the peace of knowing that Heaven awaits you.”
“Well, now I know where all my lovers will go,” Miss Charlotte said.
“Oh, Charlotte, you are scandalous,” Julia chided, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle.
“And besides, Tom said we need not rush. All this talk about war and secession is just some old men blustering.”
Then she took a deep breath. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m sorry. I guess I am a bit nervous about him coming today. Forgive me, please?”
“You sweet lamb,” Miss Charlotte replied, “go inside and put your blooms in water. I apologize for teasing you. You know I love your Tom and want only happiness for both of you.”
“I do love him so,” Julia said, as she rushed up the steps and back into the house, letting the door slam shut. There, Charlotte knew, her sister would lovingly place the magnolia blooms in a bowl of water. Then Julia would sit in the big wooden rocking chair in that musty old parlor, impatiently waiting for her beau to arrive.
Miss Charlotte smiled as her mind turned back to her daydreaming, but thoughts of Julia's young man kept intruding, and she too couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit of anticipation of his arrival. Handsome in a homespun sort of way, Lieutenant Thomas Jackson would come riding up the road to their big house, his dappled-gray horse prancing and gleaming with sweat in the warm afternoon sunlight. She had to admit he was an excellent horseman, as were all the young men in their social class. He sat his horse as if he were a part of the saddle, moving in perfect rhythm with its every motion, like a boat riding over small waves.
Just then, as if her thoughts had conjured him up, he suddenly appeared down at the end of the road, coming at a slow trot toward her, taking his time as if wanting her to see how well he rode. She pretended to be completely absorbed by something on the other side of the veranda, so as not to fall victim to his harmless vanity.
As he rode up the tree-lined lane, she tried to picture this brash, young warrior living in Sir Walter Scott's world of heroes and gallant deeds. Yes, he would fit right in,
with his exuberant personality, perfect manners and reckless daring. A modern day Ivanhoe, she thought, on a quest to find his king.She suddenly realized that Lt. Jackson had someone with him, another rider. This other person seemed to be a soldier too, dressed smartly in a blue West Point uniform and he rode just as well as Julia's beau, Miss Charlotte thought. On they came, taking their time, probably thinking that the world was created just for them. They rode head high, looking around as if surveying their vast holdings, just like her father had done before he died. Now these two, practicing no doubt, Miss Charlotte said to herself, for when they became plantation owners also.
They rode up to the front steps and Lt. Jackson swept off his hat with a grand gesture, revealing his dark curly hair, damp with sweat and hanging in small ringlets just over his collar. He bowed ceremoniously from the saddle as he gave an almost imperceptible tug on the reins and his horse dropped its head and picked up one front hoof, as if bowing also, just like Jackson had taught him to do. He sat up there smiling and Miss Charlotte could tell he was ever so proud of that little trick. Yes, she was sure that Tom Jackson harbored a small vain streak.
"Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte,” he said in that rich Virginia accent. "You look lovelier every time I see you. What is your secret? Do y'all have the Fountain of Youth in your well out back?"
"Why, Lt. Jackson," she said slowly, her refined, honey-toned voice sounding nonchalant. "I think the heat has done something to you. Did you ride all the way from Lexington without that planter's hat on your head?"
Before he could answer, the front door burst open and Julia again came flying out.
"Oh, Tom," she said, "get off that sweaty horse and come inside where it's cool. I made some fresh lemonade.”
"I am at your command, Miss Julia," he said, "but I must say, I cannot understand how it could be cooler inside considering your radiance, my dear."
Julia blushed and laughed lightly, and then she seemed to come out of her trance. "My, My, where are my manners," she cooed. "And yours too, Tom. You haven't introduced your friend. Of course, I haven't given you a chance," she said quickly, "the way I've been running on. How silly of me."
"Miss Julia, Miss Charlotte," he said in his best country gentlemen's voice, “allow me to introduce Lieutenant Bob Lee of Northern Virginia. Lieutenant Lee had the dubious honor of accepting an appointment to West Point and venturing forth fearlessly into the bosom of that republican stronghold inhabited by our unregenerate Yankee brethren.”
Lieutenant Lee removed his hat and gave a small polite bow from his saddle. "I am pleased to meet both of you. Thank you for your hospitality.”
"On our ride over," Jackson continued, "I was entertaining Lt. Lee with tales of your resident ghost, but for some reason, he resists my trustworthy assertions, doubting
their credibility. Miss Julia, would you be so gracious as to ask her to make an appearance in Bob's room tonight?""Oh, Tom, why do you tease me so?" Julia said. "We can talk about her later. Now y'all get down and give your horses to Moses and come inside. Mother is expecting all of us for dinner at eight."
Later that evening, after dinner, where they had made the usual small talk, the two young men complimenting the delicious food, the well-kept house and grounds, Miss Charlotte’s widowed mother suggested they all go into the parlor, now that the night air had cooled down. There, over a glass of sherry, she regaled her guests with the story of their “resident ghost,” narrating a tale of unrequited love by a young girl, her grandmother’s sister, for a Colonial soldier killed in battle. Emotionally distraught, the young woman penned a suicide note and ended her life by drowning herself in the small lake behind the carriage house. Thereafter, on certain nights, her “form” could be seen walking the halls and strolling the grounds of the plantation. Julia swore that she had seen it several times and most of the house slaves vowed that they too had encountered such a “spirit,” reporting the usual ghostly pranks and highginks, such as slamming doors and falling teacups. The tale was told to the delightful pleasure of a broadly grinning Tom Jackson and the reserved amusement of Lieutenant Lee.
But Lieutenant Lee seemed more interested in the surrounding terrain and the size of the nearby town and the politics of the area. Typical military mind, Miss Charlotte thought, although she did get him to talk a bit about his boyhood home in Alexandria, up near Washington.
She had been furtively watching him throughout the evening. He seemed somewhat reserved, yet friendly. He didn't waste words the way Tom did, gaily saying the first thing that came into his head. Bob Lee carried an aura of authority about himself. A quiet strength and dignity that seemed refined yet natural, as if he could see his destiny, as if he knew what life held in store for him, preordained to represent the fate of a dying culture.
As Miss Charlotte sat there, sipping her sherry, a feeling of melancholy washed over her. Her favorite lines from the Sir Walter Scott poem, Lady of the Lake came to mind. She pictured herself, dressed in black, reciting the lines:
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.