Crossing Read Free

shoulders were bare and their hair was gracefully swept up. Isabella wore a golden comb, and Anna and Eugenia wore dainty tortoiseshell. Anna rarely wore jewelry, but on this festive night, she wore pearl drop earrings that her uncle William Graham had given her years before, stating that they were such purity as became her naturally.
    The party was seated at a round table, which served well, in that the matching of Anna and Thomas was not so obvious. Thomas Jackson exerted himself to be lighthearted company, but he was obviously still mourning the loss of his wife. Often when there was a pause in the conversation, his face took on a distant look, his fire blue eyes dimmed, and he stared into the distance as if searching for something far away. But throughout the long and delicious meal, he was for the most part amusing and perfectly cheerful.
    Rufus Barringer questioned him about his service in the Mexican War, with his brother-in-law, D.H. Hill, as a fellow soldier.
    “I prefer to remember the pleasant things about Mexico, and there were many,” Jackson answered. One corner of his mouth gave a tiny tug. “The senoritas were particularly cordial. Not, of course,” he added with a mischievous air, “to Major Hill, as he was engaged to you at this time, Mrs. Hill, and he never compromised his affections and loyalties to you. He was, however, uncommonly fond of quince … and that did get us into some trouble, as I recall.”
    Over Hill’s protestations, Eugenia asked slyly, “And so this was a Senorita Quince, Major Thomas?”
    “Eugenia, really,” Anna scolded her. “That is—there was not a Senorita Quince, was there, Major Jackson?”
    “No, no, there was not,” Jackson hastily replied. “Quince is a fruit. It looks like a pear, but it is much more tart and crisp. All of us loved them, because they were so refreshing in that hot, dry climate. Once, I’m afraid, this hunger for them forced me and Major Hill to climb an adobe garden wall for fresh quince, and I believe we came closer to getting killed by the owner of the home than we ever were in battle. And there was a senorita involved … at least she made a good deal of noise, and I think that her father thought that we were more interested in her than in the less dangerous fruit. I think that is the fastest that I’ve seen D.H. move, climbing back across that garden wall.”
    Isabella glowered. “And you, Harvey, did you know this senorita? Is that how you came to know about the quince tree?”
    “No! No!” he vigorously protested. “It was all Jackson’s fault. He had seen the very tip-top of the tree the day before, and he said the gardener would never miss two or three of the fruits. But as it happened, he did object most strenuously.”
    “But after all this, did you get any fruit, Major Jackson?” Anna asked, smiling.
    “We did, but it was at a high price. D.H. skinned his knee terribly in our shameful retreat, and I fell off the wall on the other side and twisted my ankle so badly I could hardly get my boot on the next day. But the quince was very good,” he added, his blue eyes light and fiery as he glanced slightly at Anna, “and so I may say it was worth it. Most of the time, the things that are hardest to obtain are the more precious to have.”

    The First Presybterian Church was a solemn edifice, two stories of graceful Greek Revival architecture of white sandstone, with five lofty columns guarding the entrance and a great steeple with a clock tower. Thomas Jackson had joined the church in 1851. Before he joined he had visited with Dr. William S. White, the pastor, many times and had found him to be a dedicated scholar of the Bible and servant of the Lord.
    Once again Thomas found himself escorting Miss Morrison as she and her sisters and brothers-in-law attended church with him. He wondered again at Anna. She was an attractive, modest, intelligent woman of a quiet, sweet wit, and it was unusual for a woman of such family and virtues