House Divided (11 page)

“Dolly, he's out here eating our pie!”

Dolly cried: “Oh the big thief! Come on!”

They raced away to rescue their booty, leaving the door wide, and Enid slipped out of bed to close it, and stayed for a moment listening to their laughing voices yonder. How astonishing that Faunt, always so dignified, should play this prank upon them! Suppose she had accepted their invitation, had joined them—in her wrapper, her hair loosed as theirs was. Heavens! How embarrassed she would have been! And Faunt too, of course! He certainly would not have dared maul her as he had these children!

She blushed at her own thoughts, and went back to bed; but she was still awake when, hours later, she heard hoof beats and the sound of wheels on the crushed oyster shells of the drive, and the summons of the bell that woke them all.

October, 1859

 

F
OR three days the ship had been becalmed and Cinda was in a fret and fever of impatience. September gales had driven them far off their course, the uncertain engines failed, they worked their laborious way under sails alone, and then with the Virginia shore in sight the wind died altogether. They tipped and teetered on long lazy swells, the rigging slatted idly.

“It blew hard enough when we didn't want it to,” Cinda cried in sharp exasperation. “Oh, Brett Dewain, if we don't get home in time Mama's going to be so disappointed! I'm almost ready to jump overboard and swim!”

“I'll arrange something,” Brett promised.

“I know I shouldn't fuss so. You always find a way.” Cinda was a solid, plain woman with broad cheekbones and straight black hair; but Brett saw beauty in her, and fondness bound them close. He counselled with the Captain, and when another dawn came across a glassy sea and showed the land still distant, the longboat hit the water and a sling rigged to the yardarm deposited Cinda safely in the stern sheets. Brett dropped to a place beside her and four sailors swung the heavy oars. Before sunrise they were moving toward the sandy shore.

They landed where a creek cut the outer beach and Brett commandeered a Negro with a farm cart to carry them to Norfolk. There —with some difficulty because it was Sunday—he hired a barge to ferry them across to Newport News. When they landed, Cinda said gratefully: “I declare, Mr. Dewain, I believe you'd move mountains if I asked you to.”

He thought she might be too tired to go on. “We could stay with
the Lawrences, or the Groves,” he suggested. “Start early in the morning.”

“No, no. Mama won't sleep tonight unless we're there.”

So Brett chartered a carriage from the tavern keeper and they proceeded. Before they reached Warwick Court-House, early October dark came down and there was still far to go. “But even if they're abed, Mama will be awake,” Cinda declared. “Oh, Brett Dewain, I'm like a horse eager for its stable. I want to see my children. I want my mama!”

The pace seemed to her maddeningly slow: the side lamps showed only a scant restricted fan of road and roadside; the horses plodded patiently, their hoofs almost silent in the sand. When the carriage passed through Williamsburg, there was never a lighted window; but even in the dark Cinda knew the turn for Great Oak a few miles beyond. Then the big house loomed black against the stars and she did not wait for Brett to hand her down, running to tug and tug at the jangling bell before she threw open the door.

At the bell's alarm and at her eager calls the sleeping house stirred to life. While Brett lighted candles in the tall stand in the great hall, Cinda raced to meet her mother at the stair head; and then Trav and Enid appeared there, and at sight of them Cinda's questions sprang and went unanswered and forgotten as Vesta and Clayton and the others came to sweep her in their arms. Everyone trooped downstairs; and Cinda sat happy at her mother's side, her arm around Vesta, Julian at her knee, while questions and answers flew like arrows, many voices mingling. Why was Tony gone to Chimneys? How nice for Travis and Enid and the children to be here! Thus Cinda, glowing with happiness at being again with those she loved.

She would have stayed talking till dawn, but Mrs. Currain at last put a period to this hour. “There, now, back to bed for all of us. We've another day tomorrow.”

“It's already tomorrow, Mama,” Cinda reminded her. “It's your birthday already. Feel any older, dear?”

“Not now, Cinda; not now you've come.”

“Pooh! You knew I would!”

“You always do; but I always worry, too.”

 

Alone with Brett, even after candles were out and they lay in darkness,
Cinda was unready for sleep, clinging to his hand. “Thank you, Brett Dewain, for getting me here. You've never failed me. I almost wish you would, once. You're too perfect to be true.”

“Time to go to sleep, Cinda.”

“I'm too happy to sleep. Travis is as quiet as ever, isn't he; doesn't have anything to say.”

“You didn't give anyone a chance to say anything.”

“Isn't it wonderful having him here! And wonderful having Tony so far away! Do you suppose Travis can do anything with Great Oak?”

“He can if anyone can.”

“He's dear. I love Travis. And Faunt doesn't change. Nor Tilda. She's so mealy-mouthed! Some fine day I shall slap her face! I've always wanted to do something, just once, that she wouldn't say was sweet! And then Mr. Streean will call you out and you can shoot him for me. Not in the heart, Brett. His is too small a target! Nor in the head. There's nothing there to hit! I think the stomach is his vital organ. I notice it's becoming even more conspicuous!”

“I'll have to put a curb on that tongue of yours some day!”

She was thinking aloud, happy with her thoughts. “Brett Dewain, you know we have some wonderful children. Clayton's the man of the family already, and Burr's as handsome as you, and Julian's almost grown! He's taller than I am. Poor Vesta and her freckles! Why couldn't she have looked like you, and let the boys look like me? It doesn't matter so much when men are ugly.”

“Enid's a pretty little thing.”

“Yes; but she—well, hovers! She's always so quick to smile if you look at her. I suppose she's not very sure of herself. Stuck away in the wilderness with Travis all these years, poor young one, how could she be? We must be nice to her. Her mother's not her fault, after all.”

“If we start talking about Tony and Mrs. Albion we'll never get to sleep!”

“Have you ever seen Mrs. Albion since Enid's wedding?”

“No. I'm told she has an interesting mind!” A chuckle in his tones.

“Mind indeed! The hussy! All the same, I want to see her again some day. She must have changed, to be able to keep Tony in hand for ten years! I suppose she flattered him. He always loved that. I wonder if he'll appear tomorrow—today?”

“Let's go to sleep and wake up and see.”

“Oh, Brett, there's so much to talk about.” He pretended to snore and she tugged at his hand. “Wake up!” He snored again. “Oh, all right! But make a shoulder for me.” In his arms she too presently was sleeping.

 

Vesta came next morning for late breakfast with her mother—Brett was already abroad, joining Trav for an early ride around the plantation—and brought Cinda's accumulated mail and all the news from the Plains and from their friends in Camden and Columbia; and their tongues ran endlessly till Cinda, watching this daughter of hers, sensing behind Vesta's happy talk and her quick readiness for laughter some brimming well of happiness, said too casually: “Tell me about yourself, Honey. You've talked about everyone else. What have you been doing all these months?”

“Oh, the usual things.”

Cinda chuckled comfortably. “Now, now, don't try to fool your old mother. Who is he?”

“Who's who?”

“Who makes your cheeks so red?”

“Oh, Mama, I'm always as red as a brick!”

“Do you want me to box your ears, darling? What have you been up to?”

“Nothing, honestly.”

“Rollin Lyle?”

“Heavens, no!”

“Perry Barnwell? Tommy Cloyd? Cedric Hunter? That Hayne boy?” Watching shrewdly. “Vesta Dewain, it's Tommy Cloyd! Isn't it?”

“Oh, Mama, you're so funny.”

“Well, Tommy's a nice boy. I've always liked him, and his mother's a fine woman. But how did you ever get him to the point? He swallows his tongue if a girl so much as looks at him.”

“Honestly, Mama, there isn't a thing to tell. Only——”

“Only what?”

“Well, I like him, that's all. And he sort of—hangs around.”

“And you like to have him sort of hang around?”

“Well—yes, I do. He's so—cunning!”

Cinda laughed delightedly. “So are you, darling.”

“But, Mother, there's nothing, really!”

“Don't worry, Honey; I won't spoil it.”

“Well, I wish you'd make Julian behave. He's always teasing Tommy.”

“I'll put a bug in Julian's ear, never fear.”

“Do you have to tell Papa?”

“Of course. I tell Brett Dewain everything.” She kissed Vesta happily. “I'm glad you told me, dear—even if there isn't anything to tell!”

“There honestly isn't!”

Cinda smiled. “Except that you're happier than you've ever been in your life. You're a darling girl, Vesta.”

“Mama, how do you get boys to—say things?” Vesta's tone was for a moment so forlorn that Cinda burst into pealing laughter, and Vesta indignantly protested. “Well, I don't see anything so funny about it! Tommy's all right when we're with people, but when we're alone all he can do is gulp and swallow.”

Cinda wiped away tears of mirth. “Don't worry; it will happen some day, just like that! Wait and see.”

When Brett returned, Vesta before she left them together kissed her mother and whispered: “Please don't tell him yet, Mama.” So Cinda told Brett everything except this, all the news of their friends. Harry Eader had fought Orrin Vincent, shot him through the shoulder.

“I wish someone would kill Harry and be done with it,” Cinda declared.

“A good many men have tried it.”

“He's always forcing quarrels. I suppose it soothes his vanity. He's proposed to every pretty girl he's seen for thirty years and no one will have him. Let's not talk about him! It just makes me mad!” Her tone sobered. “Vesta says everyone down home thinks we'll leave the Union, Brett—and most of them want to. Old Mr. Waller is so sure there's going to be war that he's collecting fowling pieces and pistols and sabers, filling his house with them. Poor dim-witted old man! Gaines Anderson—you remember how huge he is—has married a little somebody from Alabama and she's only about four feet tall. Isn't that
always the way?” She chattered tirelessly. So-and-so's baby was a boy, named after its father. So-and-so was going to marry So-and-so. “Oh, and there are dozens of letters, some for you. I've read them all, and there's nothing important. I had letters from Molly Paine and Betsy Chisholm and Lily Hammersley and Louisa Longstreet and Jenny Lamar and——”

“How are the Longstreets?” he asked. “I'd like to see him again. Haven't seen him since their wedding.” Brett's home had been in Lynchburg; he was an only son, his father died when he was a child, and it was what proved to be his last visit to his mother which had taken him to Lynchburg at that time.

“Oh, fine. They were just about to move to Albuquerque when Louisa wrote. Major Longstreet's paymaster, you know. Their little girl died, so they've just three boys now. Louisa says they're crazy for a daughter. Molly Paine says she and Ranny may come to Richmond this winter. Wouldn't that be fun? And Betsy Chisholm says—but, Heavens, it's almost dinner time! Go away, Brett Dewain, while I make myself presentable.”

At the big dinner table Cinda counted noses. “Sixteen of us! Not counting the three young ones upstairs! Mama, aren't you proud of your big family? Tony's a wretch not to come, and Darrell too, Tilda.”

“I had a letter from Tony,” Mrs. Currain explained.

“I suppose he was sick! He always makes that an excuse.”

“No, he said he was very well, but there was something about a muster of the militia, and he seemed to think it important.”

“Tony? For Heaven's sake!” Cinda voiced the surprise they all felt, and Mrs. Currain said crisply:

“Now, Cinda! Oh, I know you never liked Tony; but I think he's changed. His letters sound different! He seems quite happy at Chimneys, speaks of so many friendly people. I think perhaps he's found himself.”

Cinda laughed. “Well, if he did, he didn't find any treasure!”

“Cinda, you're always too ready to say cutting things! I know you don't mean them, but it's ungracious of you, and unbecoming, too.”

When Mrs. Currain spoke thus firmly she ruled them all, and Cinda said in quick contrition: “I'm sorry, Mama. Tony's fine when he wants to be!” Yet she could not long be repressed. “The trouble is
he never wants to be! When we were little I hated the way he treated Travis; and when Tilda and I were growing up and boys began to come around he made me so mad, teasing them, really insulting them, till they just about stopped coming. It's a wonder we ever found husbands!”

Brett laughed. “You'd not have rested till you did.”

“Oh I was all settled after I met you! Remember, Tilda, I told you that first night that I'd met the man I was going to marry. You did your level best to take him away from me, too, till you saw it was no use.”

“Well, I still think Brett's about the nicest man I know,” Tilda confessed; then added in timid haste: “Except Redford, of course!”

“Brett's all right,” Cinda assented, her eyes touching his; then she added mischievously: “Except about money, forever fussing over every penny I spend!” And in a different tone, “Oh, for heaven's sake, speaking of spending, I haven't told you, Mama; but Brett's bought a house in Richmond!” This was news, provoking many questions; and Cinda gave details. “The Peterson house on Fifth Street.”

“That's a lovely house,” Tilda cried softly. “I'm so glad, Cinda. We'll be neighbors, won't we?”

“Yes!” Cinda laughed teasingly. “That's the only reason I hesitated!” Tilda flushed with hurt, and Cinda said: “There, there, I'm joking, darling. Of course it will be nice being near one another.” She explained to her mother and to them all. “Brett made an offer for the house before we sailed, and the lawyers—they're settling the estate —accepted by mail. We heard in London. Of course it's a regular barn, those big bare rooms, so ugly and plain; but I'm going to do it over and make it all bright and cheerful. We brought a whole shipload of things from London; none of your gloomy old mahogany, Mama, but lovely gilt mirrors and the most beautiful carved chairs, and gold cornices to go over the windows, and medallions to put on the ceilings and—oh, just wait till you see! After we're settled you must come and stay as long as you can stand us!”