House Divided (2 page)

L
UCY HANKS, pulling corn, hating the weary task, moved slowly up the clearing. She wrenched off the full ears with a resentful vehemence, tossing them in little piles behind her. The bull-tongue plow that broke the land had run an erratic course to avoid stumps not yet wholly burned, so the rows were sometimes widely spaced, sometimes close together; and the hills, since the seed corn had been dropped by hand, might have one stalk or half a dozen. But the stalks were higher than a tall man's head, for the soil, not two years freed from the forest, was lavishly fruitful; and the girl as she worked had to force her way through the warp and the woof of the interwoven sword-shaped blades.

The farm lay in a deep valley walled by forested ridges that frowned against the sky; and the slope where the corn grew, slanting southerly, baked in the fine September sun. Sometimes Lucy wiped her steaming brow with her arm in a quick, angry motion; and now and then she slapped away a fly that stung her. She had been at this toil through the long afternoon, pulling the ears and piling them, her father or one of her brothers coming to gather them into shoulder baskets of split hickory and carry them away to the storage crib.

Behind the screen of laurel at the forest's border, Mike's Run descended from a cleft in the mountains to flow into Patterson's Creek. Near the laurel Lucy saw that wild turkeys had pulled down some stalks and ravished the ripe ears. Joseph Hanks, coming to load his basket, was not far away; and she called:

“Pa, the turkeys have et the most of it along here.”

He came to see for himself, grumbled at the damage. “I'll lay out for them before day, put a stop to that. You git a hustle on, Lucy. Quicker we git this gethered, the less they'll steal.”

“I'm a-hustling,” she said sullenly, and he moved away. At row's end she straightened, stretching to ease tired muscles. Her heavy hair hung in disorder, her cheeks were sweat-streaked, her calico dress was torn so that a triangle hung down from shoulder line to breast.

She stood a moment, breathing deep. Then—perhaps she had heard a sound in the bushes behind her—she turned as alertly as a deer, startled at its feeding, lifts its head. The trees here pressed close, the creatures of the forest day by day patrolled the borders of the tillage. She poised in an attitude of attention, then as the branches parted recoiled a step or two; but then she was motionless again, speaking on a spent breath as though her heart came out of her with the word.

“Tony!”

A young man stepped out of the laurel, and looked warily to left and right before he came to her. She caught at her dress, lifting that torn triangle, holding it in place to hide the whiteness of her breast; her other hand tried to push her hair into some order. Down toward the cabin there were voices in the stillness of late afternoon, so when he spoke it was softly.

“Hello, Lucy.”

“Oh, Tony!”

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I'm a sight!” She laughed in happy embarrassment.

“I thought maybe you'd forgotten me.”

“Tony, Tony, I'll never forget you!” Near-by in the concealing corn someone was moving. “Hush! That's Bess over there, coming this way. I'll tell you where to be.” Whispering, eager, she gave swift directions as to time and place, her hand on his arm, her eyes toward those nearing sounds. A girl's voice called her name.

“Lucy!”

She thrust him back into the covert. “Tonight,”. she murmured, pressing his hand. “I'll come early as I can. Keep out of Pa's sight. Go on now!”

The laurel received him. Her sister called again, and Lucy answered and went toward her, and they moved away together, working two rows apart, talking as they worked, their voices receding down the slope toward the cabin below.

She had bidden him meet her where the big sycamore overhung the creek.
When her brothers and sisters and Pa and Ma were all asleep in the narrow cabin, she rose from her pallet of husks to steal away; but before coming to the appointed meeting place, she paused by the deep hole in the creek to lay aside her torn work dress, to bathe in the soft waters of the stream, to braid her hair, to put on her other dress kept sweet and clean.

Tony was here before her, waiting in the darkness, in the warm shadows. She sped to him, her bare feet soundless on the turf. In his arms, her arms around his neck tugging and tender, she felt him tremble; and she whispered: “Don't be afeard, Tony. Pa's asleep.”

“He might wake, come after you.”

“Let him. I ain't afeard of him—only for you!” Not till then did she have his kiss, so long desired. She murmured through many kisses: “Oh, Tony, Tony, seemed like you'd never come!” Her low voice sang.

“They'll hear us talking,” he warned her. Around them light began to come, for the moon was almost risen above the lofty mountain wall.

“It's too fur. Besides, Pa don't hear nothing, 'less some critter comes around. He'll sleep till first bird song.”

They kissed and kissed till first hunger eased; they sat, he with his shoulders against the smooth bole of the sycamore, she drawing his arm around her, pressing his hand in both hers. “Tony, how'd you ever find us, 'way off here so fur?”

“I asked along the way. Mr. Cavett brought your letter, and he told me where you'd be. I left my horse down the creek, hidden in the woods. I watched all day yesterday for a chance to speak to you; then all today, too, till you came into the corn. I didn't want to go to the house.”

“Pa talks big, but I ain't afeard of him, much.”

He spoke in amused reminder: “‘Afraid,' Lucy; not ‘afeard.'”

She lifted her lips to kiss his cheek. “I'm learning fast's I can, Tony. Mis' Dodsworth teaches me. It was her wrote the letter I sent by Mr. Cavett. She's going to teach me to read and write and all, so you won't be ashamed of me.” Then, on sudden inspiration: “Tony, she lives up the crick three miles and she knows about you! You can go
there and stay long as you like. She'll bed you and hide you and not tell Pa you're there. That's what you can do, Tony!”

“I can't stay long—two days, maybe three.”

“Did you come to fetch me?”

“I will, Lucy, as soon as I can make my father understand. He's away now, so I could come without his knowing.”

“Couldn't you come before? It was hard doing, waiting and waiting.”

“He wouldn't let me. I told him about you, Lucy, but he said I was a young fool, and he wouldn't even talk about it. He said I'd thank him some day.”

“Pa was the same,” she confessed. “He heard about us some way, and he put it to me, and I told him it was so.”

“Told him?”

She felt his dismay. “Why, I wouldn't lie about us, Tony! I'm not ashamed of loving you!”

“I know. Neither am I. But—he wouldn't understand.”

“He don't have to, long as you and me feel the way we do.” Lips seeking his.

“Was he—angry?”

She laughed a little. “He near skinned me alive. He wore out a willow switch on me, but he couldn't make me cry! I knowed you'd come back to me!”

“I couldn't come till now, Lucy. Father took me to Yorktown. He wanted to see General Lafayette. You know, my grandfather was French, but my grandmother—she was Irish—wouldn't marry him till he changed his name to Currain. She said that sounded Irish enough to suit her.”

Lucy laughed fondly. “I bet she was pretty!”

“Yes, she was. I never saw her, but Father has her portrait.” And he went on: “So Father took me to Yorktown with him, and we saw the English army march out and surrender, and then Father bought a place down there, near Williamsburg. The biggest house around.” There was a querulous contempt in his tones. “He thinks the little house in Richmond County isn't good enough for him any more. He'd buy Stratford, or Nomini Hall, if he could. He gave the old place to my sister and her husband, so we live at Williamsburg now.”

She kissed him sweetly. “What do we care? But oh, Tony, couldn't you come from there before this?”

He shook his head. “Father kept me by him, Lucy. He went to France for General Washington, to work with Mr. Jay, and took me for his secretary. We were there all last summer. He's gone to France again now with Mr. Oswald; but I broke my leg when my horse refused a fence, so I didn't have to go.”

“Oh, poor leg! Is it all well again?”

“Yes. So as soon as I could ride I came to find you.”

“Here I am, Tony!” About them lay the brightness of the moon, and along the creek warm night air softly flowed. Their voices murmured almost wordlessly a while, till Lucy in his arms asked: “Tony, what's your father really got against me?”

“Oh, all he thinks about now is founding a great family; so I have to marry somebody important!”

“Didn't you tell him you just wanted to marry me?”

“Yes, but he says I'm a child. Says we both are.”

“I'm not, not any longer! Maybe I was, three years ago, but I'm a grown woman now. Tony, I learn real fast. Mis' Dodsworth says. He won't have to be ashamed of me.”

“Your father's as bad as mine, Lucy.”

“Pa says your folks think I ain't good enough for you. He says you're just—fooling with me, says you won't ever marry me. That's why he sold out and moved away up here, to get me away from you.”

“We have to talk them around.”

“We don't need either one of them, Tonyl We don't need anyone only each other. We can get married and go off to Kentucky or somewhere.”

“I wouldn't be any good in new country.”

She spoke teasingly. “Oh Tony, you're always so afeard—afraid—of things. When I want anything the way I want to be married to you, I'm not afraid of anything.” Her word was a whisper, her breath fragrant against his cheek. When he spoke, his voice was shaken by his heart's hard pound.

“Your hair smells like cut hay in the sun, like new-plowed ground in the spring of the year.”

“I love the smell of you, too, Tony Currain!”

“Your eyes are so dark in the moonlight, as if they were black.”

“They are, kind of.”

“Deep, so I can't see the bottom of them.”

“Awful deep, Tony. And full right to the top of loving you.”

“You smell like wine just before the first sip of it. I can feel your kisses run all through me.”

“Your hand on my cheek's so soft and smooth. It's smoother than mine, Tony. Mine are pretty rough and hard.”

“I hate having you work so.”

“I'll work both hands to the bone, taking care of you.”

He was silent; and she felt the doubt, like reluctance, in his silence. “I can't just—I have to talk Father into it, Lucy.”

“Your father's a long ways off! You can stand on your own hind legs! You have to, some day!”

“Suppose I did. What would we do?”

“We'd just go away and away and away.”

“I haven't anything, nothing but a few things in my saddlebags.”

“We don't need anything to start.”

“My horse won't even carry double.”

“You ride and I'll walk! Oh, Tony, if I was with you, I could walk a horse to death!”

“Lucy Hanks, little girl, big heart!” Fondness for a moment filled him, fears forgotten.

“Can't we, Tony?”

“Oh, Lucy, I'm used to easy living, servants, everything. I'd be no good to you in Kentucky.”

“I'll make easy living for you. I'll be better than any twenty people taking care of you. Wouldn't it be worth it, Tony?”

“It would be if I were worth it.”

“You are, you are, to me you are.” Words like a song. “And I'm the one to judge, it looks to me. Maybe not, though. You'd have to do without a lot, give up a lot; but I wouldn't be giving up anything. I'd be getting everything. But I'd give you everything I've got, Tony Currain, all my life. And I'd keep learning how to give you more, how to be a fine wife for you.”