House Divided (66 page)

“Let him sleep, let him rest. Your brother is deadly tired, he's sick, he's had some shocking blow. Let him rest, Tony.”

Tony nodded. “I will, yes. I'll see him home to bed, then come back to you.”

Her eyes flashed to him in quick inquiry; she gave him a long appraisal, looked from him to Faunt. “You are changed—again, Tony. Like your old self. What has happened?”

“My old self, yes,” he assented. “I'll come back to you, when I have taken him home.”

She looked down at Faunt for a long silent moment. “Poor—gentleman,” she whispered.

“I'll see him safe, come back. I need you, Nell.”

Mrs. Albion faced him quietly. “No, Tony. No. We can't retrace old paths.” Then, dismissing Tony from her thoughts as she had dismissed him from her life, she touched Faunt's drooping shoulders, his bent head. “I will keep him here, to sleep, to rest, till he is healed again.”

“Him?” Her word struck Tony like a blow. He had been so sure that he could turn to her.

“Why not?” she challenged gently.

He hesitated. “Why, I need you! My world's upside down tonight.” Half-minded to tell her the truth, he nevertheless held back the word. If he did, she might laugh, make sport of him; and he would not face her laughter. “I've always turned to you, Nell. We were close so long.”

“He needs me more than you do now.”

Her tenderness to Faunt was a lash that stung and cut. Tony struck with words meant to hurt her. “No, Nell! I'll not let you get your damned hands on him!”

She smiled, wise and serene. “Poor Tony!”

He was slow to accept defeat; he pleaded, he threatened, he tried every means—and could not move her. When at last he accepted dismissal, leaving Faunt still stupidly asleep there in her chair, he bolted from the house, mounted his horse at the rail and put the beast to a gallop through the silent and deserted streets. There was a desolation and a fury in him. He felt himself lost and alone; and self-pity alternated with hard unheeding rage. Nell had cast him out! Melted by tenderness for Faunt, turned by that tenderness to wax that flowed through Tony's fingers, she had escaped him at the moment when he thought to seize her.

So he was alone.

He let his horse go without direction, lifting it to utmost speed, racing headlong out of the city along random ways, till after miles the beast slowed at last to an exhausted walk. He tried to urge it into a run again, wrenching at the reins, kicking its ribs, wishing for spurs. He dismounted to find a stick and beat the horse with a brutal violence,
venting on the dumb animal all the passion in him. He mounted and brought it to a stumbling run again. When at last it collapsed, its legs giving way, its great heart broken, Tony fell with it; but beyond some slight bruises he escaped hurt. He freed himself, and tried to jerk the horse to its feet; but it could not rise.

There was night and silence all around him, and Tony had not heeded the course they took, did not know where he was. He sat down under a tree beside the road to wait for dawn.

May, 1862

 

C
INDA, when she came home that night, racked and weary as much from her own thoughts as from the discomfort of the long journey, was conscious of no wish but one: that Brett Dewain were here. As the carriage made its way through the familiar streets she hoped he would be at the house, hoped he would open the door and come to take her into the secure haven of his arms; but she knew this was unlikely. He had had leave for Vesta's wedding, could hardly have come home again so soon.

But at least Vesta would be here; and Cinda was reassured by this certainty, for Vesta was strong and steady and fine. She thought wearily that she would have a houseful, with Jenny and Barbara and Enid, and the children, and now her mother too. Tonight would be a problem. Where would Faunt and Tony sleep, for instance? Which room should be her mother's? Which had Enid pre-empted? She was too tired to decide, but Vesta's level head would come to her rescue.

They reached the house and Tilda scurried away while Cinda and Mrs. Currain went indoors. In the hall, under the bright gaslight, Cinda thought Enid had a sullen look; and Barbara, with her baby coming so soon, was naturally pale; but Jenny was serene and comforting. It was good to come home again to familiar surroundings, to the cheerful drawing room with its beautiful gilt cornices and its bright colors. The tall mirror between the windows told her how bedraggled she was and she turned away, sat down on the low carved seat. “Where's Vesta?” she asked.

“I thought she would come with you.”

“With us?” Cinda was surprised, and alarmed too. “No, of course not. Where is she?”

Jenny said reassuringly. “Now Mama, don't worry about Vesta! You never saw anyone so happy! When they found you weren't here, she decided to ride down to Williamsburg with Tommy and come home with you.”

“We didn't see her.” Cinda remembered the long weary miles, the crowded roads; and she pressed her hands against her eyes, wishing her thoughts would clear.

“There, I'm sure she's all right,” Jenny insisted, and she added: “We didn't know when you would get here, but Granny's room is all ready.” She explained each arrangement she had made, and her quiet words helped Cinda lay hold on comforting routine. To think of these familiar details was to shut out, at least for tonight, the troubling world. Vesta was all right, of course. If she did not meet Travis, she had friends in Williamsburg to whom she could turn.

Where to put Faunt and Tony was a problem; but Faunt was always considerate and thoughtful, and he would foresee this, and take Tony elsewhere, and thus give her time to settle the household into an orderly groove again. So she was not surprised that her brothers did not come for supper, did not reappear at all; and somehow presently the rest of them were all abed.

 

Cinda was so tired she slept as her head touched the pillow, and she did not wake till June came smilingly with morning coffee. June was full of talk, needing no prompting questions; and Cinda, sipping her coffee while the old woman brushed and brushed her hair, relaxed contentedly. June had a wonderful gift for telling her just the things she wished to know. Miss Vesta when she came back from Goochland was the happiest-looking bride anybody ever saw; Mister Cloyd, you couldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole, he was stepping so high and proud. Miss Barbara was poorly, for her baby was going to be a buster. It would be a boy for sure, she carried it so high! Miss Enid had been mighty nice, not making no trouble at all for nobody. The children got along together just like so many kittens in a basket. The gentlemen never did come back last night. There was a mighty lot of scared white folks in Richmond, and a pile of them were going away
to some place or other for fear the Yankees were coming. So-and-so had gone, and So-and-so, and So-and-so. An expressive sniff made clear June's opinion of these craven departures. Mrs. Currain was just fine this morning, chipper as a jay bird. June had fixed her breakfast the way she liked it, taken the waiter up to her. Yes indeed, everything was fine!

Under June's soothing tongue and the smooth strokes of the brush Cinda's troubles paled and faded. When Brett came home, she would tell him the tale of the letters, then dismiss it from her mind. If a thing could not be helped, it was necessary to forget it. She thought of Clayton, dead now almost a year, dead because of this war which Abraham Lincoln, fruit of her father's stale and ancient sin, had forced upon the South. The sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, yes; but why could they not have been visited upon the children alone, instead of upon the children's children? Upon her child; her Clayton?

She shook her head, shut her eyes. There was no profit in thought upon this matter. She must armor herself against such reflections. So must they all.

She need have, she reflected, no concern for her mother. Mrs. Currain had walled herself against the impact of these troubled days. But Tony? Faunt? Tilda? Trav? What would this knowledge do to them? Tony was a weakling; or at least he had been, all his life till within a year or two. There was no knowing what he would do now. Faunt was a brave and gentle man; yet at the first impact of this revelation he had gone for a while a little mad, gulping brandy, setting fire to the dear old house that had meant so much to all of them. Yet surely he would rally his courage and his steadfastness to withstand this cruel hurt. Tilda? Tilda did not matter. As for Travis, he was a rock, a great rock in a weary land. Cinda had no fear for him.

June was still prattling, her voice a gentling monotone; but Cinda stirred. “June, ask Miss Jenny to come have breakfast with me.” So her day began, but for a while there was no strength in her. “I wish it were Sunday,” she told Jenny. “I feel more like going to church than like managing and planning.”

But an hour with Jenny made her strong again. They spoke of Vesta, but Tommy would of course have seen her safe with friends in
Williamsburg. Faunt and Tony would be coming presently. She dressed at last and she and Jenny came downstairs together. Cinda expected Mrs. Currain would ask where her sons were; but the old woman betrayed no curiosity. She seemed to accept her establishment here in Cinda's home as perfectly normal. She enjoyed the children, she smiled at Enid's pretty attentions, she patted Jenny's hand in gentle affection. There was a great chair in her room and she held court there, mistress of the moment, of herself, and of them all. Barbara was with them for a while; and Mrs. Currain told Cinda afterward with a brisk, approving nod: “I like Burr's little wife. She's a sweet child.” Cinda did not argue the point. If Mrs. Currain liked Barbara, probably she herself was wrong.

Toward dusk Big Mill brought Vesta home, and they heard the tale of her adventures, and smiled as they listened. She described Julian's brotherly wrath at her for being in the way when men had work to do, and Elegant's consternation when they found Great Oak all ablaze, and Mrs. Taylor's protests at her departure, and the ludicrous figure she cut in Mr. Taylor's cape, and how a stream of water ran off the brim of her hat when she leaned down to kiss Tommy good-by and splashed in his face, and Uncle Trav's solicitude as they rode through the night, and the humble people who gave them shelter, and Big Mill's obvious impatience to get her home so that he could go back to Trav.

“I expect he's started already,” she guessed. “Just as soon as he could get a fresh mule.”

Cinda, listening to Vesta's happy tones, thought youth was so brave, so confident, so sure, flinging a gay challenge in the face of destiny. Human beings were like small dogs barking their defiance at a huge mastiff that paid them no slightest heed, that brushed them aside—yes, and sometimes stamped out their small lives—in a remote and complete indifference. Oh, youth was frighteningly brave, knowing so little of the dangers in the way.

She thought Vesta knew no fear. Tilda brought next day news of the fight at Williamsburg, and of the repulse of the Yankees. “There, that's my Tommy!” Vesta cried proudly, when she heard; and Cinda looked at her in wonder. Was it possible that the girl did not know the fruits of battle? But Vesta caught that glance, came swiftly to her
mother's side, kissed her and whispered: “Darling, don't look at me like that! Of course I'm worried, but I won't cry before I'm hurt!”

Cinda smiled and pressed her hand; and asked Tilda: “Then our army is still in Williamsburg?” Perhaps to abandon Great Oak had not been necessary after all.

“Oh no! Everyone says we could stay there as long as we like, but General Johnston is so stubborn. He's decided to retreat, and so he's bound to do it, no matter how often the army proves we don't have to. No, we beat them, but the army's coming on toward Richmond.” Tilda asked for Faunt and Tony.

“Tony has Chimneys to attend to,” Cinda reminded her. Let them assume that he had gone. “And Faunt was well enough to return to duty.” She did not know where they were, but she would not tell Tilda so.

“Tony ought to have taken Mama to Chimneys,” Tilda suggested. “No telling what's going to happen here. Redford says we'll give up Richmond, let the Yankees have it. Besides, you know how Mama hates hot weather, and summer here can be awful.”

Cinda reflected that there was wisdom in this. “But of course Mama wouldn't go,” she reminded them. “It's a wonder we ever got her to come this far.”

Vesta said: “But Mama, it really would be wonderful for her. I wish we'd thought of it before Uncle Tony left. Uncle Trav says it's nearly always cool there.”

Cinda nodded, entangled in her own white lie. She had as good as said that Tony was gone to Chimneys, could not now confess he was presumably still in Richmond. She wondered where he was. Probably he had turned to old haunts, the gaming table, the bottle. Perhaps Faunt was with him; but there was no profit in conjecture.

Before Tilda left she drew Cinda aside. “Has Mama said anything about those awful letters?”

“No. None of us need talk about them.”

“Well, I certainly won't tell a soul; but oh Cinda, isn't it terrible? Aren't you dying of shame?”

“I'm not going to worry about something Papa did thirty years before I was born!”

“But don't you realize—” Tilda spoke in a horrified whisper. “Lincoln's
actually our nephew, Cinda. That wretched brat of papa's was our half-sister.”

“What of it? If you go back far enough, everyone in the world is cousins or something!”

Tilda cried flatteringly: “I think you're wonderful, the way you always make the best of things. But Faunt was terribly upset, and Heaven knows what Tony will do!”

Cinda saw that Tilda really enjoyed the situation, and of course Redford Streean would exult if he knew. She hoped Tilda had wit enough never to tell him.

 

Cinda slept ill that night, with haunted dreams. Two of her sons were with the army at Williamsburg, and Tommy too; and Tommy since he married Vesta was become her son. Vesta and Barbara betrayed none of the anxiety they must feel, and she hoped she had been able to hide her fears as well as they. How long must they all have terror for a bedfellow? There would be other battles, through the months and years. This time—please God—Burr and Julian and Vesta's Tommy had come safely through the deadly storm; but this was only a beginning. Yes, hardly even a beginning. The army was in retreat toward Richmond; the Yankees would press after them. Lincoln's blackguards would fight to capture Richmond, and her sons must fight to prevent them, fight while they lived.

How long? How long?

She found herself wondering about this Lincoln, whom every Southerner abhorred. What sort of man was it who would bring wounds and death to sow sorrow across his native land, and to scatter seeds of hatred which would never die? Did Lincoln in his secret heart exult in the horrors which he thrust upon them all? Did he, like a miser, count his crimes and revel in the tally? Was he wholly inhuman? a

Or was he, conceivably, a man like other men, caught up in forces he could not control, hating all this yet driven by some mistaken conviction of the rightness of his course?

No, that was not possible! No man, if he were honest, could believe it right to force the South like an unwilling bride to return to a union she loathed. There must be some intermediate truth that was believable,
but Cinda's weary thoughts found no answer to the dark enigma. They blurred and lost themselves in restless sleep.

 

She was awake, Wednesday morning, at first dawn; and she lay with half-open eyes, staring at nothing, waiting for June to come to her. She could hear, presently, small sounds in the house, light hasting footsteps as the children in their play ran to and fro, the whisper of one of the black nurses hushing her charge so grownups could sleep. Cinda always relished this quiet morning hour alone. To be thus wakeful gave her time to set her thoughts in order and to store up energy against the confused and pressing problems of each day. June would come soon. The old woman always brought hot coffee, then helped Cinda halfway through the process of dressing for the day, then fetched her breakfast. Breakfast was always on the same waiter, of black enamel gay with a pattern of green leaves and yellow flowers, which June extravagantly admired. It occurred to Cinda by and by that June today was later than usual; but when the old woman appeared, the delay was forgotten in Cinda's surprise at the fact that instead of the usual cup of coffee June this morning brought a complete breakfast, hot bread, bacon, jam, coffee, a heaping plenty.

And there was another surprise. Cinda smiled. “Why, June, you've gone and given my special waiter to someone else this morning! Did you give it to Mama?”

“Ma'am?” June was drawing the curtains, keeping her back turned to her mistress; and Cinda watched her in a closer attention, struck by something in her tone.

“And you didn't bring my early coffee.” June still did not turn, and Cinda forced herself to speak lightly. “What's upset you, June? Have you and Caesar been having one of your battles?”