House Divided (167 page)

But she would not stay long enough to collect them. She called Emma. “You and Sally get trunks from the attic and pack all my clothes, shoes, everything,” she said. “I'll send for them later.” Her cape and bonnet were hanging here in the hall; while she spoke, she put them on. Emma demanded in suspicious protest:

“Whah you gwine, Missy?”

Tilda, her hand on the knob, hesitated. “I'll send for them,” she repeated,
and went out and drew the door to behind her. She could not answer Emma's question, not now.

Yet there was no doubt in her mind where she would go. She walked along Franklin Street, walked so rapidly that the slight ascent made her pant, to Fifth Street, to Cinda's. Vesta was there when she arrived, Cinda still at the hospital.

“Oh, Aunt Tilda, how nice to see you!” the girl cried. “Did you ever know such a wretched, black, foggy, miserable day? I had to go down to Main Street, and I fairly groped my way. And everyone wearing such a long face! I'm so glad you came! Be a little bit cheerful with me, won't you, please? I'm so tired of gloomy people.”

Tilda smiled. “Nobody can help being cheerful when you're around, Honey.” She wondered how she could ever have thought Vesta was anything but beautiful. It was like stepping from shadow into sunlight to come near her. “How's that Tommy?” she asked smilingly. It amused Vesta when people spoke so of her baby. Brett had set the fashion; the youngster was always “that Tommy” now.

“He's a little monster!” Vesta said proudly. “I don't see how he manages to stay so fat on what we get to eat. But I did get a turkey today! Only I'll never dare tell Mama what I paid for it! You must have Christmas dinner with us.”

Tilda almost smiled, thinking that now she would probably have not only Christmas dinner with them, but every other dinner, and breakfast and supper too. Where else could she go? Not to Enid certainly. She was half-minded to tell Vesta what had happened, but she decided to wait till Cinda came. Meanwhile, it was comfort and contenting to feel around her the warmth and love and courage which were a part of Cinda's home.

She had supposed that when Cinda came she would be able to tell them what had happened; but while Cinda in the hall laid aside her cloak and bonnet, Tilda began to tremble terribly, and her teeth to chatter, and she knew she could not speak in Vesta's presence. Vesta had gone to greet her mother in the hall. Now they reappeared together, and Tilda came uncontrollably to her feet, stammered her appeal.

“Vesta, d-darling, leave us alone a minute, will you, p-please? Something I must tell your mother.”

Vesta's quick glance was keen, and Tilda tried to smile and could
not. The girl said affectionately: “Of course! Have your secrets, you two!” She drew the sliding doors together behind her, and Tilda heard her light feet on the stair.

“She's happy, isn't she, Cinda?”

Cinda sat down, weary from her day. “Yes, Vesta's very happy. What's happened, Tilda?”

Speech was empty, yet words must be found. “Why, Cinda—–” Tilda's throat, to her astonishment, filled with choking sobs. “Oh, Cinda——”

Cinda, as though forgetting her own fatigue, rose and came swiftly to touch Tilda's shoulder; and Tilda bowed forward, her face in her hands, and Cinda said: “There, there, dear! Tell me.” And she asked in a tone that even in that moment seemed to Tilda strange: “Is it Darrell?”

Tilda looked up, eyes streaming. “Why did you ask that?”

Cinda did not reply. “What is it, darling?”

“It's Redford.” Tilda lifted her head, fought back sobs. “He's going to England. I refused to go with him.”

She saw Cinda's shoulders straighten as though suddenly free from some burden. “Oh, Tilda, I'm so glad!”

“He's sold the house.” Tilda steadied her voice.

“What of it? You can stay here.”

“Please may I? Till I don't feel quite so alone?”

Cinda said briskly. “Alone, fiddlesticks! You have all of us.” She hesitated. “Do you want to tell me about it, Tilda?”

“I think so,” Tilda admitted, still tremulous with the overpowering relief of sharing her tragedy. “Oh, I've expected it. Lately he's been buying jewelry, and gold; and he came home Friday and said we were going to Wilmington and on to Nassau and to England and be rich. He's leaving because he thinks the South's beaten. I told him I wouldn't go. I told him what I thought of him. I said some terrible things to him, Cinda!”

“I wish I'd been there!”

“I've hated him so!”

“Of course. Everybody has. Never mind him. You say he sold the house?”

Tilda nodded, and she told of Colonel Gruber's call. “I had to guess
at what had happened. I suppose that was Redford's way of getting even. But I didn't let Colonel Gruber see, I'm sure. But—oh, Cinda, I dread answering questions. People will want to know where Redford is.”

Cinda laughed cheerfully. “I doubt it. No one will miss him. If anyone does ask about him it will be just politeness, not because they care. Tell them the truth; that he's gone to England, that you preferred to stay. They'll love you for it!”

“I don't see how I can face it. I'm such a coward.”

“A coward! I wish I had your courage, darling.”

Tilda looked at her in an astonishment so great she began to forget her own woe. “I can't imagine you being afraid of anything.”

Cinda shrugged. “I've been playing the coward for two weeks,” she confessed. “Did you know Faunt is in Richmond?”

“No! Where? In the hospital, Cinda?”

“He's wounded, or sick, I don't know which,” Cinda said. “But he isn't in the hospital. He's at Mrs. Albion's.”

“Mrs. Albion? Why? I see her sometimes at the Soup Association, but of course I don't know her. Did she take Faunt in? Why didn't he come to us?”

Cinda said flatly: “He's her lover.”

“Cinda!” Tilda's cry was half terror, half refusal to believe. “Faunt?”

Cinda nodded. “Yes. Travis told me.” And she added: “For almost two weeks now, I've known he was there, and I haven't had the courage to go to her house.”

Strength flowed into Tilda, to meet Cinda's need. Through these months she had become strong through serving others and forgetting herself, and she forgot herself for Cinda now. “It can't be, Cinda! I know Tony kept her for years; but Faunt is a gentleman.”

Vesta tapped on the door. “Aren't you two almost through? Dinner's ready.”

“In a minute, darling,” Cinda called. She said thoughtfully: “You know, Tilda, those letters knocked Faunt off his feet. Of course he was always pitying himself, always weak; but the feeling that he was wellborn propped him up as a stick props up the scarecrow in a negro's corn patch.” She said in steady appraisal: “I don't think those
letters did the rest of us any harm. Tony was always a rascal, and I expect he still is. Travis is even finer than he was, and so are you; and I haven't been unhappy about all that, except just at first. But it ruined Faunt, Tilda.”

“But he's our brother, Cinda. And he's sick, or hurt.” Tilda smiled, remembering her own estate. “A deserted wife is almost as easily despised as a—woman of that sort. I don't feel too superior. I shall go see him.”

“Stop it! Stop thinking you're disgraced!”

Tilda laughed. “I don't really think so! You know, Cinda, I really enjoyed telling Redford what I thought of him. I wasn't a bit scared till afterward!”

Cinda said again: “I'd have given a pretty penny to be there and cheer! Oh, Honey, I've been so proud of you, all the work you've done. But I'm prouder than ever now.”

“I haven't done as much as you.”

“Yes, you have! And you've done things I could never do, managing people, keeping them busy. I don't see how you do it.”

Tilda said thoughtfully: “I don't know myself. Except that if you start people off a little at a time, they seem to accomplish a lot before they're through.”

“I never can be patient enough for that. I either want to do things quick, or I can't bring myself to do them at all. Like going to see Faunt.”

“I'll go. It won't bother me.”

“Well, maybe I'll go with you,” Cinda said. “Maybe eating dinner will give me courage.”

 

They did not go that day. Cinda said it was absurd to walk so far through fog and spitting rain; but next morning was fine. Mrs. Albion received them composedly, and she remarked that a day like this, clear and cold, was a relief after the bad weather; and Cinda said yes, it was a shame to have bad weather when all the news was so distressing; Sherman near Savannah, General Hood beaten in Tennessee.

Mrs. Albion nodded. “Yes, Hood's army is destroyed.”

Cinda said: “I like Sam Hood; but I wonder whether a man who has lost a leg is ever a good commander again. It must do something to his soul. Like General Ewell. He wasted great opportunities at Gettysburg, and again at the Wilderness, just by not making up his mind.”

The other assented. “General Ewell fights too little, and General Hood is so anxious to prove he is as good as a whole man that he fights too much.”

“He's so handsome, such sad eyes.”

“There's sadness in most of our eyes these days,” Mrs. Albion suggested; and Tilda stirred in a faint impatience. It was not for such empty talk as this that they were here. If Cinda would not come to the point, someone must.

“You're very good to see us, Mrs. Albion,” she said. “You must guess why we have called.” She added simply: “If Faunt doesn't want to see us, I hope you will at least tell us how he is.”

Mrs. Albion offered no evasion. “He's been very ill. His lungs are weak. When the Yankees were devastating Loudoun Valley, he overtaxed his strength, had a severe hemorrhage.”

“May we see him?”

The other woman rose. “I'll ask him.” She faced them serenely. “I love him, you know. Of course, if he lives, there is no place in his life for me; and in the past I've sometimes urged him to go to you. But that was when he was well. If he is to die, I will never let him go.” She added simply: “But if he wishes, you may see him, certainly.”

She left the room and they did not speak for the long minutes till she returned. Then in her eyes Tilda read their answer; and she rose, and Cinda too.

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry,” Mrs. Albion assured them. “If I thought seeing you would help him, I would insist, but—it would do him harm. It would. I'm sure of that. Please.”

“Is there anything he needs?”

“If there were, I would get it for him.”

Tilda said sincerely: “I'm glad he has you.”

“You're generous and kind. If there is any change—–” Mrs. Albion's voice seemed to catch, and she repeated that word. “Change for the worse, or if he wishes to see you, I will send word.”

On the homeward way, they had passed Adams Street before Tilda spoke. “You didn't say a word, Cinda, except just at first.”

“I couldn't. I felt so silly, talking about General Hood, and the weather. It was a relief when you came to the point. You were wonderful.” And after a moment: “You know, she's a remarkable woman. And she's really beautiful. How old do you suppose she is?”

They turned in relief to this absorbing question. “Enid's thirty-two or -three, so Mrs. Albion must be fifty if she's a day. She doesn't look it, does she?”

“She does, and yet she doesn't.” Cinda tried to put her thoughts in words. “She seems—mature. I feel like a silly child beside her, and like an old hag, too. Her cheeks are as smooth as a girl's.”

“She made me think of a bride. Why wouldn't Faunt see us, do you suppose?”

“Ashamed, perhaps. I suppose he should be, but I declare I can't blame him. She certainly loves him. I'm not sure he isn't a lucky man.” Cinda laughed. “How did such a woman tolerate Tony all those years?” And she said reflectively: “Tony's gone, and Faunt has shut us out. There's just you and me and Travis left, Tilda.” So they came home.

 

Next day there was disturbing news. A Yankee fleet had arrived off Wilmington; and that port was the artery through which came supplies General Lee must have in order to fight on. But to Tilda the attack on Wilmington was chiefly important because if the
Dragonfly
could not run through the Yankee squadrons, Redford might return to Richmond. That terror made her tremble, but she fought it down.

Anne and Julian and Judge Tudor would come for Christmas dinner, and Enid and her children; and there was always the hope that some of the menfolk might appear. Julian and Judge Tudor drove into the country the day before to cut holly and arbor vitae and cedar for greenery, and a Christmas tree so tremendous that it rode atop the carriage. Cinda and Tilda spent that day in the hospitals, but Anne and Vesta turned the drawing room and the dining room into bowers of beauty. Tilda went to Chimborazo Hospital last of all, and she and Cinda walked home together through the clear cold light of early dusk. Cinda was so silent that Tilda asked whether she was tired.

“Oh, yes, I'm always tired at day's end,” Cinda admitted. “But I'm worrying about Jenny, alone way off down there at the Plains. If Sherman takes Savannah, there's nothing to prevent his marching north, even as far as the Plains. I wish Jenny were here.”

“They wouldn't harm her.”

“I don't know. They might. Sheridan left the people in Northern Virginia nothing but their homes to live in; nothing to eat, no horses, livestock, nothing. Now he's begun to do the same things in the Valley. And Sherman's army either stole or ruined everything in their way from Atlanta to Savannah.” She said in bitter sadness: “General Lee said two years ago we were all in this war, so perhaps you can't blame the Yankees for taking him at his word. Turning us out of house and home will do more to make us beg for peace than anything they can do to the army. But I don't want anything to happen to Jenny and those babies.”