House Divided (17 page)

Cinda laughed. “Now, now, Tilda, you can't make me unhappy about Vesta. She's a hag and Dolly's Cleopatra herself, if you like.”

Tilda hurried to make amends. “Oh, you know I didn't mean that, Cinda! Vesta's just as sweet as she can be.” She sought safety, changed the subject. “Cinda, this is a lovely spot, isn't it?”

“I've always liked it. Whenever we spent the summer at the Plains we lived in cabins up in the sand hills, five miles or so. It's healthier there during the hot weather, as long as you don't dig up the ground or plant gardens or anything. If you turn up the soil you have malaria, even in the hills. We used to move before the end of June and stay till frost; but sometimes I'd bring the children down to the spring here for picnics, and they loved it. There, things are ready. Banquo's going to blow the horn!”

When at the summons the young people came trooping back, Tilda saw Mr. Eader still contesting for Dolly's attention. Dolly was so cunning, the way she kept him and Rollin both in play. Mr. Eader, Tilda decided, was just boiling mad inside; and at something he said she saw Rollin flush and bite his lip, till Clayton maneuvered Mr. Eader away. How silly of Clayton! Things like that were just perfectly natural, when a girl as pretty as Dolly kept flirting in such a cute way with all the men.

Before they had done full justice to the heaping platters, dusk fell; and when the moon rose yellow above the great trees that walled the glade around the spring, old Banquo was already tuning his fiddle, Cass plucking and screwing at his banjo, Cato experimentally clicking the bones—dried spare ribs of some giant hog—that in his gnarled black fingers like castanets would set the beat; and suddenly Banquo in his deep baritone began to sing.

He bawled his invitation. “Pardners foh de fus' cotillion!” And when the set was quickly full, “For'ard fours.”

So in the risen moon the dance began.

Tommy Cloyd sought Tilda as his partner. Tilda had seen Vesta send him to do his duty; she received him ungraciously. Of course
you could not expect much from a boy with such a mother; and he was afraid of his own shadow, stammering and blushing if anyone spoke to him, ridiculously awkward and homely. Vesta was welcome to him! Tilda while they danced paid little attention to Tommy, watching the others. Clayton had claimed Jenny, laughingly brushing aside the youngsters who would have contested for her; and Tilda saw Cinda beset by half a dozen boys. Mr. Eader, when Dolly gave Rollin her hand, turned to Vesta in perfunctory courtesy, and Tilda thought he was furious. It just stuck out all over him.

During the hours that followed she was divided between resentment because the young men who paid her attention were so obviously serving politeness rather than their own inclination, and delight because Dolly was besought by everyone. Oh, Cinda had the Plains, and the big house in Richmond, and more money than she had any use for; she had everything in the world, all the things Tilda coveted. But at least she didn't have a wonderfully beautiful daughter like Dolly! All the same, Tilda, smiling and smiling, hated Cinda; she hated Clayton and Jenny; she hated them all, yet smiled and smiled.

She even, whenever she caught his eye, smiled on Mr. Eader, till at last as the music paused he came to her side.

“Isn't it lovely, Mr. Eader?” she cried. “These dear children, all having such a good time.” He was so obviously the oldest man here; his dyed hair deceived no one, just made you realize how many wrinkles he had. All her life Tilda had been an outsider, and she recognized in him another like herself, forever struggling to become a part of the pleasant world from which he was excluded. Maliciously she taunted him. “They're so beautifully young, aren't they? Aren't they nice to let old people like us share their happy times.”

She saw his thin lips draw tight, saw the hard anger in his eyes; but before he could reply the music paused, and Dolly and Rollin Lyle, Vesta and Tommy Cloyd came toward where they stood. Dolly was lovely in the moonlight, crying out happily:

“Oh Mama, isn't it wonderful? Mr. Eader, aren't we having a marvelous time?”

As always, others had followed in her train, crowding around her now. Rollin, when Dolly spoke to Mr. Eader, paused two paces off; but Mr. Eader raised his voice to a pitch that commanded attention.

“Really, Miss Dolly? I would expect you to find our Camden youths rather callow after Richmond men?”

Dolly gaily protested: “Why, goodness no, Mr. Eader. I think these boys are just sweet!” Rollin at the older man's word had turned sharply that way, his young head high, and she slipped her arm through his. “I declare, I think everyone's just too charming for words!” she cried.

But Rollin gently put her hand aside, his eye stern on the older man. “Sir,” he said clearly, “whatever my years, I am old enough to have observed the sorry fact that though a man can be a man but once, he may sometimes be twice a child!”

There was an instant's hush, and Tilda felt her pulses tingle. What would Mr. Eader do? But before he could do—or say—anything, Cinda called hastily: “Clayton, tell Banquo we want a Lancers!”

She took Mr. Eader's arm, compelling him away; the fiddle began to sing and there was a quick gust of relieved voices. But Tilda saw Mr. Eader after a moment bow to Cinda and excuse himself and stalk toward where his horse was tethered and gallop away. She trembled with anticipatory certainty. If Mr. Eader was as hot-tempered as Cinda said, he would not forget that Rollin Lyle had insulted him before them all.

Cinda drew Clayton aside and spoke to him; and Clayton too went to find his horse. Then Cinda came toward Tilda, frowning with concern; and Tilda salted the wound.

“Cinda, Mr. Eader was real angry, wasn't he? Why can't men keep their tempers! Just because there's a pretty girl around!”

Cinda made an impatient gesture. “Oh hush, Tilda!” She said under her breath: “I wish to Heaven Brett Dewain were here!”

May, 1860

 

C
LAYTON was twenty-four years old yet now cantering through the moonlit night to overtake Mr. Eader, he felt himself very young and uncertain; he too wished his father were here. But Brett Dewain was in Charleston, so he must master this moment alone. It would be best to come up with Mr. Eader before the other encountered anyone. Clayton pressed his horse to a good pace, and the man he followed must have heard the hoof beats, for at the crossroad Clayton saw him waiting. He came beside the other, quieted his mount.

“You left in some haste, sir,” he said gravely.

“I did indeed,” Mr. Eader assented. “My conversation with Mr. Lyle can more suitably be resumed in somewhat different surroundings.”

Clayton hesitated; he said then almost pleadingly: “Will you permit me to request—in my father's name and in my own—that you do not pursue that conversation? Mr. Lyle is young; young men are rash. Yet they readily regret any discourtesy.”

Eader laughed briefly. “I am confident, Mr. Dewain, that your father has taught you that even a young man must accept responsibility for his remarks.”

“I feel justified in assuring you that Mr. Lyle will express to you his regret if he has wounded you.”

“I prefer to take my own measures to make that regret sincere—and lasting.”

Clayton's uncertainty ended; a calm anger gave him strength. “Sir,” he said gently, “you spoke a moment ago of responsibility. I
am just now concerned with my responsibility as a host. In that capacity, I request that you refrain from renewing your conversation with Mr. Lyle.”

“I decline to grant your request.”

“Then, sir, I must be more explicit. If there is any point in dispute between you and Mr. Lyle, it has not even the most remote connection with any word that passed tonight. Upon this I insist.”

Eader's heel urged his horse a little nearer. “Mr. Dewain, is it possible that you presume to threaten me?”

Clayton's tone was level. “Sir, your horse is crowding mine.”

For an instant, in the moonlight, their eyes held; then Eader drew his horse away. “I request that you explain yourself,” he suggested.

Clayton now was completely composed. “You are a belligerent man, Mr. Eader. I am sure that on many subjects you and Mr. Lyle would disagree.”

“Are you speaking for Mr. Lyle?”

“I am speaking for myself. If you and Mr. Lyle are to differ, it must be in such a way that no thought can arise in any mind that your difference arose when you were both my guests. Is that clear?”

“I find your remarks full of interest—but somewhat lacking in particularity.”

“Then I will be more particular,” said Clayton evenly. “I hope to have the pleasure, Mr. Eader, of welcoming you to my house tomorrow. I hope to see you and Mr. Lyle in friendly conversation there.”

“Have you any further—particulars—to suggest?”

“Why, yes,” Clayton assured him. “You will call upon us tomorrow morning, and by your manner you will make it clear that there is no shadow on your friendship with Mr. Lyle. Then tomorrow evening, if you ride to Camden, you will find Mr. Lyle in the common room at the Kershaw House. It would be natural for you to fall into a discussion of the relative advantages of rice and of cotton as crops; and you might disagree, might come to words.”

Eader laughed. “You are young, Mr. Dewain. I assure you it is most unlikely that I will appear at your home—except by an emissary—tomorrow.” He turned his horse to depart.

But Clayton came beside him. “And I in turn assure you, Mr. Eader,” he said simply, “that if you do not do precisely as I suggest, I
will shoot you down as surely as I would destroy any other vermin that annoyed me.”

“When I have dealt with Mr. Lyle, sir, I will be at your service.”

Clayton shook his head. “You mistake me, Mr. Eader. I did not say I will call you out. I said I will shoot you down.” He held the other's eyes, saw the older man wet his lips in a sharp uncertainty. “I hope you will call upon us tomorrow, sir,” he said, and this time it was he who wheeled his horse away. There was a long moment when, moving at foot pace, he held his breath, half expecting the blow of a bullet between his shoulder blades; but then he heard Mr. Eader's horse plunge into a gallop and depart, and he filled his lungs again in deep relief, and removed his hat and wiped his dripping brow.

At the spring he found Banquo and the other Negroes clearing away the traces of the picnic; the carriages and the riders had set out for home. Before they reached the Plains he overtook them. Tonight he must tell Rollin Lyle what to expect tomorrow, must bid him—for Dolly's sake—meet Mr. Eader with a friendly courtesy; and when the young ladies had gone to their rooms, he drew Rollin and Burr together, told Rollin what he had done.

Rollin said regretfully: “I'm sorry I lost my temper, Clayton; sorry to embarrass you.”

Burr cried: “But damn it, Clay, he had every provocation!”

Clayton nodded. “I know. I don't blame you, Rollin. However, this affair must be handled carefully.”

“You think he will come tomorrow?”

“Yes, I'm sure he will.”

Rollin nodded. “I'll do my part,” he said. “You can count on me.”

Clayton, before going to his own room, reported to Cinda, telling her every word that had passed. “I wish Papa had been here,” he confessed. “But—I did the best I could, Mama.”

Cinda kissed him gratefully. “I think you did exactly right.” She uttered an angry exclamation: “But the fools, the fools! Why don't men ever grow up? Yet if they did, I declare we wouldn't love them so! Clayton—must they meet?” He did not answer, and she nodded. “I know. I know. But—why hasn't someone killed Harry Eader long ago?”

Jenny, when she heard, asked only: “If Mr. Eader does not do as you require, will you kill him?”

“He will come,” Clayton assured her. “He can make a virtue of it, you see. He will be playing the gentleman, protecting Dolly; will thus earn a little credit. Mr. Eader is hungry for credit in the eyes of men.”

“I hope so. I hope you needn't kill him.”

“There'll be no need,” he promised. “There will be no need.”

Yet next day he was uneasy till Mr. Eader appeared. Through the hours he stayed at the Plains, he and Rollin Lyle seemed the best of friends, each laughing in appreciation of the other's every quip, equally composed. Only, before Mr. Eader left—he declined to stay to dinner—he said meaningly to Rollin:

“Do you never ride into Camden? Of course, with so many attractions here——”

Rollin answered him readily: “Why, in fact, sir, Burr and I thought to ride in this evening. Even in Charleston, Mr. Eader, we've heard praises of the wines in Mr. Robinson's cellar at the Kershaw House.”

“I know where he keeps his most choice bottles,” Mr. Eader assured them. Thus politely the rendezvous was made.

Clayton rode to Camden with them. When he and Burr and Rollin reached the Kershaw House, two or three acquaintances were in the taproom, but not Mr. Eader. Clayton thought he would not be long. Someone remarked to Clayton that he seldom came to town, and with an ear for Mr. Eader's arrival, he took the chance-offered cue.

“I'm much too busy at the Plains,” he said. “Cotton's a crop that requires a man's attention.”

“No more than rice,” Rollin suggested.

“Every man thinks his own task the most difficult,” Clayton agreed. “My uncle Travis believes tobacco offers more problems than either cotton or rice.”

As he spoke, the door opened, and Mr. Eader and Mr. Bellmer, a white-skinned, flabby little man, who had acted for Mr. Eader in more than one affair, came in together. Clayton's dislike of Mr. Bellmer was almost as intense as his feeling toward Mr. Eader. Nevertheless he felt himself today obliged to a surface cordiality.

“Ah, gentlemen. Will you join us, and state your pleasure?”

When they were seated—Mr. Eader across from Rollin as though already they were confronted—and full glasses had been set before them, Clayton resumed the conversation. “We were discussing,” he explained, holding his tone casual, “the trials of the farmer. My uncle, Mr. Travis Currain, makes tobacco profitable at Chimneys, but he is forever protesting at the labor involved; seed beds in which every clod must be pulverized and the very soil purged by fire, seedlings to be weeded and tended through six or eight weeks, transplanting, many cultivations, buds to be pinched off, leaves and suckers to be removed, horn worms that must be culled by hand like a delicate fruit—and after the plants are grown, the harvesting, curing, stripping.” He smiled. “Why, to hear him, you would suppose it to be a lifetime's work to raise a pipeful. For my part, I think the cotton planter best deserves sympathy.”

“You are correct, sir,” Mr. Eader assured him, as though he spoke by rote. “No other crop requires such tender and unabated care. The land must be bedded in early winter, it must be well drained, it must be plowed exactly thus and so, the crust must be harrowed—and all this before the first seed is sown. There's a winter's work in itself! Then the seeds, once sown, must be covered, and the earth scratched to permit them to germinate; and then come weeds, and plowing, and chopping and more plowing with mold-board and sweep after the turn-plow has dirted the plants. And picking and ginning, each is an art in itself! Then when one year's crop is saved it is time to start preparing for the next. Yes, cotton-planting has its difficulties.” He looked for the first time at Rollin Lyle, said in a condescending tone: “Now rice is easy, by comparison; no more than a matter of letting in the water on your swamps. Yet I have heard Charleston men complain.”

“I assure you, sir, there is more to rice culture than flooding the swamps,” Rollin objected. “In the fall and winter, there are the ditches and the drains to clean, levees and gates to keep in repair. Then the plowing is a long muddy business, and harrowing and trenching, all before you let the water on at all. Sowing the seed is easy enough, to be sure.” They were all as quietly attentive as though he spoke of matters of which they were ignorant; and the other gentlemen in the taproom, perhaps recognizing that something unusual lay behind this conversation, ceased their own talk to listen. “It's only after planting
time that water helps at all,” Rollin continued. “There's the sprout-flow to start the seed, but after that the hoeing must be done before the stretch-flow—the long-flow—to make the seedlings reach for air and thus outgrow the weeds; and the people have to wade through the fields and pull weeds the hoes missed. And after the stretch-flow the fields must be hoed again while the plants make their dry-growth before the lay-by, the harvest-flow. No, Mr. Eader, there's more to growing rice than flooding. The hands have work enough, you may be sure.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” Mr. Eader assented. “And for the hoeing the hands must wade in mud all day long, I suppose. Tell me, Mr. Lyle, is it the hard work or the wet feet that kills off your niggers so fast?”

Clayton at that word felt his nerves draw taut, felt the sudden breathless silence in the room. In that silence came Rollin's quiet reply.

“Why, Mr. Eader, I would not have expected so much solicitude from one who notoriously and cruelly abuses his people.”

Mr. Eader with a violent movement thrust back his chair and stood up; and Mr. Bellmer, as though they were two manikins operated by the same spring, rose with him. Mr. Eader spoke. “Do I understand you correctly, Mr. Lyle?”

“Why, I think so,” Rollin assured him. “If you understand me to express my contempt for a man who treats his negroes as you treat yours —you understand me precisely, sir.”

So, for good or ill, the thing was done. Clayton knew a profound relief. From what was now to follow, Cousin Dolly's name need take no stain.