House Divided (26 page)

Faunt in her embrace felt a profound sadness. Once, long ago, he had heard his own baby's weak and pitiful cries and found no way to serve; once long ago Betty, her clasp almost strengthless, had thus embraced him, bidding him goodby. Enid's terror and Trav's sober grief made demands upon him which he sought to meet. He devoted himself to them, summoning the doctor, listening with Trav to the physician's protest that this baby should have been brought to him long ago. Dr. Little said some hopeful words, but Faunt thought them hollow and meaningless; yet when the doctor was gone and Enid appealed to him for comforting he echoed what the other had said. Let her find hope if she could.

His concern for the baby and for Trav and Enid thrust from his mind what went on outside this grieving room. All that day he kept watch with them, ignoring the sounds that rose from the thronged streets; the muffled voices of men coming sometimes as a deep undertone, sometimes as a harsh exultant shout; the scrape of passing feet or the beat of hoofs; the whistles and the cries.

But in late afternoon, a sudden louder tumult raced toward them like the sound of rain from a nearing shower, swelling as it neared to rise at last in jubilant uproar. Faunt guessed the truth even before he heard the beginning of the long reverberations of a hundred guns announcing Sumter's fall. With dusk there was a glare of bonfires against the sky, and the hiss and silent flash of exploding rockets, and for long hours every bell in Richmond rang in a steady clamor, so that the sick baby whimpered and wailed, and Enid wept with her. There was a swell of many voices from the street below their window like the rumble of surf, and during the evening thousands of marching feet came near the hotel and paused and raised a great shout, and for a while the watchers in the upper room heard single voices as speakers harangued the crowd, their words drowned again and again by a clamor of exultant cheers, till at last the speakers were done and the
parade moved on to seek other orators at the Exchange or in Capitol Square.

Not till slow silence settled at last across the night-bound city could Faunt persuade Enid to try to sleep, making her lie down on the couch, covering her over.

“You're so sweet to me, Cousin Faunt,” she whispered, yielding at last, smiling weakly up at him.

“Close your eyes,” he urged. “Trav and I will be here, and we'll wake you if there's anything to do.”

She did sleep at last, and so did Trav, sitting heavily in his chair, his head tipped forward. Faunt watched them both; and sure in his own mind of what the doctor expected, he sorrowed for them. In the world outside, hushed now since the first frenzy of delight had passed, there were many tragedies preparing; but for these two no tragedy would ever be as keen as this. When thousands died, the mind became blunted, no longer able to comprehend; but the death of a loved child was a little thing, inflicting pain not keen enough to bring its own anodyne and therefore fully felt, completely suffered.

Trav at last woke; and Faunt, so that Enid need not be disturbed, signed him to silence. Trav rose and beckoned him to the door, bade Faunt sleep a while. “I'm all right now. I'll stay awake,” he said.

So Faunt left him; but before day Trav came to his door. Hetty seemed worse. Could Faunt summon the doctor from his bed? “She's stopped crying,” Trav explained. “But—I guess she's unconscious, Faunt. Enid thinks she's asleep, but I don't think so. See if he can come.”

Dr. Little's home was on Sixth Street, beyond Clay, seven or eight blocks away; but there were no hackney cabs abroad, so Faunt walked. The sleepy old Negro who answered his knock grumbled at this summons. “De doctah nigh sick abed his own self,” he declared. “No bizness tuh go sky-hooting around dis time o' night!” But Dr. Little called from abovestairs and bade Faunt wait and quickly appeared. He was a frail little man; but there dwelt abounding energy in him, and Faunt had to hurry to keep pace with the other's brisk steps. He thought this headlong pace must weary the physician unnecessarily, so rather to slow him than because he expected an answer, he asked:

“Doctor, will the baby get better?”

The other laughed harshly. “You might as well ask who hit Billy Patterson! Better, in fact, because I could tell you the answer to that one. I was there—in the old Washington Tavern it was; they call it the Monument now—when Patterson made his disturbance. In fact I was one of those he overturned. I'd have done a little blood-letting on him, myself, but Alban Payne saved me the trouble, knocked him as senseless as a poled bullock.” His sharp voice crackled and sputtered. “Will she get better? Why, God knows, Mr. Currain.” He spoke more gently. “Yet I fear not. There appears to be an inflammation communicated from the injured eye socket to the brain. Frankly, sir, her death would be a mercy; since even if there is a recovery, the brain will doubtless suffer permanent injury.” He coughed, in a wearying paroxysm. “However, we will do what we can.”

There was, it proved, nothing he could do. Because next day was Sunday, the noisy celebration of Sumter's fall was not resumed; but since Hetty never regained consciousness, nothing could have disturbed her. It seemed to Faunt that the city hushed to let her pass in peace. She lived into that night, and Faunt stayed with Trav and Enid. Tomorrow the world he had known would begin to disintegrate under the stress and strain of war; but tomorrow was blotted out by the nearer fact that here in the silent room a little baby gently died.

April, 1861

 

 

F
OR TILDA these racing days when out of a precarious peace came war brought a secret satisfaction. All her life she had been forced to look upon the happiness of others, seeing them possess so many things that had never been and never would be hers; but now their world was collapsing. Now these others whom she so long had envied faced anxiety and loss and grievous pain.

It was Streean who opened her eyes to this. His marriage to Tilda had brought him a modest affluence, and though he never pretended to himself that she had any other attraction than her fortune, he had thought the bargain a good one. But in the first years of their life together, before Tilda trained herself to dissemble, he often saw in her eyes or heard in her voice surprise and shame. He was in those years vulnerable to even an unspoken criticism. Streean's father had been an honest, hard-working man who if he could neither read nor write was in that respect no different from the great majority of Virginia's yeoman farmers; and Streean's mother uncomplainingly accepted the tasks that life imposed. He might have been justly proud of them both; but he thought his father a dullard and his mother a draggled drudge; and when Tilda, who as a young woman had been warmhearted and kind, suggested that they go to see his family, he raged at her. He had expected alliance with the Currain fortune and the Currain name to wipe out the memory of his humble origin; and when he realized that to Faunt and Trav and Brett and even to Tony he would always be an outsider, he blamed not himself but his birth. Convinced in his heart of their superiority, he still courted them; but
their remote courtesy made him hate them too, and hate the people of their gentle world.

Thus now through March and early April Streean damned and doubly damned the Convention which for so long held out against secession, till Tilda said timidly:

“I didn't realize you hated the Union, Redford.”

“Hell, I don't give a damn about the Union,” he retorted. “I just want war! I want to see all your damned arrogant aristocrats brought low; shot, stabbed, their great houses burned, their women in rags!” There was a loosed venom in his tones, but he added with a greedy complacency: “And in war, my dear, a shrewd man can make his fortune.” He spoke in vast condescension. “You see, Tilda, in normal times even high-minded men like your idol, Brett Dewain”—he had long since learned how to hurt her most keenly—“keep their heads where money is concerned. They're business men first and gentlemen afterward. But in war they forget business and think only of victory. Well, their infatuation is my opportunity. Two or three years of war will make you and me rich, my dear. Of course it will bankrupt your high-strutting family; but it will make us rich!”

She knew he meant to frighten and torment her; but actually his predictions filled her with a secret anticipation. If he were right—and no matter how thoroughly she despised him, she knew his shrewdness—war would ruin her brothers and Cinda, and people like them, from whose affectionate friendship she had always been debarred. She had, she told herself, tried to be friendly, never saying a critical or an unkind word; but no matter how she tried they set her apart, walled her in loneliness. It was because Redford was what he was that they gave her no meat save a pitying tolerance. How sweet then would be the hour when they were all brought low; how sweet to see Redford greater than them all!

So while that last week of peace sped away, she watched as eagerly as anyone for word from Charleston. When the newspapers by bulletins and by extras announced that the bombardment had begun, it was Dolly who brought home the news.

“I was at Aunt Cinda's,” she explained, her eyes shining. “Burr came home and told us. He was real white and stern, and Vesta cried; but I think it's awfully exciting!” She twirled in a gay pirouette,
arms outstretched, skirts flying. “Oh, Mama, what fun! What fun!”

“Why, Dolly,” Tilda protested, “that's a terrible thing to say!”

“Oh, but Mama, imagine! All the men in lovely uniforms, so beautiful and brave.”

“But, dear, so many of them will be hurt and killed! You musn't. talk so! When your own brother and your cousins and Uncle Faunt and Uncle Trav and Papa will all be getting shot!”

Dolly laughed at her. “Why, Mama, you old hypocrite! Papa and Darrell won't be soldiers any more than Uncle Tony will! You know that! And as for anything happening to anybody—you know perfectly well you always kind of enjoy it when people have troubles!”

“Dolly Streean!”

“Well, you do! So do I! Oh, of course I'll weep and sympathize just the way you will; but it's going to be fun, just the same!”

“Dolly, you hush!” Yet she wished to see Burr and Vesta, to spy out the secret terror in their eyes. “Let's walk over to Aunt Cinda's. I want to ask the children to Sunday dinner.”

They found Vesta alone. “Burr just came home long enough to tell us the news,” she explained. “Then he rushed off again.” She said wistfully: “I wish Mama was here.”

“There, dear, we'll take care of you,” Tilda promised.

“Oh I'm all right,” Vesta assured her. “But I know how wretched Mama will be. She's been dreading it so. Clayton and Burr and Papa will all be in the army; and maybe even Julian. He's sixteen. But I hope not. If Mama can just keep him at home—–”

“Now, now, you don't need to worry, Vesta. Everyone says the North won't fight, and if they do we'll beat them easily. Why, by summer it will all be settled. I'm sure of that.”

Dolly cried: “And it's going to be such fun, Vesta, with all the men in uniform, and parties and things all the time. I think it's terribly exciting!”

Vesta smiled ruefully. “I guess I don't want to be excited!'

“Oh, I do! I love it when everyone's so biggitty and dressed up and brave! Remember two years ago, when they unveiled Washington's statue and the cadets came from Lexington and drilled and paraded and everything. Honestly, I was so excited I nearly died! And then
when they brought President Monroe's body home, and there were just thousands of soldiers everywhere. I just love soldiers! It's going to be wonderful—'specially for young ladies!”

“Well, I wish I were an old married woman, that's what I wish!” Vesta's face for a moment set in firm lines.

“But, darling!” Dolly protested. “You'd miss all the excitement! You know as well as I do, once you're married nobody ever looks at you!”

“I wouldn't mind a bit—if I were married,” Vesta declared; and Tilda said in an approving tone:

“You're quite right, darling! I know I'll never be happy till Dolly marries and settles down! But she has so many beaux, I doubt if she'll ever really decide on one.”

Vesta smiled. “Well, of course they don't besiege me the way they do Dolly. I'll probably end up an old maid!” And she added: “I think Burr's gone right now to ask Barbara Pierce. He's asked her often enough already; but this time I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she took him.”

“If she has a grain of sense she will,” Tilda agreed. “Burr's a wonderful young man.”

“If she has a grain of sense she'll stay the way she is,” Dolly insisted.

Vesta did not argue the point. Tilda said they must go; and when they left, Dolly insisted that they walk as far as the Capitol, and they did so. Dolly as always attracted every young man's eye, but though they bowed, or exchanged with her and with Tilda a courteous word, they quickly turned back to masculine company again. Dolly, finding herself for once almost ignored, turned pink with indignation, and it was she who suggested going home.

 

Long after she was abed, Tilda could still hear as a distant hoarse murmur the voice of the excited city. She woke to the hush of early morning and lay wondering what the day would bring; but she did not venture out till afternoon, when the thunder of cannon fire announced Sumter's fall. Then Dolly's eagerness swept aside her reluctance, and they hurried to join the excited throng on Franklin Street and Main and around the Capitol. The deafening cannon, the clanging of the bells, the shouts of joy and the bursts of song infected them
all. Tilda shared the general madness, forgetting time and place, feeling herself no longer alone but one with all these others, intoxicated by this unaccustomed sense of oneness with the world in which all her life she had been an outsider. When a pack of small boys swept by, their shrill voices raising huzzas for Beauregard, hoorays for the Confederacy, damnation on old Abe Lincoln, she shouted as loud as any of them; till in the pack and press of the crowd she became confused and half frightened, and—for once overruling Dolly—she insisted that they all go home.

But the bells still rang in every steeple; and even indoors they could feel the pounding pulse of triumph which beat out the song of victory. Tilda's head began to ache; she went to bed, leaving Dolly watching from the windows the brightness against the night sky and listening to the steady and persistent peal of bells.

Still wide awake, Tilda turned and twisted helplessly. To be alone was frightening; she wished Redford were here, or Darrell. But Darrell was at Chimneys with Tony, and Redford had not come home last night or the night before. She had taught herself long ago to ignore his frequent absences.

She could not sleep, and after wakeful hours she rose and took a candle and went to Dolly's room. To find the bed empty and Dolly gone was terrifying; but while first panic still beset her she heard the street door open, heard Dolly's cautious: “Good night, sir, and thank you!” Candle in hand Tilda hurried to the stair head, called down into the darkness below:

“Dolly Streean, where have you been?” Then as Dolly, ascending, came into candlelight: “Oh, Dolly, how could you?”

For Dolly wore a discarded suit of Darrell's, a suit in the fashion that had appeared two or three years before. The double-breasted jacket reached just below her waist, the wide-topped trousers narrowed to the ankles. Her heavy hair was tucked into a Scotch cap; and even in this first moment of horrified disapproval Tilda thought how beautiful she was! The girl tugged off the cap, and her hair cascaded down around her shoulders, rippling richly in the candlelight. She threw it back from her face with a shake of her head and laughed at her mother's tone.

“Oh, I couldn't stay indoors with so much happening, Mama! And
I couldn't go out in hoops, now could I? So I just did the sensible thing!” She brushed past her mother into her own room, and Tilda followed her, crying reproachfully:

“But, Dolly, if anyone saw you—–”

“Heavens, thousands of people saw me!”

“Did they know you, Dolly? The disgrace—–”

“Now, Mama, don't worry! No one paid me the slightest attention. I kept the cap pulled down; and the coat was too big for me even across the front, and the trousers are almost as wide as hoops anyway! Oh, it was a lark, Mama! I even marched in the procession, helped carry a banner! But of course I was careful to keep away from the torches! There, darling, don't be cross! No one knew who I was!”

Tilda tried to hold a reprobating tone; but—Dolly was so beautiful, and so audacious! She herself would never thus have dared; yet she could wish she dared. Dolly's recklessness was like an emancipation for her too.

“Banners? Torches?” she echoed.

“Oh, it was wonderful, Mama! We marched and marched and sang
Dixie Land and The Bonnie Blue Flag
and cheered ourselves hoarse —only I didn't sing or cheer for fear someone would notice my voice. We stopped in front of the
Enquirer
office and Captain Wise made a speech for us. I think he's marvelous! He's so handsome, and so brave! He said Virginia would never allow that old Lincoln to crush her beloved sister states and that if the Convention didn't do something quickly the people would take action. He said we'd bring Governor Letcher and the other Unionists to their senses, and we all just cheered and cheered, and then we marched some more.” She laughed softly. “But then the procession began to break up, and some men were passing a bottle around, and they offered it to me, and when I refused, my voice gave me away; so one of them escorted me home—–”

“Who was he?”

“I don't know, but he was a gentleman, nice as he could be.” And she cried: “Oh, it was such fun, Mama! I'll bet you wish you'd been there!”

“Nonsense! It was a perfectly scandalous thing to do! Goodness knows I've tried to bring you up properly——”

“Oh, Mama, you can't fool me! You're always meek as a mouse,
but that's just because Papa scares you! You'd like to do all sorts of things, if you only dared!”

“Don't be absurd!”

“I love to be absurd, and bold, and do things I shouldn't!”

“Dolly Streean!”

“Well, I do! Didn't you, when you were my age? Flirt and carry on and everything? I'll bet you did! If you hadn't, you wouldn't be so prim and proper now!”

“I always behaved as a young lady should, I assure you.”

Dolly said teasingly: “Really, Mama? Well, then you certainly missed a lot of fun!”

There was so much truth in this that Tilda, for once exasperated beyond control, slapped the girl sharply on the cheek. “Be still! You're a perfect little hussy! Go along to bed! I blush for you.”

Dolly laughed, more amused than hurt. She drew Darrell's jacket snug around her slim waist. “It's becoming, isn't it, Mama? What a pity it was too dark for anyone to see me! Good night!” She sped away up the stairs.

“Good night!” Tilda's tone was still angry as she went out and shut the door. But alone in her room again she half smiled, pressed her hands to her cheeks. Oh, Dolly would break many a heart before she was done!

 

Vesta and Burr came to Sunday dinner; but soon afterward Burr excused himself, pleading an engagement. “I can guess who,” Dolly told him laughingly; and when his color rose she cried: “There, I told you!” And in pretty wistfulness: “If you weren't my own cousin I'd never let her have you. I've always been desperately in love with you myself, you know!”