House Divided (16 page)

Indoors they moved through the wide hall to the south veranda, Tilda carefully admiring all she saw while envy tortured her. Was she to spend her whole life oh-ing and ah-ing over other people's possessions? Below the veranda the garden terraces descended steeply into the ravine where the creek ran. Cherry myrtle trees had been trimmed to make massive hedges, each a series of arches. The terraces curved to follow the contour of the hillside, with ivy and smilax on the slopes, and gravel walks, and Tilda saw Cherokee roses and honeysuckle in rich bloom, and the air was sweet with warmly drifting fragrances, flowing up the sunned slope to them. To Dolly's delighted ejaculations, Vesta said lightly:

“Oh, that's partly honeysuckle you smell, but it's mostly just banana shrub and sweet shrub. They're so sweet they're sickening.”

She swept Dolly away, and Jenny said: “I'll show you to your room,
Aunt Tilda.” On the stairs she explained: “I'm putting you in the west wing, next to Mama. Dolly'll be in with Vesta, and Vesta's inviting some friends from town, so the east wing will be noisy. I thought you'd like to be quiet, more by yourself.”

The room was bright with the late sun; and Tilda said it was beautiful and she said Jenny was a dear to let her come, and to invite Dolly. “Dolly's always so popular wherever she goes. She'll have such a good time here.” Because she dreaded being left alone, she kept Jenny in talk while she removed the traces of her journey. “Aren't you awfully off by yourselves here?” she asked. “Vesta said most of the plantations are across the river.”

“They are,” Jenny agreed. “But our land is as good as theirs, and we don't have to worry about floods, or keep up a levee, and we're high enough to be away from the vapors in the low land.”

“What do you raise, rice and cotton?”

“Cotton, and corn of course, and we make some naval stores, but no rice. There are some rice fields on this side of the river down in Green Swamp, but not many.”

 

When Tilda was ready, they came down together to supper, sandwiches and cakes and fruit conserve and tea served on the little tables in the gracious drawing room. The visit at the Plains began delightfully and Tilda watched with happy pride Dolly's charming triumphs. The big house was presently as if besieged, young men from the plantations across the river riding over every day by twos and threes and fours. Vesta had, as Jenny promised, invited some of her friends to stay with her. “Dolly and I just simply can't entertain all these nice boys all by ourselves, Aunt Tilda,” she explained. So the rooms in the east wing were full; and whenever the young horsemen appeared, an appropriate number of lovely, merry girls would—after laughing, brief delays—come trooping down the wide stairs to greet them.

One morning Tilda, even from her room at the other end of the house, heard a welcome particularly vociferous; and she hurried down to discover the occasion. It was Burr who had arrived; Burr and a handsome, laughing youngster whom Cinda introduced to Tilda as Rollin Lyle.

“He's Burr's very best friend at college in Columbia,” she explained;
and in the same breath demanded: “But Burr, you scamp, what are you two doing here?”

Rollin Lyle, with a twinkle in his eye, protested: “Ma'am, how can you ask—when so many charming ladies——”

“Fiddlesticks! You can't catch this cat with butter! You two have been up to something!”

Burr grinned redly, but Rollin drawled: “Why, ma'am, young gentlemen can't bury themselves in books forever; so sometimes they play a little prank. Some rascal sprinkles hellebore in a recitation room to set us all sneezing, or rolls cannon balls down the stairs at midnight to spoil our sleep—they're usually hot enough so that the proctor who tries to pick them up drops them mighty quick——”

Cinda good-humoredly interrupted. “You've been rusticated, the pair of you,” she said accusingly. “Now what have you been up to? Burr, answer me!”

Burr hesitated. “Well, you see, there was a slaminade——”

Dolly cried: “Slaminade? Whatever's that, Burr?”

“Why, when one of the teachers makes himself unpopular—well, it's like a serenade, only not so musical, beating tin pans under his window, whooping and yelling, racing your horses past his house. It's all fun, but Old Bullet—”

“Who's Old Bullet?” Dolly was again the questioner.

“Judge Longstreet, the President,” Rollin explained, and Tilda saw him smile at Dolly. She thought him about the nicest-looking young man she had ever seen. What a picture he and Dolly were together! “We all call him Old Bullet.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” Cinda exclaimed. “He's a perfectly charming old gentleman.”

“Oh, we all like him,” Rollin assured her. “Like to call on him.” He smiled in faint apology. “It's fun to get him started talking about old songs, because he'll bring out his glass flute and play them for you; Indian tunes, and old Scotch ballads, and be so serious about it.”

“You scamp, making fun of him!”

Burr laughed. “I'm not so sure about that, Mama. I think half the time he's making fun of us, thinking how ridiculous it is for us to come and listen to an old gentleman toot on a flute. He can be stern and serious when he wants to. This last lark, he took it seriously
enough. He sent for us, one at a time, and asked if we knew who had a hand in the affair. Of course a lot of us did know—but of course none of us would tell him.” He looked at his mother, briefly abashed. “So he expelled about half the college. He said legally we were accessories and accomplices.”

Dolly cried in a charming indignation: “Why, that's the most ridiculous thing! Of course you wouldn't tell!” Tilda saw Cinda bite her lip, and then the young people moved away together, and Tilda said comfortingly:

“Don't be distressed, Cinda.”

“Oh, I'm not distressed! I'm just trying not to let Burr see me laughing. Why do teachers take themselves and their lessons so seriously?”

“Who is that charming Mr. Lyle?”

“Rollin? His father's Randolph Lyle, and Andrew Lyle was his grandfather. His mother was Martha Pettigrew. But there, you don't know South Carolina families, of course. Mr. Lyle's brother, Rollin's uncle, is our factor in Charleston. They have enormous rice fields near Georgetown. I've heard Rollin say his father has six or seven plantations, and they make hundreds of tierces of rice every year, when the rice birds don't eat it all before the harvest.”

Then Rollin would be wealthy, unless of course there were other brothers. “Have they a large family?”

“Oh, Rollin's a good catch,” Cinda said dryly, “if Dolly can land him. No, just one other son.”

Tilda flushed. “Well, I don't care! You're so rich you don't have to think of such things, but I do.”

Cinda smiled. “There, I'm sorry. But you're so transparent. Never mind. Dolly's having a good time, isn't she?”

There could be no doubt of this, and now with Burr and Rollin here and other young men and older ones appearing every day, the big house had few quiet hours. There were always extras for dinner and for supper. Jenny met calmly each demand upon her household, and Clayton was never too much occupied with the business of the plantation to play host. So the very air was musical with laughter, and each evening old Banquo brought his fiddle and there was the whisper of light dancing feet. Tilda, observing all that passed, saw that Vesta
had a devoted swain in Tommy Cloyd. He was forever at her side, or if chance parted them his eyes followed her. Tilda thought Vesta, homely as she was, would probably jump at the chance to marry this mooning, love-struck youngster. She was so full of curiosity about these two that one day she questioned Cinda. “Of course you've noticed it,” she said.

“Of course,” Cinda agreed. “Oh, and that reminds me, I must call on Mrs. Cloyd. We'll drive up there this morning.” On the way she told Tilda something about Tommy's mother. “She's a remarkable woman,” Cinda explained. “When Tommy's father died Mrs. Cloyd calmly took over the management of the plantation. It was a small place, and short of hands; and at first she used to be up at daylight, even working in the fields with her people. She gave up seeing her friends and some of them, the silly ones, turned against her; but I've always liked her. Don't be surprised at anything she does. I suppose it's sort of a defiant gesture, but she does exactly what she chooses.”

Before they reached the house, Mrs. Cloyd, mounted on an unkempt marsh pony, rode up beside them. Tilda saw a tall, vigorous woman with intensely black eyes under a mass of iron-gray hair and a voice as heavy as a man's and as compelling. Mrs. Cloyd insisted that they stay to dinner, and as soon as they reached the house she shouted orders to the servants and a great scurrying began. Then she settled herself with her guests and overpowered them with conversation.

“You'll just have to let me talk,” she declared. “I don't get many chances. Tommy's away half the time making sheep's eyes at your Vesta, Mrs. Dewain; so I mostly eat alone unless someone stops by. If they do, I keep them long enough to let me get some of the dammed-up words out of me.”

Tilda was startled by Mrs. Cloyd's sudden burst of almost masculine laughter. What in the world could Cinda see in such a woman? And what could Cinda be thinking of, to let such a woman's son pay attention to Vesta? She suffered through the hearty dinner of boiled salt pork and fried fresh pork and bacon and potatoes and hot breads, served on the plain board table in the gallery between the house and kitchen; and driving home afterward with Cinda she spoke her mind.

“That incredible creature! However do you stand her, Cinda?”

“I'm fond of her.”

“Eating as much as a man. And rubbing snuff in her gums with that stick afterward!”

“I rather like snuff myself.”

“But not in company. Why, Cinda, I didn't know such people existed!” Tilda's astonishment made her forget caution. “You surely wouldn't consider letting Vesta marry the son of a woman like her.”

“Nonsense! I've a high respect for her—and Vesta likes her. If Tommy has his share of her virtues, he'll turn out to be a fine man.” She added: “And there's the best blood in the county, on both sides. If Vesta does marry Tommy, I won't have to apologize to anyone whose opinion I value.”

Tilda bit her tongue, hurriedly made amends. “I'm sure she's wonderful, if you think so,” she agreed; but a malicious satisfaction still lay in her tones. “All the same, I'm glad Tommy isn't devoting himself to Dolly.”

Cinda smiled. “Why then, we're both satisfied,” she assented.

 

The bright days sped. Jenny planned charades and amateur theatricals; and when the moon came to be full, she arranged a picnic supper at Muster Spring. Cinda protested that there were springs just as cool and spots just as beautiful in the ravine up the creek and nearer home; but Dolly and Vesta agreed with Jenny that it was always more fun to go somewhere.

So when the day came, carriages, each overflowing with lovely girls, and each with its escort of horsemen, set out on the ten-mile drive, discreetly spaced to avoid the dust. Muster Spring boiled out of the slopes of Stony Hill, a little off the Columbia road, to form a pool ten feet wide and twice as long from which the overflow ran in a chuckling stream down to Green Swamp in the valley below.

Banquo, Jenny's major-domo, had gone ahead with the wagon loaded with picnic fare to make a platform for dancing, laying smooth planed boards on levelled ground, pegging the boards in place, spreading rugs and deer skins and cushions all around. When the first carriage arrived, he and other servants had cooking places built to boil coffee; and while the feast was preparing, the young people by twos and fours went wandering through the forest, exploring the ravine below the spring, or climbing Stony Hill to where in a lofty oak a
platform reached by a zigzagging stair wide enough for hoopskirts gave an outlook across the lands toward the river.

Tilda, seeing Dolly stroll away, her fingers intertwined with Vesta's, and with Tommy Cloyd and Rollin and another in attendance, sighed happily. How clever of Dolly to keep Vesta always near her! “Dolly's so friendly with everybody, isn't she?” she said to Cinda. “I like that Mr. Lyle.”

“Rollin's nice.” Cinda frowned, a faint line between her eyes. “But I can't say much for Mr. Eader.”

“Which one is he?”

“The old man with dyed hair, trying to edge in between Rollin and Dolly.” Cinda called Clayton to her side. “Clayton, did you ask Harry Eader?”

“No, Mama.” He added tolerantly: “But you know how he is.”

“I know he's ridiculous! Prancing around with these children. He's fifty if he's a day!”

Tilda said complacently: “It's the same wherever Dolly goes; all the men just simply make perfect fools of themselves!”

“Well, Harry Eader's no conquest to brag about,” Cinda assured her. She said uneasily to Clayton: “I wish he hadn't come.”

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Clayton promised. He moved away and Tilda asked:

“Why don't you like Mr. Eader, Cinda?”

“Oh, dozens of reasons! He mistreats his people, for one thing. He had one old man beaten to death a few years ago because he was too sick to work. And he's forever calling someone out on some ridiculous pretext. And he usually picks on boys!”

“Heavens! I hope he doesn't quarrel with anybody over Dolly!”

Cinda looked at her sharply. “You don't hope anything of the kind and you know it and so do I! You'd be tickled to death if he did! Tilda, don't make a fool of Dolly. She's so pretty she's apt to be spoiled.”

“Why, Cinda, Dolly can't help the way men act!” She said almost spitefully: “But I don't suppose men ever make idiots of themselves over Vesta, so you can't realize——”