House Divided (97 page)

“I didn't know you were in Richmond, Uncle Faunt.”

“I'm returning to duty tomorrow.” Faunt was surprised by his own words. Why need he go? The reason was obscure; yet he could not stay hiding here with Nell now that Darrell knew.

“Dolly saw Aunt Cinda at church today,” Darrell reported. “But she didn't speak of having seen you.” Faunt hesitated and Darrell chuckled and added: “Aunt Cinda didn't mention anything, in fact, except her new grandchild. Dolly went to admire it this afternoon, says it's a marvelous baby, looks just like Vesta.”

Vesta? Faunt felt a quick gladness for her, and a deep wonder too. It seemed to him that years had passed since that night at Williamsburg when Vesta's Tommy died. Was it really so short a time, this eternity since his own fine and gentle life had shattered into ugly shards? For a while he did not listen to Darrell and to Nell. He was remembering that night at Great Oak when Tilda read those letters by the light from the tall candle stand. He felt again the sick and furious despair, the madness of that moment when he put the old house to the torch. That madness had been a part of his life since then; a life of secret ambush and treachery and any ruthlessness to kill, kill, kill. His only respite came in these intervals of fine content which he had spent with Nell.

He remembered, as though it were a stranger whom he recalled, himself as he had been till that night last spring. In a brief instant of limpid clarity he was that other man again; he saw through the eyes of the man he then had been, the man he had now become. To think of Vesta, and of her brave love for Tommy Cloyd, come now at last to sweet fulfillment, filled him with despair and shame.

In self-defense he tried to attend to what Nell and Darrell were saying, to forget himself in listening to them; but during the hour that followed he said little, till at last Darrell rose to go.

“If you were anyone else, sir, I'd sit you out,” the young man said smilingly. “A moment alone with Mrs. Albion is worth a long vigil. But I give way to your years.” He said good night. “I expect to be in New Orleans for a while, Mrs. Albion; but I hope you'll tell Milly to
admit me when I call again.” To Faunt: “I'll tell no one you're in town, sir; leave to you the happiness of surprising them.”

 

Nell went down with him to the door, and while she was gone Faunt moved restlessly to and fro. He met her as she returned and she said understandingly: “I'm sorry.”

“No help for it. And no harm, I'm sure.”

“He loves mischief.” Her tone was concerned.

“He's a bold young man,” Faunt assented. “But he knows the wisdom of discretion, too. And he values his skin, as all these skulking bombproofs do.”

“But you must go.” It was not even a question, and he was grateful to her for understanding.

“Yes. Not because of him; but I must go. I should have gone before.”

“I wish you needn't. I hate that cough of yours.”

He smiled. “I'll be over it with the first fine days of spring.”

She looked at him long. “Will you go tonight?” she asked, shaken and still. Faunt came to her, drew her gently close.

“Not till tomorrow, Nell, no,” he said, as though in comforting. “Not till tomorrow.”

Next morning she bade him good-by. “Be bold, be brave, be careful,” she told him. “And—come when you can.” His horse was at the gate. When he was mounted he looked back, saw her standing in the open door, raised his hat to her as he rode away.

His puzzled thoughts rode with him. Why had Darrell's coming made him sure that he must stay no longer? Why, because Darrell knew or surely guessed the truth about him and Nell, must he now leave her? Because of Vesta and that baby of hers; that babbling baby whose father, months ago, the worms had eaten? What had that baby to do with him; or for that matter what had dead Tommy Cloyd to do with him? Tommy Cloyd was no more now than a rack of bare bones, like those Faunt had seen naked to the rain on the hill above Gaines' Mill in the interval of his delirium. Why consider Tommy Cloyd? Or his baby? Or Vesta? What had she to do with him? She was not alone in having lost a husband and borne a son! What was
this urgency which made him turn from Nell and all her breathless ardors and her soft assuagements; to hasten back to the fierce hot surcease of hard battle hours?

He found no answer. He wished to ride directly out of Richmond, to thrust his horse along the northward road, to put all the dream-soft ways of peace behind. But Darrell might tell Cinda he was here. He must show himself to her. Yet to force himself to Cinda's door was a braver thing and harder than a headlong gallop into blazing cannon fire.

Old Caesar opened to him, welcomed him, would tend his horse; Faunt went alone into the hall. The house seemed empty till he heard voices abovestairs; and he climbed those stairs and came to the door of the room where Vesta lay pale and smiling in her great bed, her head turned toward those who clustered with tender cries about the crib-side. Standing in the doorway unperceived, Faunt watched them: Cinda and old June beaming together, and Tilda and Dolly, and Enid. Then Vesta saw him and cried out in happy greeting. “Oh Uncle Faunt!” Her arms reached out to him, and he went to her; but when he was about to kiss her lips, in a bitter revulsion he remembered Nell and kissed her fingertips instead. Enid clasped him, with too generous kisses, so that he was uneasy and embarrassed. As she released him he saw her quick glance at Cinda. Dolly's kiss was as ardent as Enid's. What was this thing in some women and not in others—this abandonment, this offering of surrender? How easily it was recognized, how hard to put a name to it! Listening to their happy greetings and their eager questions, he thought it easy to put each in her proper category. Cinda and Vesta, though Vesta had been Tommy's wife for only a short week, were wives. They had lost themselves in their love for fine men, and in losing themselves they had found something greater than they lost, something rich and strong and beautiful. Tilda was a wife too; but not as they were. They had bestowed; Tilda had given nothing, had envied everything. For that matter, so was Enid a wife; but neither she nor Tilda had earned this fine estate of wifehood which made Cinda and Vesta, otherwise so plain, in fact so beautiful.

He turned back to Vesta; he dutifully admired the baby; he tried to say to Vesta what his heart wished her to know. But from the others,
except Cinda, he was anxious to escape. “I must see Mama for a moment. Where is she?”

“Downstairs,” Cinda said. “Going up and down stairs is hard for her nowadays, so we've fixed a room for her down there.” Enid would have come down with them, but Cinda said: “No, you all stay here. Seeing too many people at once tires her.” She closed the door upon them. “I want you to myself, Faunt, for a moment,” she confessed. “Are you well? You look ill.”

“I have been, for a month,” he assented. “I've been staying with some friends in Ashland; just came down for an hour here before returning to duty.” He damned himself for that lie, and to hush her questions, questioned her. “I haven't seen you since July, but I know you brought Julian home. Where is he?”

“He's somewhere with Anne Tudor,” she said. Anne Tudor? That clear-eyed, lovely child who had ridden with them to Warrenton last summer, asking dear questions, hanging on his words. He had told her tales to delight her then, just as the Moor of Venice, that Negro not so black at heart as he, had bewitched poor Desdemona.

“Julian's fond of her?” he asked.

“He's in love with her.” Cinda added gravely, “Faunt, I think she'd be in love with him if she weren't still so fond of you.”

“You brought him home from Washington?” He spoke any word at all to lead her on to other matters.

“Yes. President Lincoln gave him back to me.” His eyes at that name struck hers like a blow, his anger leaping; but she said quietly: “I know how you've felt toward him, toward Mr. Lincoln, Faunt. But I saw him. He's a strange, sad, tender man.”

Faunt said grimly: “Let him be what you like.”

“I'm—I could be proud to call him kin.”

He heard the entreaty in her tones, and his jaw set in sullen defiance. He shook his head. “You think of him what you choose, Cinda. Let me do the same.”

“Your thoughts are poison, Faunt.”

“They're mine. Let's go to Mama.”

When they came to her room, Mrs. Currain sat in a low chair, and Trav's Lucy and young Peter were with her. Mrs. Currain was singing to them an old song Faunt remembered.

Then she saw them there in the doorway and broke off the song, and Faunt went to kiss her dry brow, and she said in bright pleasure:

“Dear Faunt! Ma ain lad!” She smiled, with misted eyes. “Eh but I was the proud one the day I named ye. Fauntleroy!
Enfant de le Roi
. The King's son!” But then, her head on one side, scanning his countenance: “Eh, you've been sick, Laddie.”

“I'm well now, Mama.”

“Are you then? Come let me look at you.” He leaned nearer and she said smilingly: “Nae, nae; on your knees then. I'm wee and sma' and old to see you so high in the sky. Come doon to me!”

So he knelt, and she took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes, and he remembered how she used to do this long ago when he was small, shaking his head to and fro with her hands in loving chiding, saying, “Have ye been a good lad, Faunt? Tell me true now.” He had never been able to deceive her then. Could he today?

She was smiling, but her smile passed; her eyes searched his long. He felt a thrust of panic in him, and wished to escape this scrutiny and could not; and she whispered: “Ye've changed, Lad.” And after a moment she repeated: “Aye, ye have changed.” She released him, but for a moment he did not rise, and she wagged her head and whispered sorrowfully: “Aye, ye've changed sore.”

Faunt stood up. “It's this beard!” He found his breath short, coughed. Cinda said quietly:

“We've all changed, Mama. These are changing times.”

“It's ne‘er the times that change; it's the people that live in them.” The old head nodded. “There's a wide ditch to every run, and a high fence too, or so your father used to say; but you can size a man by the way he takes the high fence.” Her arm circled Lucy who stood now beside her; and she began to sing:

Cinda said wonderingly: “I've never heard that verse, Mama.

Mrs. Currain cocked her head; her eye had a slant of mirth. “There's mony anither,” she retorted; and she sang:

Cinda spoke in tender protest. “Shame, Mama! Such songs for children's ears! Or for mine either! I'm surprised at you!”

Mrs. Currain seemed small in her chair; she looked up at Faunt. “Aye, Lad,” she repeated, as though Cinda had not spoken. “Aye, ye're sore changed.”

Faunt swung miserably toward the door. He heard Cinda behind him, on his heels, catching him in the hall. “Faunt! Please! Don't mind her!”

“She's right,” he said thickly. “She's right, Cinda! God help me, yes. I'm—sore changed!”

“Faunt dear!”

He said: “She's changed too, Cinda. I never heard the old way of talk on her tongue so plain before.”

“She's older every day,” Cinda assented. “It comes back on her. Faunt, will you stay——”

He shook his head, caught up his hat, went strongly toward the door. Caesar had put a black boy to hold his horse there. “Good-by, Cinda.” He dared not linger, did not trust his voice. She kissed him; he swung into the saddle. As Nell had done, Cinda stood in the door to watch him ride away.

 

He meant to put this place and these dear loved ones all behind him; but chance led him to encounter Anne Tudor and Julian. Riding out Grace Street to take the Brooke Turnpike, he saw them a block ahead, strolling slowly. Julian's crutches told Faunt even at a distance who they were, and his first thought was to turn aside, to avoid them. But then he remembered Cinda's word: “—if she weren't still so fond
of you.” That might be mended. At a foot pace he overtook them, and when they turned he called:

“Why, hello there! Anne! Julian! Is that ever you?” He laughed. “Well, Julian, the Yankees gave you a pruning, didn't they?” Julian grinned; but Anne, whose eyes at first sight of Faunt had flooded with delight, now sobered in puzzlement; and Faunt saw this, and marked their silences. “Eh? Cat got your tongues?”

“Hello, Uncle Faunt.” Julian was at ease, but Faunt felt Anne watching him, and he spoke to her in rude teasing.

“Anne, it was hardly worth that long trip to Washington to bring back three-quarters of a sweetheart, was it?”

She flushed with angry tears; but Julian touched her arm. “He's funning, Anne.”

“It's not funny!” she cried.

Faunt threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Ho! If you're sweet on a one-legged man you'll have to learn to laugh at things—eh Julian? Won't she?”

Julian still managed to grin. “Yes sir. That's so, all right!” And to Anne, pleading with her to smile: “Remember our song, Anne? ‘Johnny, were you drunk? Johnny, were you——' ”

“Stop it!” Anne was watching Faunt with the wounded eyes of a child who has been inexplicably slapped by someone loved and trusted; and Faunt's heart twisted with pain. Yet it was this he had intended; he drove home the hurt.

“Didn't even leave you enough of a stump to strap a wooden leg to, did they, youngster? You'll have to turn centaur, join the cavalry. That one leg of yours is long enough to wrap clear around a horse!” By Julian's pale cheek, by Anne's tragic eyes he knew he had done enough, had said enough. She would turn to Julian now. With a sharp twitch on the reins, heels driven home, he made his horse bound, and reined it to a trot; and as he rode away he sang over his shoulder: