House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  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——”

  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.

  Hush Miss Betsy, don’ you cry.

  Sweetheart comin’ by and by.

  When he comes he’ll come in blue

  Tuh let you know his lub am true.

  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. Eade
r, 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!”

  9

  May, 1860

  CLAYTON 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 re
ached 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: