House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  “Now you needn’t fuss, Mama!” she said fondly. “There you are and there you stay, till time to get dressed for the wedding tomorrow.”

  Enid had come upstairs with them, and when they left Mrs. Currain she said: “Mama’s so excited she doesn’t realize how tired she is. She’s awful cute! Coming into Richmond there were camps and soldiers and things everywhere but she just pretended not to see anything.”

  “I wish I could make it all vanish as easily as that,” Cinda confessed. “I hope she can have a little nap. I’ll look in on her after a while.”

  “Maybe I’d better,” Enid suggested. “She’s used to me, you know.” Cinda felt an amused resentment. As if Mama wasn’t used to her, her own daughter, too! When a little later Tilda and Dolly came in, and Dolly began to discuss the lovely gown she meant to wear to the wedding, Cinda drew Tilda away, and they went to Mrs. Currain’s room and found her awake and happy to be with them. Yet Enid’s word still stayed in Cinda’s mind, and she could not resist angling for reassurance.

  “Enid’s a sweet little thing, isn’t she, Mama? I’m so glad she’s at Great Oak with you.”

  “She couldn’t be nicer to me if I were her own mother.”

  Tilda said: “Her own mother’s living in Richmond now. Mr. Streean says she was in Washington all winter, but she came back here in May.”

  “Really? I’ve never met her,” Mrs. Currain remarked. “Enid so often speaks of her. It will be pleasant to make her acquaintance.”

  Cinda felt something like consternation; she saw amusement in Tilda’s eye and knew Tilda realized her predicament. For it was a predicament; there could be no doubt of that! Her mother would never understand why Trav’s mother-in-law, living right here in Richmond, was not invited to the wedding. At least she would not understand without explanations that could not be given. For that matter, unless Enid knew the truth about her mother, she too would resent such an affront.

  And the wedding was tomorrow, so whatever was to be done must be done quickly! There was only one thing to do. Cinda rose hurriedly, stooped to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Mama, I hate to leave you, but I simply must go out for a little while.”

  Mrs. Currain said agreeably: “Why of course, Honey. I know you’ve a thousand things to do. I’ll have a good visit with Tilda while you’re gone.”

  Cinda left them, and told Caesar to bid Diamond bring the carriage around, and hurriedly made herself ready to go and do her duty by Mrs. Albion. Once decided on this step she began to feel a lively interest in the approaching encounter. At Trav’s wedding she had thought Mrs. Albion silly and affected, but since then the woman had been for ten years, though in a fashion so discreet that almost no one guessed it, Tony’s—well! Cinda knew Tony well enough to realize that only a gifted woman could have held his interest so long. Of course, it had been worth Mrs. Albion’s while! Brett had sometimes amused himself and Cinda by trying to calculate how much money Tony spent on his fancy.

  “Much more than you’ve ever spent on me, Mr. Dewain,” Cinda used to say. “Perhaps I should never have married you at all; it might have been more profitable.”

  There could be no doubt that Mrs. Albion was an unusual woman. Would she be offended by a call at this unconventional hour? Possibly, or possibly she would be maliciously amused. Nevertheless she must be faced.

  Cinda had always felt a lively curiosity about this scandal in the family, and she had long ago made Brett drive her past the house Tony had bought for his light-of-love. It was out in the country a mile or so, on Monroe Street toward the river and discreetly remote from any near neighbors; an attractive little brick house with two chimneys in the gable end and a small front porch, set back from the street with a fenced yard. Today she told Diamond where to go. “I’ll point out the house when we come to it.” When at her direction he pulled up at the gate, she saw his shiny black countenance clouded with disapproval. Was there anything the people did not know about white folks’ doings? She felt her heart pound as she went up the walk and tugged the bell.

  A neat young colored woman admitted her, said Mrs. Albion was at home, ushered her into the small drawing room. Cinda, during the few minutes she waited, approved all she saw. The little house was as attractive inside as out, with high-ceiled rooms and a delicately carved mantel, and a graceful stair with a light rail; and there was a charming raised pattern on the plaster. The furnishings were not so attractive as her own, of course; severely old-fashioned mahogany except for one straight-legged tiptop table with an inlay of white mahogany to relieve its plainness. There were no little ornaments to brighten the room, unless you counted the fresh-cut flowers in a tall vase; no pretty wax fruit with red apples and purple grapes and yellow pears making a charming spot of color; no pattern in the severe carpet; no pictures on the walls except for two steel engravings, the sort of thing Mama had at Great Oak. But at least everything was dusted, and the room was as neat as wax. Cinda had somehow expected to find in this den of iniquity a garish splendor, and when in a surprisingly short time she heard a step descending the stairs, she looked toward the door in the liveliest curiosity.

  Why, Mrs. Albion was lovely, even more beautiful than Enid, yet in a gentle fashion that seemed to arise out of some inner grace. Her smile was not too cordial, her greeting was composed, her voice made you like her at once. She was so exquisitely neat that Cinda felt large and fat and clumsy; and she had an uneasy fear that at any moment she might flounder into something, knock something over. She regained her chair with as much relief as though it were a safe harbor after a stormy voyage.

  Mrs. Albion seemed to find nothing surprising in this call; but Cinda, while they exchanged polite commonplaces, began to feel increasingly flurried and confused.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?” she said anxiously at last.

  Mrs. Albion smiled. “I think I know,” she replied. Cinda was too surprised at this answer to speak. “You’ve suddenly realized that not to invite me to your son’s wedding might hurt Enid, but you’re too kindly to be willing to do that. So—you came to me.”

  Cinda sighed with relief. “Well, there!” she exclaimed, and she confessed: “You’re right, of course.”

  The other said frankly: “I don’t want to embarrass you, Mrs. Dewain. Of course I can’t come to the wedding without some awkwardness for both of us; but I will tell Enid you invited me, and that a temporary indisposition—a headache, something of that useful sort—will make it impossible for me to come. I’m sure that will serve.”

  Cinda hesitated, astonished at herself. “I always knew you must be a remarkable woman,” she said, and added smilingly: “I’ll tell you just what happened. My mother’s very fond of Enid, and when she heard you were in Richmond she said she was looking forward to meeting you. I hadn’t thought of you at all. I suppose I came to throw myself on your mercy. But now—” There was a sudden honest liking in her tones. “Now I hope you will come.”

  Mrs. Albion’s eyes softened. “I believe you do,” she said gratefully. “I believe you mean that, and I don’t believe you’d even allow yourself later to regret the impulse. But I will not come.” She explained: “You and I are worlds apart—and we always will be. I accepted that, years ago. You owe me nothing, and I claim nothing from you. Between us we must be careful not to hurt Enid. That is all.”

  She rose in what was obviously polite dismissal, so Cinda too stood up. “But I’m coming to see you again,” she declared. Mrs. Albion smiled. “Have you seen—Tony recently?” Cinda asked. The other did not reply. “He’s changed—for the better,” Cinda told her. “We’re all rather proud of him. I’ve often thought he should have married years ago.”

  Mrs. Albion said quietly: “You’re generous, and you mean to be kind, Mrs. Dewain. I’m glad you came. But—we both know that you will never come again.”

  Driving homeward, Cinda found herself for some reason close to tears. “Why, I wish to Heaven she was Tony’s wife,” she thought. “I really do!” And wit
h some spiteful vehemence: “I wish to Heaven Enid was more like her!”

  Clayton appeared just in time for supper, and Tony and Julian came well before noon next day. At the last possible moment, when the carriages were already at the door, here was Faunt too! There was not even time for questions; time only for quick happiness of greeting, kisses in the hall—Cinda saw that Enid clung to Faunt till he freed himself—before they must depart for St. Paul’s, for the brief hush of the ceremony there.

  That was perfect, to be sure. Julian and Anne Tudor—Judge Tudor was Mrs. Pierce’s brother—led the half dozen couples who marched arm in arm ahead of Barbara and Burr to the chancel; and when they appeared Cinda thought Julian with Anne on his arm looked happy enough to be a bridegroom himself. Barbara wore a wide-hooped gown cut square across the shoulders and finished off with a bertha of delicate old lace, her hands almost hidden by the deep lace fall on her short gloves. Her dark hair was stiffened with bandoline and laid sleekly back and divided into many strands woven smoothly into wide braids which passed from ear to ear across her nape. Her veil was of point lace seeded with pearls, and her wreath and bouquet were of wild hyacinths. Burr stood tall and handsome in his fine new uniform, and both of them seemed to shine.

  Cinda dutifully shed a tear as one always did, at weddings, but the sadness in her was too deep for tears. This was marriage, two people into one, to be one forever. Yet—how long was forever? How long would it be till a leaden ball, a solid shot, a bursting shell tore life out of that dear body that was Burr? “Forever” was—how long? A day, a week, a month, a year? In the world, in all the universe, this meeting and mating of man and woman was the epitome of everything, the whole in miniature. Life in these two was a welling spring, a spring from which other lives would flow.

  Unless death intervened.

  Cinda shook her head, fiercely banishing her dark thoughts. There must be no shadow on this merry hour before Burr and Barbara rode away.

  The church had been crowded; so was the Pierce home afterward. Cinda thought Anne Tudor was the loveliest person there; and Julian was forever at the girl’s side. Cinda smiled to watch them, but she saw that Anne’s eyes followed Faunt everywhere and hoped that for Julian no heartache was preparing. Tilda joined her, and saw her looking at Anne, and said: “Lovely, isn’t she. If Darrell had known she would be here, he’d have come back from North Carolina to see her. She made a conquest, at Great Oak last Christmas.” Cinda said nothing, but she was glad Darrell had not come.

  Dolly, flanked as she always was by admiring beaux, shared with Barbara the center of the stage. When Barbara presently disappeared to dress for her journey, in the group around Dolly suddenly a laughing insistence rose, and Cinda saw that Dolly was being urged to do something or other, and was protesting and yet yielding too; till at last young Randolph Carter called for silence and announced that Miss Streean would recite for them a certain fable. Dolly protested: “Oh, really, I can’t! It’s so silly! And you’ve all heard it anyway!” But everyone cried that she must go on, go on; and with many reluctances she surrendered.

  “Well, it goes like this.” She cleared her throat in a pompous way that made them laugh, and so began.

  “‘Once upon a time, when it was the custom of the beasts and birds of the United States of North America to elect a King to reign over them, it so happened that an ugly and ferocious old Orang Outang from the wilds of Illinois—–’”

  Her tone was so eloquently scornful that they all laughed again, and even Cinda smiled. The minx was charming; no doubt of that.

  “‘—from the wilds of Illinois,’” Dolly repeated, raising her voice a little to silence them, “‘who was known by the name of Old Abe, was chosen King.’”

  Someone said hoarsely: “Down with him!” But Dolly hushed them with a pretty gesture and went on.

  “‘This election created a great disturbance in the Southern states, for the beasts in that part of the country had imported from Africa a large number of black Monkeys, and had made slaves of them, and Old Abe had declared that this was an indignity offered to his family—–’”

  “Hurrah for old Abe’s family!” That was young Jack Haven, one of Burr’s comrades.

  “‘To his family,’” Dolly patiently repeated, “‘that Monkey slavery was the sum of all villainies, and that when he became King he intended to abolish Monkey slavery throughout all his dominions. So the States lying on the Gulf of Mexico, where the beasts were very independent and ferocious, declared that no Orang Outang should be King over them, and when Old Abe heard that the Gulf States would not acknowledge him to be their King he flourished his great war-club over his head, and swore by his whiskers that he would whip them back into the Union. He accordingly collected a great army of Bloodhounds, Jackals, Vultures, and runaway Monkeys, and placed them under command of a notorious old Turkey Cock named Fuss-and-Feathers.’” Laughing hisses ran around the room, for General Scott was held to be a recreant and a traitor to the South; but Cinda did not laugh. This pseudo fable which Mr. Daniel had published in the Examiner last March had never seemed to her amusing. Dolly went on:

  “‘At this time the Boar of Rockbridge, who was supposed to be a lineal descendant of David’s Sow, and was notorious for the amount of swill that he could consume—–’”

  But then here was Barbara! Cinda welcomed the interruption, for certainly if Governor Letcher had been mistaken in opposing secession he had since played a valiant part. Barbara came down the stairs, and Dolly was forgotten as everyone thronged to see the bride depart.

  When Burr and Barbara were gone away to the Valley where Burr would rejoin his regiment, and where Barbara would lodge with relatives at Staunton and be near him, Cinda was glad to go home, to be once more alone with her own. They were all here save Burr, all these loved men: Brett, and Clayton beside his Jenny; Julian, that infant, that child, a little silent as though still dreaming of Anne Tudor; Tony, tall and straight, a new pride in his bearing; Travis, the only one of them not yet a soldier; Faunt. Cinda thought Faunt had lost weight; he had seen more of camp life than these others. What a pity Tommy Cloyd could not have come for the wedding! Vesta had missed him so. But Tommy had taken his soldiering very seriously; he had sent word that he could not leave the camp at Manassas.

  The dinner table had been extended to accommodate them all, and the talk ran to and fro; but beneath the general chorus Cinda heard Faunt and Trav talking about the people whom Faunt had sent from Belle Vue to Great Oak. Only a half dozen of the men had been willing to accept the freedom he offered them. “Big Martha—she’s been my cook and the mistress of the house for years—says she and Zeke will stay at Belle Vue, Yankees or no Yankees. Sam, their son, went with me to Western Virginia.” He smiled. “Martha says if he lets anything happen to me she’ll skin him alive.” The Negroes who wished to do so, he said, had started for Alexandria. “I gave each one of them a mule and a bag of corn and some pork and sent them off. Those who wanted to stay with us I told to go to Great Oak.”

  Trav said if the Yankees got that far, it would be necessary to move everyone away to Chimneys or the Plains; and Cinda felt something tighten in her breast. Yankees come to Great Oak? Surely that could never happen! To close her mind and her heart against the dreadful thought she interrupted them, asked Faunt some empty question. The Blues had been in camp at Fredericksburg from late April till mid-June. “Mostly drilling,” Faunt said, answering her. “We took time to celebrate the company’s sixty-eighth anniversary; and we made a famous double-quick march to Acquia Creek, four miles in twenty-four minutes, when someone reported Yankees landing. But we’ve been in Western Virginia these two weeks. I’ll rejoin them there.”

  When dinner was done they moved into the drawing room. Jenny and Clayton, since her baby was scarce a month away, went upstairs so that she might rest; but everyone else grouped around Mrs. Currain and paid affectionate court to her. Above their voices Cinda heard the door bell and she heard Caesar go to answer; and she thoug
ht resentfully that this was probably Tilda and Mrs. Streean! Surely none of their friends would intrude upon them in this hour. But when Caesar came to the door and caught Brett’s eye he said:

  “Major Longstreet wishes to pay his respects, suh, if you all is not too much engaged.”

  Brett sprang to his feet with a quick word of pleasure; and Cinda, as glad as he, followed him into the hall. She had not seen Major Longstreet since his wedding at Judge Garland’s home in Lynchburg years ago. Then he was just back from Mexico; and this great brown-bearded man was not the youngster she remembered. But she cried out her welcome too, and kissed him; and his eyes twinkled.

  “Well, that was worth the journey, ma’am! And I’ve the answer to it, from Louisa.” He kissed her in turn, and she laughed.

  “Mercy, how rough your cheek is! Where is Louisa, Major?”

  But Brett said in quick remonstrance: “Here, here, Cinda, give him time to catch his breath before you start your questions. Major, come in.”

  In the drawing room, Brett made introductions all around; and Longstreet had a word for each. To Mrs. Currain: “Ma’am, now at last I can understand your daughter’s charm.” To Enid he gave an appreciative bow. To Vesta he said: “I perceive that beauty can be twice inherited.” To Faunt: “I see you’ve been in the field, sir. I want to hear about that.” To Tony: “Sir.” To Trav: “Your servant, Mr. Currain.” And finally, to Julian: “Well, young man, you were in haste to serve your country!”

  “He and Tony and Brett were all at Bethel Church!” Cinda said proudly.

  “Bethel? Aha!” Major Longstreet’s eyes had a hint of mirth in them, but his tone was gravely congratulatory. “A great victory, gentlemen!”

  Cinda had waited long enough. “Now, Major, where’s Louisa?” she demanded.

  “I left my family at Fort Bliss, to come on more slowly,” he explained. “I expect they will visit for a while with my sisters and my mother in Macon on the way.”