House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  Because she could find no crevice in the armor of his silence, she revenged herself upon those who loved him. She had long since discovered that they were easy victims. Cinda obviously and at last openly resented her affection for Faunt; and she told herself that Cinda’s attitude was an insult not only to her but also to Faunt, and in a sort of defiance she thereafter let her liking for Faunt become more and more obvious. At the time of Hetty’s death, when she clung to Faunt, she saw Tilda’s avid interest, and one day at Great Oak she prodded Tony too into a self-betraying anger. So all of them—these kin-by-marriage whom she had wished to please and whose liking she coveted—thought her no better than a hussy!

  Well, they deserved to be punished for their thoughts; and if they were so ready to suspect shameful things about her, she would give them reason. What she felt for Faunt no longer mattered; it was what they thought she felt. From the day of Cinda’s outburst, Enid took every opportunity to provoke her. A week before that birthday which began to be in Enid’s eyes so important, Cinda came for a few days at Great Oak; and one evening when Mrs. Currain had gone for her after-dinner nap Cinda turned to her knitting and Enid asked her what she was making.

  “Socks,” Cinda told her. “I keep my menfolks supplied. You ought to make some for Travis.”

  “Don’t talk to me about Trav!” To criticize Trav always provoked Cinda, and that was fun.

  “I like to talk about him. I think Travis is mighty fine.”

  “Oh, is that so? Well, I guess you wouldn’t think he was so wonderful if he’d kept you shut up at Chimneys for years and years, and then here. He doesn’t care a snap of his fingers about me. Why should I knit socks for him!”

  She saw Cinda’s rising anger under hard control. “Travis loves you dearly, Enid!”

  Enid laughed. “Loves me my foot! If he loved me would he have kept Vigil nursing Hetty till she as good as killed her! Oh, I know why he did it, all right!” Her voice broke, and this was not pretense; she had always the faculty of believing her own words. “But what could I do?”

  Cinda said sharply. “Hush! I won’t listen to such idiotic talk! You’re no longer a child, Enid! Stop acting like one!”

  Enid’s eyes filled. “Oh, you’re all so mean to me!”

  “Well, try behaving yourself sensibly for a while!”

  “I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t please you no matter what I do! I want you all to love me, but you’re so cruel sometimes I just hate you! I hate Trav and you and all of you! None of you care a thing in the world about me!” She shook with sobs. “None of you except Faunt!”

  Cinda made an exasperated sound and Enid buried her face in her arms and Cinda caught her and shook her so violently that her hair fell around her shoulders, and Enid screamed and then Mrs. Currain spoke from the doorway.

  “Cinda! Enid! Whatever’s the matter?”

  Enid wept helplessly, and Cinda after a moment’s hesitation said: “Nothing. Enid’s working up a fit of hysterics, Mama! She’s just lonesome for Trav, but I had to bring her out of it somehow!”

  Mrs. Currain was not to be trifled with, so Enid took Cinda’s lead. “Oh, I miss him so!” she sobbed. “I miss him so!”

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Currain exclaimed. “So do I, for the matter of that; but I don’t start caterwauling like a swamp panther just because Trav had to go away on a business trip!”

  “It isn’t just a business trip,” Enid wailed. “It’s the stupid old——”

  “Of course it’s business!’ Mrs. Currain always silenced any reference to the war. “Do you think he’d leave the place with no one here but Big Mill to run it if it weren’t business? Now there!” She became swiftly tender and brusquely comforting. “Don’t let me hear any more of this!”

  Enid went gratefully into Mrs. Currain’s arms. “Oh, you’re always so sweet to me, Mama!” She clung to the little old woman, but she met Cinda’s eyes in malicious triumph. “I don’t know what I’d do without you!”

  Cinda caught up her knitting and walked out of the room, and Mrs. Currain made a small mirthful sound. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing you can do, child. Go fix your hair. You’re a sight. And bathe your eyes. There, run along with you.”

  Enid smiled bravely. “I do love you so!” She kissed Mrs. Currain’s cheek. “Be down in a minute, Honey,” she promised, and fled to her room.

  During the rest of Cinda’s stay, Enid took care not to be alone with her again; but in the immunity of Mrs. Currain’s company she spoke more than once of Faunt, poor Faunt, way off in Western Virginia goodness knew where. “I’ll be so glad when he comes home, won’t you, Mama?”

  “Of course, my dear.” Mrs. Currain ignored that reference to Western Virginia. “But Faunt’s happiest at Belle Vue. He doesn’t often come here, except for great occasions.”

  “I wish he would!” Enid declared. Cinda’s needles were flying, her cheek was red; and Enid thought Cinda ought to be ashamed of her own thoughts! “I should think he’d be so lonely there,” Enid urged. “Why doesn’t he find some nice girl and marry again?”

  Mrs. Currain made a smiling sound. “Faunt’s like a boy who’s been scolded,” she said wisely. “He enjoys being sorry for himself!”

  “Why, Mama, I think you’re horrid to talk so about your own children.”

  “Just because they’re my children doesn’t make me blind, my dear.” Cinda rose hurriedly and Mrs. Currain asked: “Where are you going, Honey?”

  “To get some more yarn!”

  Enid in secret glee thought Cinda’s abrupt departure was like flight. “Well, I don’t care, I think Faunt’s sweet,” she insisted, raising her voice so that Cinda would surely hear.

  After Cinda’s return to Richmond Enid missed her; for Mrs. Currain, absorbed in the daily routine of household management, was poor company. Enid’s birthday was only a long week away, but of course Trav would forget it as he always did, and so would everyone else. She hoped they would. Certainly she did not want to be reminded that she was thirty years old, her life behind her, nothing remaining except to sit in a chimney corner and watch others have a good time. She studied her countenance in the mirror and was almost sure she found a gray hair, and tweaked it out to see; but her hair was so light that she could not be sure. Loneliness beset her more and more, but she put aside what companionship she might have had, avoiding Mrs. Currain, avoiding Lucy and Peter, staying much in her room. She told Mrs. Currain her head ached, but when the little old lady accepted the statement and advised a piece of brown paper soaked in vinegar and left her to herself, Enid was hurt. If Mrs. Currain really wanted her company she would have said headaches were nonsense, bidden her wash her face and come on downstairs and forget all about it. Clearly Mrs. Currain wanted her to just stay in her room, keep out of the way. If I had any place to go, Enid thought miserably, I’d go away and not stay here and bother people; but I’ve no place to go, no home, no nothing that’s really my own!

  Her birthday dawned, and Cilly brought her breakfast and Enid asked how Mrs. Currain was and Cilly said she was fine. Enid ate breakfast alone, her eyes wet with tears. Probably no one would come near her all day. She planned to stay in her room till someone at least sent to find out if she were dead! But the day was so fine that she decided to dress and go out of doors. She could walk down to the river without annoying anyone! Perhaps if she just walked into the river and waded out till the water was deep and let herself drown they would be sorry they had treated her so. Her birthday—and no one paid the slightest attention! Well, let them forget if they chose. She certainly would not remind them, not till it was too late for them to do anything about it. She decided how she would remind them. In six days, Lucy would have a birthday. Tomorrow she would suggest to Mrs. Currain that they have a little party for Lucy; and she could say casually that she had always been sorry that she and Lucy did not have the same birthdays, since they were so close together, and then Mrs. Currain would be ashamed of her own forgetfulness. The old woman liked everyone to
make a fuss over her own birthdays, liked to have all the family together; but she was ready enough to forget that other people had birthdays, too.

  Enid walked down across the lawns to the bluff above the river and felt utterly lonely and wretched; and when she came in to dinner she was blind to Lucy’s exaggerated politeness, to Peter’s feverish excitement, to the lively amusement in Mrs. Currain’s eyes as she watched the children, to Uncle Josh’s beaming countenance when he brought in and set before Mrs. Currain the enormous covered tureen of English plate which was only used for family gatherings and state occasions.

  “Mercy, Mama; is that full, for just the four of us?” Enid protested.

  “Our first oysters of the season,” Mrs. Currain assented. “I always make a pig of myself the first time in the fall.” Peter, stifling some mysterious mirth, almost fell out of his chair, and Lucy told him for Heaven’s sake to behave, and Uncle Josh handed Mrs. Currain the ladle and lifted the silver cover, and Mrs. Currain threw up her hands in apparent dismay and exclaimed: “Law me, whatever is all this?”

  For the tureen was full of parcels wrapped and ribboned; and Peter screamed with delight, and Lucy jumped up to kiss her mother, and so did Peter, and Mrs. Currain smiled at them, and Enid began to cry and to laugh at the same time, and went to kiss Mrs. Currain. “Oh, Mama, you’re all so sweet to me!” And then suddenly there were steps in the hall and Brett and Tony and Julian came trooping in, broadly smiling, and Enid ran to throw herself into Brett’s arms, to kiss them all; and when they came back to the table it was miraculously larger, with new places set, and the tureen had to be emptied of its treasures and Enid to exclaim over each one, and the tureen disappeared and came back converted to its proper purpose, and Peter babbled with excitement, and Lucy watched her mother proudly, and Mrs. Currain said it was all Lucy’s doing.

  “She and I’ve been conspiring for days,” she confessed, and Lucy asked:

  “Are you happy, Mama?”

  “Oh, darling, I never was so happy in my life,” Enid laughed like a sob. “I’ve been dreading this birthday. I’m thirty today, you know; but now I don’t mind it a bit.”

  “I wish Papa was here,” Lucy confessed. “Then it would be just perfect, wouldn’t it?”

  “It couldn’t be nicer than it is, Honey. Not even with Papa here.” Yet Enid knew this was not true. Her heart hungered for him. Oh, they were so sweet, so sweet; and they did love her, after all!

  This was her hour, and there were toasts to be drunk, and speeches to be made, and a warm affection in the air; but the fine hour ended. Tony and Julian could only stay for dinner; Mrs. Currain never missed her afternoon nap; Peter had youthful business of his own. Brett would spend the night before departing at dawn for Richmond; but he went to consult with Big Mill. Only Lucy stayed by her mother’s side.

  “I wrote Papa to come if he could,” the girl said. “But I guess he didn’t get my letter or something.”

  “Probably he couldn’t leave, Honey.” Yet Enid thought guiltily that the way she had treated Trav when he was here a month ago would not make him want to come soon again. Poor Trav, it was so easy to make him miserable; but it was so easy to make him happy too! She would be a good and tender wife to him hereafter. This bright day had left her warm with drowsy content; the world was as languorously fragrant as a sun-baked meadow. She was full of good resolves.

  28

  October—December, 1861

  ONE day in October an incident occurred which Cinda at the time and afterward found completely puzzling. Mrs. Albion came to see her. Cinda was with Vesta and Jenny in the sewing room on the second floor, and they had been trying to guess how soon Faunt and his company would return to Richmond. General Wise had been recalled in September. His Legion was in large part his own creation, composed of volunteers he had raised in Western Virginia and stiffened by the Blues, of which Faunt was a member, and by Captain Cary’s company. But now General Wise was back in Richmond, and General Floyd, to whose command the Blues had been attached, said they were ill-disciplined and weakened by desertion. That word was an affront not only to them but to their mothers and wives and sweethearts here in Richmond; so everyone hoped they would come home to be welcomed by those who loved and appreciated them.

  Cinda was saying she had always despised General Floyd anyway when the bell rang and Caesar came up the stairs to announce in tones eloquent of his opinion of this caller that Mrs. Albion was in the drawing room. Cinda did not hesitate. “Please tell her I will be down at once,” she directed.

  He stalked away, profound disapproval in his bearing, and Vesta asked: “Who’s Mrs. Albion?”

  “Enid’s mother.”

  “Why, Mama!” Vesta’s surprise was manifest. “I didn’t know—” She laughed at herself. “Oh, of course I knew Aunt Enid must have a mother somewhere; but I never knew she was in Richmond. Why don’t we ever see her?”

  Cinda hesitated, uncertain what to say. There were some things you did not tell children, and she still thought of Vesta as a child. “I believe she lived in Washington till recently,” she said evasively, and met Jenny’s amused eye and felt herself red with confusion. “I must go right down.”

  Remembering Mrs. Albion’s perfection of toilet, she went to her room, touched her hair, decided she was at least halfway presentable, and descended. She was uneasy, wondering what Mrs. Albion’s errand could be. If the woman sought to establish any sort of social intimacy, what would she do? What could she do?

  But once more Mrs. Albion proved herself completely understanding. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said after the first polite exchanges; and then, as though she read Cinda’s thoughts: “I’m sure you understand that this is not a—” she smiled. “A polite call. I come to ask your advice.” Cinda was more puzzled than ever, but Mrs. Albion added: “Perhaps I should have gone to your brother-in-law, Mr. Streean; but it seemed to me possible that you might be able to suggest some more suitable person for me to see.” Cinda admired her dexterity. It was as though she had said: “I am of course an outsider; but Mr. Streean is, I suspect, quite as much so. You are not, so you can help me.”

  Yet—what was her errand? Cinda put the question into words. “How can I help you?”

  “I have a guest,” Mrs. Albion explained. “A woman newly come from Washington. She has some military information which should be brought to the attention of the Secretary of War. Can you suggest how to do this?”

  Cinda hesitated. “I’m afraid I know nothing of such matters.”

  “I thought you might be willing—without committing yourself in any way—to introduce her to the Secretary or to some gentleman who has his ear.”

  “Why, I’m acquainted with Mr. Benjamin,” Cinda admitted. “But not—intimately.” Was it possible that Mrs. Albion expected her to sponsor this unknown woman, or to sponsor Mrs. Albion herself, for that matter?

  Mrs. Albion said earnestly: “I believe this is really important. My guest dined with General Dix in Washington, and he spoke of a plan to cross an army of two hundred thousand men at Leesburg and move against our flank.”

  “That sounds important, certainly,” Cinda agreed. “But—if she just went to one of Mr. Benjamin’s secretaries—” She left the suggestion unfinished, and the other, after a moment’s consideration rose.

  “Of course! I should have thought of that myself. Thank you for helping me.”

  Helping? That was absurd, and it was not in character for Mrs. Albion to say absurd things; but what possible reason lay behind her call today? “May I offer you some refreshment?”

  The other smiled. “You’re most kind, but this was not a social call. Thank you very much indeed.”

  When Mrs. Albion was gone, Vesta had many questions; but Cinda put her off in abstracted bewilderment. What in the world had Mrs. Albion sought to accomplish by this empty errand? Cinda was even more mystified when after church the following Sunday Mrs. Davis whispered to her:

  “The President is grateful to you for s
ending that woman to tell her story. He telegraphed General Johnston at once.”

  Cinda stammered some polite disclaimer. “Mrs. Albion asked me what to do, and I simply suggested—” But then other ladies joined them, and she stopped in midsentence, regretting that she had used Mrs. Albion’s name. Mrs. Davis would imagine they were friends.

  She might in time have forgotten the incident, but Tuesday the town rang with news of a fine Confederate victory at Leesburg. A Federal force had crossed the river, had been thrown back in confusion. So Mrs. Albion’s information had been true, and useful; but why in the world had the woman come to her? Would her name and Mrs. Albion’s name be coupled? She was presently sure of it, for Brett, in Richmond for a day later in the week, had hardly entered the house before he asked laughingly:

  “Well, Mrs. Dewain, what’s this I hear about your winning a battle almost single-handed? I met Mr. Benjamin in Capitol Square, and he sent you his compliments and felicitations.”

  “That oily, squint-eyed man!”

  He laughed. “You don’t like him?”

  “No! He has too much brains and not enough heart. And I don’t like anyone who smiles as much as he does.”

  “He’s an able man,” Brett assured her. “But what about this exploit of yours? He says you sent him advance information of the Federal. move.” She told him the story, and he listened attentively. “Do you know who Mrs. Albion’s woman was?” he asked, when she was done.