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.
Oh little did ma mither think
The night she cradled me
That I wad die so far fra’ hame,
And hang on a gallows tree.
They’ll tie a napkin ’round ma e’en
An’ they’ll no let me see to dee—
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:
“ ‘Oh they lookit up, they lookit down
‘ ’Tween the bowsters and the wa’
‘And there they got a bonny lad bairn
‘But its life it was awa.’ ”
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:
“ ‘The Prince’s bed it was sae soft,
‘The sheets they were sae fine—’ ”
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, str
olling 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:
“ ‘If you want to kiss the girls,
‘If you want to raise Hell,
‘If you want to have a high time—
‘Jine the cavalry.’ ”
From a trot to a rack, from a rack to a lope; hurry, my friend! Hurry to leave them far behind before your heart breaks. Oh, you left a hurt back there—but that hurt will heal. This hurt in him—this was past healing. With cruel jests he had thrown something long dear to him aside forever. But if Cinda were right, then perhaps what he did was well done. He nodded, grateful for one tally on the credit side, and rode on to the wars.
22
December, 1862- April, 1863
TRAV’S Christmas at home brought him no content. When in Christmas at home brought him no content. When in October he departed to rejoin the army, Enid had seemed happy in their new home, and of course he wanted her to be happy; but beyond insisting that they present to the world a surface concord, he wanted nothing else from her. That on this Christmas leave she appeared to take pleasure in discrediting him to Cinda and the others did not surprise him; but sometimes when they were alone she seemed to wish to provoke him beyond endurance. She told him Captain Pew and Darrell were often at the house.
“But of course Dolly’s always with them, and usually Tilda. I know you wouldn’t want me to get myself talked about.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Captain Pew has no eyes for anyone but Dolly, though to be sure he does say gallant things, just to be polite. And Darrell’s so amusing. I know you don’t mind.” He did not answer, feeling her eyes upon him. “If you do, I won’t let them come again.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
“I certainly can’t imagine your being jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“They’re really the only intimate friends I have, outside of your family. And of course Vesta and Cinda have their own friends.” He had an uncomfortable feeling that something was expected of him, but he did not know what it was.
In talk with Lucy, he might forget Enid till he felt the thrust of her eyes and looked across the room to where she sat watching them. She contrived to make him feel guilty because he enjoyed Lucy’s company. If he tried to include Enid in their conversation, asking her opinion on this point or that, she smiled patiently and said: “Really, I’m sure you and Lucy know best. I don’t want to interfere.”
Even Lucy resented her attitude. “Oh Mama, what do you act that way for?” Once she cried: “Mama, what’s the matter with you, moping all the time when Papa’s home? You have fun enough with Cousin Darrell and Captain Pew.”
Enid protested, too humbly: “Lucy, don’t be silly! You mustn’t ever speak of such men in the same breath with your father, dear!”
Trav sometimes thought Lucy tried in her childish way to make up to him for Enid’s manner, and he loved her for it. They drew close; but between him and Peter there was a barrier hard to define. The boy was seldom at home, disappearing early, coming home late; and to Trav’s questions he gave evasive answers. Yes, he sometimes still drilled the boys in Butchertown, but that wasn’t much fun in winter. Oh yes, they had snow fights sometimes, when there was any snow. Oh, they didn’t do much of anything, just sort of fooled around. Jim Pedersen had a cave all fixed up with a stove made out of old iron, dug into the side hill above the creek, and that was fun. No, probably Trav had better not go there to see it. Jim didn’t want too many people knowing where it was.
Trav thought he recognized the signs. To this war, boys, and boys grown up to be men, had at first reacted with an equal martial ardor; but in most cases that soon gave way to an easy liberty and license. For a hungry soldier to accept the gift of a good dinner, freely proffered, was one thing; but the next step was to ask for it, the next to forage for it, the next to steal it. No hen roost or pig pen or orchard or corn field anywhere near an army encampment was safe from marauders; and from stealing food to stealing other things was a short and easy step. Last summer in northern Virginia, by the testimony of Virginians themselves, Southern soldiers had done more damage than the Yankees. Fences were torn down, and doors and even walls were ripped off outhouses and farm buildings to be used as firewood, and gardens were not only robbed but trampled heedlessly. Not a fortnight ago a group of citizens of Fredericksburg had come to Longstreet’s headquarters to complain that Confederate soldiers were wandering through the half-ruined town, stealing from abandoned houses everything they could carry away; and Trav himself had been sent to post guards in the town. Thieving soldiers caught and convicted were forever facing court-martial, but their punishments were usually more ludicrous than painful: to ride a mule facing backward with a placard announcing their offense hung around their neck; to stand for hours a day, similarly labelled, on a barrel in the busiest part of camp; to forfeit their meager and now almost worthless pay.
Peter’s evasions made Trav sure that the boy was ashamed of some of the things he did, but Trav knew the futility of empty chiding. He tried remembering or inventing youthful peccadilloes of his own and relating them; till Peter laughed and forgot to be afraid and told Trav enough to confirm his conjecture. Trav was careful to take these confessions lightly, to put his reprobations rather as friendly advice than as reproofs.
But Enid might, if she would, help keep Peter in hand. He risked a mild suggestion that it was too bad for Peter to roam the town like a stray colt.
“Why, I do what I can, Trav,” she said. “But a boy needs a father.”
She eluded him and baffled him and made his days wretched. It was a relief to come back to headquarters at Hamilton’s Crossing, where the army lay in winter quarters along the Mine Road on the southward slope of the hills.
When General Longstreet returned from Lynchburg, Trav saw that these few days at home had been a tonic for the big man. Mrs. Longstreet was well, he said; and Garland’s voice was changing. The General chuckled fondly. “Funny to hear him crack and squeak! He’s a fine boy! Mighty good to his mother. Louisa says he’s her beau.
He’s taller than she is now, of course; and she doesn’t seem much older than he.” He added: “Louisa’s coming for a visit, presently, if things seem quiet here.”
Trav shared the other’s pleasure in this prospect, for the winter days were weary ones, snow and bitter cold and dreary rain. There was rain the day Fitz Lee’s brigade of cavalry paraded in review; rain so hard that Lee and Longstreet and Stuart and their staffs were well drenched, and a man could not see fifty yards through the downpour. Trav met Burr afterward and Burr was furious. “Up before daylight and march fifteen miles and then march back again for a damned show no one could see, and not worth seeing. But General Stuart’s vanity had to be fed somehow, I suppose!”
Trav said appeasingly: “Take away General Stuart’s vanity and he wouldn’t be the great leader he is, Burr.”
Burr was too wet and tired and angry to be reasonable. “Let him have a one-man parade all by himself, then! The rest of us don’t enjoy showing off in the rain.”
Ten days later Mrs. Longstreet came for that promised visit. She stayed at Forest Hill, the Hamilton place. John Marye, whose own Brampton stood on that hill above Fredericksburg against which in December Burnside had thrown his men in bloody, vain assaults, had married Jane Hamilton; and since the battle they lived at Forest Hill, and Mrs. Maria Page was usually there with them. The house was a quarter of a mile south of Mine Road, a little more than a mile from headquarters at the Crossing; so Longstreet was able to ride over every evening, to spend the night there and return next morning. He took Trav with him for Sunday dinner. The house was set on a bold southward-facing shoulder of the ridge that ran between Mine Road and the river, with a fine outlook across the valley white now with winter snows. Trav found Mrs. Longstreet even more charming than in the past; there was a gentleness in her which grief had warmed and nurtured. Her devotion to the General and his to her were manifest; and Trav thought that the year-old scars of that triple tragedy when their three children died within a week began at last to heal.
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