House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  The days slipped away, sometimes warm, sometimes cold, sometimes wretched with drizzling rain that turned the skies into a smothering canopy of gloom. Coal was a hundred dollars a load if you could get it, and a stick of firewood of any size cost five dollars. Indoors, Vesta and Tilda huddled in capes and comforters, and Caesar and the servants bundled themselves like mummies.

  One day at dusk a man rang the bell. He brought a letter from Redford Streean. “I saw him in Wilmington,” he explained. “I’m Mr. Peck. The letter, I regret to say, is almost a month old.”

  Tilda turned the sealed packet in her hands. “Mr. Peck?” she echoed. “Yes, I remember. You were in the Post Office Department. You sent Mr. Streean some barrels of flour from North Carolina. Didn’t the lady clerks in the department raise a fund and give it to you to buy foodstuffs for them?”

  Mr. Peck seemed faintly confused. “Why, yes, but I was able to do very little.”

  “But you sent Mr. Streean flour and bacon.”

  “Only a small quantity, ma’am. The condition of the railroads—–”

  “You had the money the ladies raised.”

  Mr. Peck fingered his hat. “I must of course reimburse them.” He said hurriedly: “You must understand that all North Carolina is confusion now. Refugees are thronging toward Richmond; swarms of them, literally swarms, ma’am, at every station. Railroads in collapse. Corn, bacon, foods of all kinds piled up at every station and rotting in mud and rain for lack of cars to move it to the army.”

  Vesta thought of her mother. “Were you in Columbia?” she asked.

  “Ten days ago.” He threw up his hands. “Insane throngs waiting to board every train. Sherman’s name on every lip. Only my acquaintance with the express agents made it possible for me to hold my place on the train.” He mopped his brow. “Well, ladies, I must bid you good day.”

  Vesta rang for Caesar to show him to the door, and she almost smiled at Caesar’s august disapproval. When Mr. Peck was gone, Tilda made no move to open Streean’s letter. She turned it idly in her hands, till Vesta asked: “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  Tilda extended it to her. “No,” she decided. “Burn it, Vesta. I don’t even want to hear from him again.”

  Vesta, without taking the letter, lighted the gas; and she said hesitantly: “But—maybe he’s seen Dolly.”

  So Tilda opened the letter. She began to read it to herself, and Vesta left her alone and went upstairs to see Tommy put to bed. When she came down again, Tilda was sitting as though she had not moved. Gas was expensive now, fifty dollars per thousand feet; but the jet was still burning brightly. When Vesta came in, their eyes met and held, and after a moment Tilda extended the letter.

  “You’d better read it, before you burn it,” she said.

  So Vesta, wondering where Mr. Streean had found such a fine sheet of paper, since to write even a short letter nowadays you might have to tear a little paper off the wall of some dark closet, went near the gas and read.

  My dear Tilda—The Dragonfly sails on tonight’s tide, Captain Pew, Dolly and I. Lieutenant Kenyon has been fool enough to get himself killed. After the storm scattered the Yankee fleet, the young idiot came home unexpectedly; and because he found Captain Pew and Dolly alone, he chose to think the worst. Not that Captain Pew isn’t a gallant man, to be sure; but you know your daughter too well to credit all the idle gossip on Wilmington tongues. Kenyon hurried back to the Fort and chose to make an ugly scandal by leading an unauthorized sally against the Yankees, and naturally he was riddled for his pains. Captain Pew did what he could to hush the talk and protect Dolly. He even called out and shot one or two of Kenyon’s friends whom he was able to lead into excessive loquacity. But I fear those meetings only increased the talk; so it seems best to remove Dolly from possible criticism, and we sail tonight for Nassau. Dolly seems enchanted with the prospect. I scent a romance between her and Captain Pew. You always wanted her married, but I’m not sure Dolly contemplates marriage. It might be a mistake for one so lovely to commit herself to just one man. I suspect you were right in thinking she was more my child than yours. Certainly I would never suspect you of betraying me. Not while men have eyes, ma’am.

  My most profound devotions, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

  Your admirer,

  Redford Streean.

  I regret I can give you no equally explicit news of Darrell.

  Vesta as she read felt a shivering cold along her spine. When she had finished she looked toward Tilda, but Tilda’s eyes were closed. There was the smallest possible fire upon the hearth, a few red coals and charred ends. She twisted the sheet of paper into a spill and held it against the coals till it caught, then allowed the paper to unroll and laid it on the embers. When it was all consumed, she stirred black fragments into the ashes till they were indistinguishable. Then she rose and put the poker by and brushed her hands together and came back to Tilda. She took Tilda’s face in her hands, and Tilda’s eyes opened, and Vesta kissed her on the lips.

  “There! Now we’re all clean,” she said.

  Tilda spoke pleadingly. “Vesta, would you mind not telling anyone? Except of course Cinda.”

  Vesta smiled in fond tenderness. “Tell anyone?” she echoed. “Why, Aunt Tilda, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I haven’t the least idea!”

  Tilda nodded. “You’re darling, Vesta! But—tell your Mama. Tell Cinda. I could never do it, but I want her to know. And of course I know you’ll tell Rollin. But no one else, please.”

  Before Vesta could answer, the door bell rang, startling them both. Tilda rose hurriedly to escape upstairs, so Vesta was alone when Caesar announced Mrs. Albion.

  Mrs. Albion’s name was at first meaningless to Vesta; the attractive woman whom Caesar ushered into the room was a stranger. Mrs. Albion, seeing no one here but Vesta, said doubtfully: “I asked for Mrs. Dewain.”

  “Mama is away,” Vesta told her. “I’m Mrs. Lyle.” She added: “But Aunt Tilda, Mrs. Streean, is here.”

  “May I see her?”

  Vesta suddenly remembered. This was Aunt Enid’s mother, who had been Uncle Tony’s mistress for so long. She felt a lively interest. “I think Aunt Tilda has retired,” she explained, and smiled. “But I’m the lady of the house, I suppose, with Mama away. If there’s anything I can do ... ?”

  The other hesitated, shook her head. “I’d really like to speak to Mrs. Streean.” She bit her lip, studying the girl; then nodded her head. “But you’re not a child,” she said, assenting. “And he must like you. He might listen to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your Uncle Faunt.”

  Vesta’s head lifted; she put on a steady dignity. “You had better tell me what you are talking about,” she said coldly.

  “May I sit down?” Vesta nodded, and Mrs. Albion did so. “I came on foot,” she explained. “And I hurried, told him I would not be long away.” She looked at Vesta, still hesitant. “Well, I must,” she said, half to herself; and then to Vesta: “He’s at my home. He’s been there almost two months. He’s extremely ill. Lung trouble. But now he is well enough, or thinks he is well enough, to go.”

  Mrs. Albion clearly was mistaken. Uncle Faunt could have nothing to do with this woman. “You mean Uncle Tony?” Vesta protested.

  “I do not. I mean your Uncle Faunt. He insists on leaving Richmond in the morning.”

  Vesta stared at her, still incredulous. Yet there could be no mistake. What this woman said so positively must be true.

  “Then why doesn’t he go?” She spoke in hard challenge.

  Mrs. Albion hesitated, she seemed to choose her words. “Mrs. Lyle, you’re a young woman,” she said. “I‘m—not. You’re a good woman and I’m not. But you and I have one thing in common: we have the capacity to love. I know a great deal about you, you see; and I suppose you know a little about me. I love your Uncle Faunt. He loves me. I know this should not be true, but it is.” She sighed, as though to speak these words had been a hard task. “I’ve—a
sked him to come back to you all.”

  “You knew he wouldn’t!” Vesta’s tones were level, but her heart was pounding.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Albion agreed. “Yes, I knew he wouldn’t. I prayed he wouldn’t. But all the same, I urged him to.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “He’s really very ill,” Mrs. Albion told her. “Your mother and Mrs. Streean know he is at my house. They’ve known almost from the first. They came to see him, but he refused to see them; but because they knew he was there, he has wanted to leave; and now he thinks he is well enough to do so.”

  “And you don’t want him to?”

  “I do want him to,” Mrs. Albion corrected. “But I don’t want him to go back to Colonel Mosby. To do so will kill him.” She shivered suddenly, and pressed her hands to her eyes. “I’d do anything, anything at all, to keep him from going back. I have done—–Oh, I’ve tried!” She said icily: “Mrs. Lyle, can you understand that rather than let him go back to duty, I would gladly see Mosby and all his men shot, or hanged? If I could have brought that about. But I couldn’t!” She shook her head, said in level tones: “No, I don’t want him to return to duty. I want him to come here to you, to let his lungs heal, to grow strong again.”

  “So you can whistle him back, I suppose.” Vesta felt no relenting.

  Mrs. Albion smiled sadly. “I know what you think about me, Mrs. Lyle. I agree with you, you know. And I make no excuses.” She spoke remotely. “I was a greedy and a selfish young woman. When Mr. Albion died, he left me penniless. I tried to make a rich marriage. I tried to marry your Uncle Trav. Probably you didn’t know that. I failed because Enid took him away from me. She’s a stupid woman, but as a girl she had a malicious cleverness.

  “She married your Uncle Trav, and I was getting old. I was older then than I am now, Mrs. Lyle, although that was sixteen years ago. And just then I met your Uncle Tony, and he was dissolute and weak, but he was rich. He wouldn’t marry me, so I got what I could from him. I’m making no excuses at all, you see.

  “But during the years with Tony I learned a great deal about men; not much about women, perhaps, but a great deal about men.” She hesitated, tapping her teeth with a fingernail. “Mrs. Lyle, don’t ever misunderstand men,” she said quietly. “Most women imagine that men are all gallants, that they seek feminine companionship for only one reason. I assure you that is not true. A woman can be a man’s completely contenting mistress without ever spending a moment alone with him. It isn’t the wives who know how to make pretty love whose husbands adore them; it’s the wives with whom a man can sit down and talk and be listened to, can sorrow and be comforted, can worry and be eased. I assure you, my dear, men want to be told where they left their socks, or where they can find their fresh linen, or that they may stay quietly at home when they don’t wish to go out, or that they’re intelligent and interesting and wise and brave and clever. They want these things much more often than they want—love.”

  She hesitated, and Vesta realized in a slow surprise that she liked this woman, and Mrs. Albion went on:

  “Yes, I learned that men would give me things, or put me in the way of making money, and ask of me nothing in return except amiable and flattering companionship.” She smiled briefly, not with mirth. “If you asked the question in your thoughts”—Vesta’s cheek crimsoned—“and I answered you truthfully, you wouldn’t believe me. No matter.”

  Her eyes sobered. “But now I love a man,” she said. “Now I’d do anything. I have done desperate things to keep him away from the war. I would do more. I’d never see him again, I’d insult him, I’d flout him, yes, I’d kill myself, if by doing so I could be sure he would come back to this house and stay here and grow well again and—live, not die.” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “I wish your mother were here,” she said wretchedly. “She would believe me.”

  Vesta said at once: “I believe you. I probably don’t understand half you said, but I believe you. What can I do?”

  “Go to my house, get him, bring him here.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  “To the door, if you like; but I’ll not go in, not unless you call me. You go to him alone.”

  Vesta rose. “May I take Caesar?”

  “Of course.”

  “We don’t have a carriage now.”

  “We can walk there in twenty minutes. It’s cold, but the night’s fine.”

  Vesta would always remember that walk through Richmond’s darkened streets. Mrs. Albion in her haste kept a few paces ahead; and Caesar, audibly muttering his disapproval of such goings on, came a little behind. They talked not at all, for the confusion in Vesta’s thoughts would not shape itself into the questions she wished to ask. At the gate, Mrs. Albion stopped.

  “There,” she said. “Tell Milly I sent you. I’ll keep out of sight.”

  So Vesta went bravely to the door and tugged at the bell. The door was snatched open so quickly it startled her. A cringing Negro woman swallowed sobs of fright and stared at her and cried:

  “Who you?”

  “Mrs. Albion sent me to—–”

  “Whah she?” Milly, in panic fear, slipped past Vesta to the open door; she called despairingly into the outer darkness: “He gone, ma’am! He done tuk his hoss and gone!”

  Mrs. Albion, swift as vengeance, came sweeping up the walk. Milly collapsed in abject tears; but her mistress said reassuringly: “All right, Milly. I know you couldn’t help it. Go now.”

  She watched Milly shuffle away, and turned; and Vesta saw under the gaslight the deep lines which sorrow drew upon her countenance. “He knew I wanted him to stay,” she said in a hushed, broken voice. “So he slipped away, to avoid any arguing. We never argued.”

  “Perhaps he’s still—–”

  Vesta did not finish the sentence; for Mrs. Albion shook her head. “No, he would ride off quickly. I suppose he’s well out the Brooke Turnpike before this.” And she said to herself: “I’ll never see him again.”

  Vesta felt herself an intruder in an abyss of grief; yet she was uncertain what to do, till Mrs. Albion turned and, as though forgetful of the girl’s presence, climbed the stairs. Vesta after a moment went out and softly closed the door behind her. With Caesar two paces behind, she walked slowly home.

  The door of Tilda’s room was open; and this news of Faunt might help her forget Dolly for a while. So Vesta went in and sat on Tilda’s bed in the half-dark and told the story; and Tilda held her hand and said when she was done:

  “That was hard for you, darling.”

  “It didn’t seem real,” Vesta confessed. “None of it seemed real. It was like a dream.”

  “Sleep and forget it, then. Remember it that way, just as a dream.”

  Early in February, Rollin came home for a night; a Rollin lean and haggard with fatigue, but with spirits high. He had news of Cinda. “Colonel Haskell’s just returned to duty,” he said. “He saw her and Jenny and the children in Columbia, says they were fine, says they were just waiting to see what Sherman would do. They were going to come north if Sherman headed that way; but the railroads are all broken down. It took Colonel Haskell from the fifteenth to get here.”

  “If it took him two weeks, it will take them a month,” Vesta reflected. “But if Mama makes up her mind to get here, she will, somehow!”

  She was richly happy in these hours with Rollin; and in the whispering night she told him Dolly’s shame. She told him too of Mrs. Albion’s call, and he held her close and protectingly. “I wish that hadn’t happened to you, Vesta.”

  “I think I grew up a little,” she confessed. “I hated her at first. But she—well, I almost liked her in the end.”

  “I wish you didn’t.”

  “Oh, you’d like her!” she said. “I guess any man would.” And she quoted to him, teasingly, some of Mrs. Albion’s wisdoms, till he gravely declared Mrs. Albion was a wonderful woman, and Vesta told him he was a beast to say so, and they quarrelled in whispers and were reconcil
ed again.

  Rollin left next day, and thereafter Vesta watched for every crumb of news from Columbia, and she and Tilda tried to guess where Cinda was. General Pegram was killed a short three weeks after that wedding which so many omens marred, and Hetty and her mother brought his body home in a freight car. Vesta saw his coffin set on the same spot in the chancel where he had taken his bride; and she wept as she had never wept for any sadness of her own. Then in mid-February Brett came home, his face a mask of weariness; and she told him Rollin’s news of Cinda, and he said that to carry troops for the defense of Wilmington the Government had impressed the Piedmont Railroad from Danville to Greensboro. “So there’s no knowing how Mama’ll get back when she’s ready to come,” he said.

  Vesta wanted to laugh aside his anxiety. “Trust her to manage, when the time comes.” And to distract him: “We’ve enough to worry about without her, Brett Dewain! Flour’s fifteen hundred dollars a barrel! What do you propose to do about that?”

  He chuckled. “You sound like your mother, calling me by my name!”

  “I want to sound just like her, so you won’t be so lonesome for her.”

  “You’re mighty sweet, Vesta.” He added soberly: “But the Yankees are trying Fort Fisher again. If they take the fort, seal off Wilmington, we’ll all starve!”

  “Why not capture flour from the Yankees, the way you do guns?”

  He shook his head. “It’s working the other way around, now. They’re capturing things from us.”

  Trav was in town that day, and after dinner he came to be with them, and he and Brett talked of the steady losses which wore away the army. Since Sherman burned their homes and scattered their families, Georgia men were deserting at every chance; and each new report of pillaging and torture and destruction increased the toll. “He’s costing us as many men as if he were beating us in battle,” Trav declared.