The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Belle stopped, closed her eyes and lifted her face, letting the rain wash over her face. Her clothes were instantly soaked, but she did not notice. The drops coursed down her cheeks like a river, mingling with the torrent of tears dammed up over the long winter. Like a frozen mountain stream melting under the spring sun, so her rigid coldness turned to warmth.

  Finally, she took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and walked rapidly to the house. She grabbed several large towels on her way to her room, where she stripped and dried herself until her skin tingled. She was putting up her hair when she heard a knock at the door downstairs. Hurriedly twisting her dark mane into a thick roll, she pinned it up as she ran down the stairs, calling, “Just a minute!”

  Opening the door, she blinked in surprise. “Why, Lieutenant, come in.” She looked past him to where Elmer Gibbs sat in the buggy. “Thank you, Elmer!” she called and stepped back. “You’re almost as wet as I was, Lieutenant Morgan.”

  Davis stood uncertainly, as if trying to decide whether to walk away or stay. With a gesture of surrender, he limped across the threshold. After he’d shrugged out of his coat, Belle took it, saying, “Come on into the kitchen. Mother’s got a fire in the stove.”

  She pushed a chair out for him, and brought a piece of apple pie and a steaming cup of coffee. Nervously he reached for the beverage, and she saw he was very uncomfortable.

  “This place will be a lot better than Chimborazo, Owen,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Besides, Mother’s cooking is fantastic.”

  He moved slightly in his chair, his thin face reflecting the rebellion he had felt since Dr. Stevens told him it would be better to leave the hospital. “This—wasn’t my idea,” he blurted out. “I feel like a tramp.”

  Belle shook her head. “You won’t when you get to know my parents. Any man who’s shed his blood for the Cause is a welcome guest in their home.”

  The words stung like sharp barbs. Now more than ever he wanted to leave. But he knew he had no choice. “I’ll try to stay out of the way as much as possible,” he promised in a tight voice.

  Her mind flashed back to the previous night. “I—I was very upset last night, Owen.”

  He dropped his eyes. “We both were.”

  Conscious that he was referring to her outburst that night, she decided to speak frankly about the incident. “I don’t often give way—as I did. I’m sorry you had to be the brunt of my hysteria.”

  He looked up in surprise, shaking his head. “I don’t think of it that way.” His lips moved in a half-embarrassed smile, and he admitted, “You weren’t the only one who cried for Lonnie.”

  Belle couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The men of her family were not given to public displays of emotion. That was considered unmanly, and Davis’s simple admission intrigued her. Her firmest concept of Owen Morgan was that he was not emotional, for he had always kept his distance from everyone. Not once in the weeks she had known him had he ever dropped the habitual austere manner, and now to hear him admit weeping over someone seemed out of character.

  “He was very brave,” Davis murmured. “The day before he died, he told me how much he longed to go back to Arkansas and make a crop.”

  He continued to speak of Lonnie, telling her how the boy had asked him to write the family. Belle listened quietly, sharing some of the things that had endeared Lonnie to her heart. Time flew, and before she knew it her parents were back.

  “Why, Lieutenant,” Rebekah said as she entered, “how nice that you arrived so soon!” She turned to Belle, “Would you take Dan’s room upstairs so that Lieutenant Morgan won’t have to climb steps?”

  “I’ll show you the guest room, Lieutenant,” she said, leading the way.

  Returning to the kitchen, Rebekah commented, “Belle, I’m glad Thad thought of this. It’ll be nice to have someone to cook for.”

  The evening meal went well. Sky and Rebekah were so happy to have Belle home that they talked more than usual, unaware that Belle and their guest said very little. After supper Sky escorted Davis to the parlor while the women tidied up the kitchen.

  Davis maneuvered Winslow into telling some of the tales of his youth on the western frontier, and when the women joined them, Belle asked her parents to relate the story of their courtship. Davis sat entranced as he heard how Sky had guided a wagon train load of “Mail Order Brides” from the East to Oregon. Rebekah had been one of them, and at the end of the journey, they had fallen in love and married.

  “It sounds like a very bad novel,” she smiled at her parents. “I’m convinced you made it all up—and you were probably only a dull shoe salesman from St. Louis.”

  Sky laughed and reached for Rebekah’s hand. “I can’t help it if it sounds crazy,” he said, giving Rebekah a gentle smile. “I’ve enjoyed every second of it!”

  Rebekah stood to her feet, laughing. “I could remind you of a couple of times—!”

  “I refuse to remember!” he said, leaping up. He grinned at Davis, saying, “Make her wait on you, Owen. She’s like a mother hen with all her chicks gone.”

  The Winslows retired to their rooms, and Davis commented thoughtfully, “You are blessed, Belle.”

  “They are wonderful, aren’t they?” Then feeling uncomfortable alone with him, she rose and said, “I’ll see you in the morning, Lieutenant.”

  He slept poorly that night, guilt slicing at him. He tried to assuage it by thinking he was not there to spy out any secrets, but that did not seem to ease his mind. Finally he fell asleep, vowing to leave as soon as possible.

  But his leg was worse the next day, and Belle diagnosed it as overuse. “You’re pushing too hard to get well—and in the long run it will take longer,” she had told him firmly.

  He forced himself to spend long hours in bed reading, and when he tired of reclining, Belle prepared a place in the parlor where he could sit comfortably with his leg raised. The change was gratifying and he continued reading until he had devoured every book in the Winslow library. Noticing Davis’s eager pursuit, Rebekah said, “I think Mary Chesnut has all the books ever published. I’ll bring you some. What are you interested in?”

  “Oh, anything.”

  Without delay, she returned with a large stack of books, including novels, poetry, travel books, sermons, and biographies. He immediately submerged himself in the reading material, and the long rainy days passed unnoticed as he lost himself in book after book. To Rebekah’s surprise, he finished the stack in less than a week, and she made another trip, bringing back twice as many.

  Belle found herself tense for a few days, worrying about the nursing needs at the hospital, but slowly she began to relax. She went for long walks, refused invitations to parties, and finally began to read—not one of her most enjoyable pastimes. She had never been an avid reader, so had no particular interest. Davis had recommended a novel, Pride and Prejudice, which, to her surprise, she liked. He gave her another, Jane Eyre, and after she finished it, she told him, “I don’t like this one.”

  He smiled at her. “That’s because you identify yourself with the heroine.”

  She stared at him puzzled. “Jane Eyre! I’m like her?”

  “Not plain like Jane—nor poor.” Davis studied her for a moment. “You’re like her in character. Both of you are very determined women. When Jane made up her mind, she wouldn’t allow anything on God’s earth to change her.”

  “She was very religious—and I’m not.”

  “All of us are firm in what we believe in,” Davis said. “For Jane Eyre it was religion. For you it’s the Confederacy.”

  They discussed the book for about an hour, and finally Belle remarked, “I never knew books were about people—I mean real people.”

  “The good ones are,” he said.

  That had been the beginning, and Sky and Rebekah were pleased to find the pair involved in long conversations about books. “It’s good for Belle,” Sky voiced. “She’s much more relaxed, isn’t she, Rebekah?”

  The second w
eek passed, and on Friday Sky arrived home with a guest for supper. “Here’s Beau!” he announced as he entered the kitchen where Belle and Rebekah were preparing supper. Rebekah greeted him warmly, giving him a hug, but Belle’s hands were covered with flour, and she said quietly, “I’m glad to see you, Beau.”

  “I’ve got only a week,” he said, staring at her, thinking that she looked more beautiful in an apron with her hair tied up loosely than most women fully gowned for a ball.

  Sky drew him away into the parlor to discuss military matters and to introduce him to the Winslows’ house guest, who was sitting with his leg up, reading by a large lamp. “Lieutenant Owen Morgan—Captain Beau Beauchamp.”

  “Keep your seat, Lieutenant,” Beau said, bending down to shake hands. “Glad to see you’ve recovered so well. Major Benning told me he was sure you’d die on the way.”

  “Major Benning?” Davis repeated, then recovered quickly. “Why, I guess I did look like a poor bet when I left the company. But as you can see, I’m doing all right.”

  Davis listened carefully, but said little. He had memorized Thad’s brief and incomplete background information about Morgan. It’s a good thing Morgan was in the Army of the Tennessee, he thought. I’d be in real trouble if he’d been in Beauchamp’s brigade!

  He tried to excuse himself, but Sky wouldn’t hear of it. “You’ll want to hear what’s happening with the army, Owen.”

  Beauchamp shrugged, and his face was not happy as he gave his opinion. “Grant’s the man now for the Union. He’s the best Lee’s ever had to face, and it looks as if he’s building up to hit us with everything he’s got.”

  “I think that’s right, Beau,” Sky nodded. “Most of the staff officers think he’ll send the one army to get Joe Johnston in Tennessee, and that’ll he’ll bring the Army of the Potomac here to fight Lee.”

  “He’ll never whip General Lee!” Beau responded with pride in his eyes. “Grant’s done all right in the West, but he’s never come up against Robert E. Lee. He’ll go down like Pope and Burnside.”

  Sky looked at the young man doubtfully, but said nothing. He knew how thin the lines of Lee’s army were stretched, and how desperately short supplies were—on the front and at home. Still he said nothing, but sat there letting Beau speak.

  Rebekah and Belle came to join them, and Beau, of course, had to give a complete report on Mark, Tom, and Dan. Rebekah listened to every word, her hands twisting in her lap; but the fear she fought to control showed in the lines in her face.

  Changing the subject, Beau asked Belle, “What have you been doing with yourself since you took a vacation from the hospital?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” she shrugged.

  “She’s become quite a reader, Beau,” Rebekah smiled. “When she was in school I had to threaten her with a switch to get her to read anything. Now she’s got her nose in a book every spare minute.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Belle protested, “it’s not that bad!” She gave Davis a nod. “There’s the real bookworm.”

  Beau turned his gaze on Davis, studying him as if he were a strange specimen. “I didn’t know you fellows from the Army of the Tennessee were such scholars, Morgan. Were you a schoolteacher or something before you joined up?”

  Davis shifted uncomfortably, not knowing for certain what to say. But they were all waiting for him to speak, and he answered, “Oh no. Just picked up the habit along the way. Kills the time, you know.”

  Belle said, “I never really thought that books meant much. To me they were just stories to entertain people—but Owen’s got me to noticing how they can help you to look at life.”

  Beau raised his eyes at her use of Morgan’s given name, but merely asked, “How’s that, Belle?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—yes, I do, too.” She began to tell how Morgan had suggested she read some of James Fenimore Cooper’s novels about the frontier. “At first it was just exciting Indian stories, but after a while I began to see that it was more than that.” Her eyes grew bright as she spoke of how, for the first time, she understood Cooper’s books were about America—how it grew, and the tragedy of the Indians who lost their way of life in the process. She mentioned the way she had wept when the noble Mohegan recited the elegy of his race.

  “Why, the Indians had to go, Belle!” Beau broke in sharply. “We could never have grown to be a great nation if we’d let a few thousand savages keep all the land.”

  Belle stared at him, then said, “That’s what I always thought, Beau, but as I read the book I was able to see the Indians’ side of it. And I guess that’s what I’m learning through books.”

  Beau admitted grudgingly, “Well, I guess maybe novels can do that, but I think poetry’s a farce. I’ve tried to read some of the stuff, and can’t make head nor tail out of it! Why can’t they just say what they mean instead of beating around the bush?”

  Belle laughed. “That’s exactly what I told Owen!” She turned with a smile to Davis and said, “Tell Beau what you told me about poetry.”

  “I don’t think the captain needs a lecture from me, Miss Belle,” Davis protested.

  “Well, then, if you won’t, I will,” she said saucily, and proceeded to enlighten Beau on interpreting poetry. “Poets don’t say what they mean, because some things can’t be put into words,” she told him. “For example, when Father wants to tell Mother how much he loves her, how can he do it?”

  “He can say ‘I love you,’ “ Beau grinned. “You wouldn’t expect him to spout poetry, would you, Rebekah?”

  “Yes, I would!” Rebekah responded unexpectedly.

  “Well, I’ll have to start saying ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ and learning how to make rhymes,” Sky joked. “Or better still, I’ll hire a poet to write me a poem for you.”

  “That’s not what you did on your last anniversary,” Belle countered. “At that party you said it right out loud for everyone to hear. Remember? You lifted your glass and said, ‘Rebekah, most people drink the best wine first—but you and I, we’ve saved the best till last!’ ”

  “Why, that’s not poetry!” Sky protested, his face beat red.

  “Yes—it is,” Rebekah insisted quietly. She took his hand and added, “I’ve thought of it almost every day since you said it. It told me more about how you felt toward me than anything you’ve ever said.”

  Sky looked at her, then nodded, “Well, bless me! It’s true!”

  “See, Beau?” Belle said triumphantly. “What Father said would seem to be about drinking wine—but it’s not. It’s about love.”

  Beau plunged in, and for half an hour he and Belle argued about poetry. Rebekah caught Sky’s glance, and knew they were both thinking that Belle was more alive than she’d been since her time in Washington.

  Finally Beau said, “Well, I guess I’m just a thick-headed soldier. I guess the best a woman will ever get out of me is a plain ‘I love you.’ “ He glanced sharply at Davis, a half-angry challenge in his eyes. “I suppose you’d dash off a poem about it, eh, Morgan?”

  “No, I’m no poet,” Davis answered with a shake of his head. “The best I could do would be to copy one from a real poet.”

  “Secondhand love?” Beau jibed. “Sounds like pretty weak stuff to me.”

  Belle asked, “Which poem, Owen? What’s your favorite poem about love?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Shakespeare’s Sonnet Number 116, I suppose.”

  “Do we have a copy?” Belle asked.

  “I haven’t seen one,” Davis replied.

  “Do you know any of it?” she insisted. “You do! I bet you can say the whole thing!”

  “Let’s hear it, Owen,” Rebekah urged.

  “I never memorized it, but I’ve read the poem so often, I think I remember most of it. Let’s see, it goes something like this:

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove.

/>   Oh, no! It is an ever-fixed mark

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

  If this be error and upon me proved,

  Then I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

  Davis’s voice fell away, and he looked around the room with embarrassment.

  “I don’t understand much of it,” Belle said quietly. “But I like the part where it says love is not love which changes when it finds alterations. She looked at Davis, her lips parted, and then asked, “Is that what it means, Owen, the part about rosy lips and cheeks being cut down?”

  “I think so.” Davis shrugged and added, “I guess that’s why I like it. I’ve seen so few people who loved without reservation. Men who say they love, but when the woman grows older, he leaves her for somebody younger.” He knew he was talking too much, but added impulsively, “That sort of thing’s not love at all!”

  Sky stared at him in wonder. Finally he said, “Owen, that’s what I’ve always wanted to say, but never could find the words for it!”

  Davis got to his feet, picked up his cane, and said, “Mr. Winslow, you’ve just given the best definition of poetry I ever heard! Well, I’ve bored you enough. Good night, sir. Good night, Mrs. Winslow.” He turned to Beau and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t tell anyone about this stuff, please, Captain Beauchamp. It’s a weakness I have, but it could be worse. I could hold up trains or do something I could be jailed for.”

  Beau laughed mirthlessly. “I won’t let it get out, Morgan.”