CHAPTER III
THREE OAKS
Having left behind him Allan Gold and the road to Thunder Run, RichardCleave came, a little later, to his own house, old and not large,crowning a grassy slope above a running stream. He left the highway,opened a five-barred gate, and passed between fallow fields to a secondgate, opened this and, skirting a knoll upon which were set threegigantic oaks, rode up a short and grass-grown drive. It led him to theback of the house, and afar off his dogs began to give him welcome. Whenhe had dismounted before the porch, a negro boy with a lantern took hishorse. "Hit's tuhnin' powerful cold, Marse Dick!"
"It is that, Jim. Give Dundee his supper at once and bring him aroundagain. Down, Bugle! Down, Moira! Down, Baron!"
The hall was cold and in semi-darkness, but through the half-opened doorof his mother's chamber came a gush of firelight warm and bright. Hervoice reached him--"Richard!" He entered. She was sitting in a great oldchair by the fire, idle for a wonder, her hands, fine and slender,clasped over her knees. The light struck up against her fair, broodingface. "It is late!" she said. "Late and cold! Come to the fire. Ailsywill have supper ready in a minute."
He came and knelt beside her on the braided rug. "It is always warm inhere. Where are the children?"
"Down at Tullius's cabin.--Tell me all about it. Who spoke?"
Cleave drew before the fire the chair that had been his father's, sankinto it, and taking the ash stick from the corner, stirred the glowinglogs. "Judge Allen's Resolutions were read and carried. Fauquier Caryspoke--many others."
"Did not you?"
"No. They asked me to, but with so many there was no need. People weremuch moved--"
He broke off, sitting stirring the fire. His mother watched the deephollows with him. Closely resembling as he did his long dead father, theinner tie, strong and fine, was rather between him and the woman who hadgiven him birth. Wedded ere she was seventeen, a mother at eighteen, shesat now beside her first-born, still beautiful, and crowned by a lovelylife. She had kept her youth, and he had come early to a man'sresponsibilities. For years now they had walked together, caring for thefarm, which was not large, for the handful of servants, for the twoyounger children, Will and Miriam. The eighteen years between them wascancelled by their common interests, his maturity of thought, herquality of the summer time. She broke the silence. "What did FauquierCary say?"
"He spoke strongly for patience, moderation, peace--I am going toLauderdale after supper."
"To see Judith?"
"No. To talk to Fauquier.... Maury Stafford is at Silver Hill." Hestraightened himself, put down the ash stick, and rose to his feet. "Thebell will ring directly. I'll go upstairs for a moment."
Margaret Cleave put out a detaining hand. "One moment--Richard, are youquite, quite sure that she likes Maury Stafford so well?"
"Why should she not like him? He's a likable fellow."
"So are many people. So are you."
Cleave gave a short and wintry laugh. "I? I am only her cousin--rather adull cousin, too, who does nothing much in the law, and is not even avery good farmer! Am I sure? Yes, I am sure enough!" His hand closed onthe back of her chair; the wood shook under the sombre energy of hisgrasp. "Did I not see how it was last summer that week I spent atGreenwood? Was he not always with her?--supple and keen, easy andstrong, with his face like a picture, with all the advantages I did nothave--education, travel, wealth!--Why, Edward told me--and could I notsee for myself? It was in the air of the place--not a servant but knewhe had come a-wooing!"
"But there was no engagement then. Had there been we should have knownit."
"No engagement then, perhaps, but certainly no discouragement! He wasthere again in the autumn. He was with her to-day." The chair shookagain. "And this morning Fauquier Cary, talking to me, laughed and saidthat Albemarle had set their wedding day!"
His mother sighed. "Oh, I am sorry--sorry!"
"I should never have gone to Greenwood last summer--never have spentthere that unhappy week! Before that it was just a fancy--and then Imust go and let it bite into heart and brain and life--" He dropped hishand abruptly and turned to the door. "Well, I've got to try now tothink only of the country! God knows, things have come to that pass thather sons should think only of her! It is winter time, Mother; the birdsaren't mating now--save those two--save those two!"
Upstairs, in his bare, high-ceiled room, his hasty toilet made, he stoodupon the hearth, beside the leaping fire, and looked about him. Oflate--since the summer--everything was clarifying. There was at worksome great solvent making into naught the dross of custom and habitude.The glass had turned; outlines were clearer than they had been, thelight was strong, and striking from a changed angle. To-day both thesight of a face and the thought of an endangered State had worked tomake the light intenser. His old, familiar room looked strange to himto-night. A tall bookcase faced him. He went across and stood before it,staring through the diamond panes at the backs of the books. Here werehis Coke and Blackstone, Vattel, Henning, Kent, and Tucker, and herewere other books of which he was fonder than of those, and here were afew volumes of the poets. Of them all, only the poets managed to keepto-night a familiar look. He took out a volume, old, tawny-backed,gold-lettered, and opened it at random--
Her face so faire, as flesh it seemed not, But hevenly pourtraict of bright angels hew, Cleare as the sky, withouten blame or blot--
A bell rang below. Youthful and gay, shattering the quiet of the house,a burst of voices proclaimed "the children's" return from Tullius'scabin. When, in another moment, Cleave came downstairs, it was to findthem both in wait at the foot, illumined by the light from thedining-room door. Miriam laid hold of him. "Richard, Richard! tell mequick! Which was the greatest, Achilles or Hector?"
Will, slight and fair, home for the holidays from Lexington and, byvirtue of his cadetship in the Virginia Military Institute, an authorityon most things, had a movement of impatience. "Girls are so stupid! Tellher it was Hector, and let's go to supper! She'll believe you."
Within the dining-room, at the round table, before the few pieces oftall, beaded silver and the gilt-banded china, while Mehalah thewaitress brought the cakes from the kitchen and the fire burned softlyon the hearth below the Saint Memin of a general and law-giver, talkfell at once upon the event of the day, the meeting that had passed theBotetourt Resolutions. Miriam, with her wide, sensitive mouth, hertip-tilted nose, her hazel eyes, her air of some quaint, bright gardenflower swaying on its stem, was for war and music, and both her brothersto become generals. "Or Richard can be the general, and you be acavalryman like Cousin Fauquier! Richard can fight like Napoleon and youmay fight like Ney!"
The cadet stiffened. "Thank you for nothing, Missy! Anyhow, I shan'tsulk in my tents like your precious Achilles--just for a girl! Richard!'Old Jack' says--"
"I wish, Will," murmured his mother, "that you'd say 'Major Jackson.'"
The boy laughed. "'Old Jack' is what we call him, ma'am! The otherwouldn't be respectful. He's never 'Major Jackson' except when he'strying to teach natural philosophy. On the drill ground he's 'Old Jack.'Richard, he says--Old Jack says--that not a man since Napoleon hasunderstood the use of cavalry."
Cleave, sitting with his eyes upon the portrait of his grandfather,answered dreamily: "Old Jack is probably in the right of it, Will.Cavalry is a great arm, but I shall choose the artillery."
His mother set down her coffee cup with a little noise, Miriam shook herhair out of her eyes and came back from her own dream of the story shewas reading, and Will turned as sharply as if he were on the paradeground at Lexington.
"You don't think, then, that it is just all talk, Richard! You are surethat we're going to fight!"
"You fight!" cried Miriam. "Why, you aren't sixteen!"
Will flared up. "Plenty of soldiers have _died_ at sixteen, Missy! 'OldJack' knows, if you don't--"
"Children, children!" said Margaret Cleave, in a quivering voice. "It isenough to know that not a man o
f this family but would fight now forVirginia, just as they fought eighty odd years ago! Yes, and we womendid our part then, and we would do it now! But I pray God, night andday--and Miriam, you should pray too--that this storm will not burst! Asfor you two who've always been sheltered and fed, who've never had ablow struck you, who've grown like tended plants in a garden--you don'tknow what war is! It's a great and deep Cup of Trembling! It's a scourgethat reaches the backs of all! It's universal destruction--and the giftthat the world should pray for is to build in peace! That is true, isn'tit, Richard?"
"Yes, it is true," said Richard. "Don't, Will," as the boy began tospeak. "Don't let's talk any more about it to-night. After all, a dealof storms go by--and it's a wise man who can read Time's order-book." Herose from the table. "It's like the fable. The King may die, the Ass maydie, the Philosopher may die--and next Christmas maybe the peacefulleston record! I'm going to ride to Lauderdale for a little while, and, ifyou like, I'll ask about that shotgun for you."
A few minutes later and he was out on the starlit road to Lauderdale. Ashe rode he thought, not of the Botetourt Resolutions, nor of FauquierCary, nor of Allan Gold, nor of the supper table at Three Oaks, nor of acase which he must fight through at the court house three days hence,but of Judith Cary. Dundee's hoofs beat it out on the frosty ground._Judith Cary--Judith Cary--Judith Cary!_ He thought of Greenwood, of thegarden there, of a week last summer, of Maury Stafford--Stafford whom atfirst meeting he had thought most likable! He did not think him soto-night, there at Silver Hill, ready to go to Lauderdaleto-morrow!--_Judith Cary--Judith Cary--Judith Cary._ He saw Staffordbeside her--Stafford beside her--Stafford beside her--
"If she love him," said Cleave, half aloud, "he must be worthy. I willnot be so petty nor so bitter! I wish her happiness.--_JudithCary--Judith Cary._ If she love him--"
To the left a little stream brawled through frosty meadows; to the rightrose a low hill black with cedars. Along the southern horizon stretchedthe Blue Ridge, a wall of the Titans, a rampart in the night. The linewas long and clean; behind it was an effect of light, a steel-likegleaming. Above blazed the winter stars. "If she love him--if she lovehim--" He determined that to-night at Lauderdale he would try to see heralone for a minute. He would find out--he must find out--if there wereany doubt he would resolve it.
The air was very still and clear. He heard a carriage before him on theroad. It was coming toward him--a horseman, too, evidently riding besideit. Just ahead the road crossed a bridge--not a good place for passingin the night-time. Cleave drew a little aside, reining in Dundee. With ahollow rumbling the carriage passed the streams. It proved to be anold-fashioned coach with lamps, drawn by strong, slow grey horses.Cleave recognized the Silver Hill equipage. Silver Hill must have beensupping with Lauderdale. Immediately he divined who was the horseman.The carriage drew alongside, the lamps making a small ring of light."Good-evening, Mr. Stafford!" said Cleave. The other raised his hat."Mr. Cleave, is it not? Good-evening, sir!" A voice spoke within thecoach. "It's Richard Cleave now! Stop, Ephraim!"
The slow grey horses came to a stand. Cleave dismounted, and came, hatin hand, to the coach window. The mistress of Silver Hill, a youngmarried woman, frank and sweet, put out a hand. "Good-evening, Mr.Cleave! You are on your way to Lauderdale? My sister and Maury Staffordand I are carrying Judith off to Silver Hill for the night.--She wantsto give you a message--"
She moved aside and Judith took her place--Judith in fur cap and cloak,her beautiful face just lit by the coach lamp. "It's not a message,Richard. I--I did not know that you were coming to Lauderdale to-night.Had I known it, I--Give my love, my dear love, to Cousin Margaret. Iwould have come to Three Oaks, only--"
"You are going home to-morrow?"
"Yes. Fauquier wishes to get back to Albemarle--"
"Will you start from Lauderdale?"
"No, from Silver Hill. He will come by for me. But had I known," saidJudith clearly, "had I known that you would ride to Lauderdaleto-night--"
"You would dutifully have stayed to see a cousin," thought Cleave insavage pain. He spoke quietly, in the controlled but vibrant voice hehad used on the hilltop. "I am sorry that I will not see you to-night. Iwill ride on, however, and talk to Fauquier. You will give my love, willyou not, to all my cousins at Greenwood? I do not forget how good allwere to me last summer!--Good-bye, Judith."
She gave him her hand. It trembled a little in her glove. "Come again toGreenwood! Winter or summer, it will be glad to see you!--Good-bye,Richard."
Fur cap, cloak, beautiful face, drew back. "Go on, Ephraim!" said themistress of Silver Hill.
The slow grey horses put themselves into motion, the coach passed on.Maury Stafford waited until Cleave had remounted. "It has been anexciting day!" he said. "I think that we are at the parting of theways."
"I think so. You will be at Silver Hill throughout the week?"
"No, I think that I, too, will ride toward Albemarle to-morrow. It isworth something to be with Fauquier Cary a little longer."
"That is quite true," said Cleave slowly. "I do not ride to Albemarleto-morrow, and so I will pursue my road to Lauderdale and make the mostof him to-night!" He turned his horse, lifted his hat. Stafford didlikewise. They parted, and Cleave presently heard the rapid hoofbeatovertake the Silver Hill coach and at once change to a slower rhythm."Now _he_ is speaking with her through the window!" The sound of wheeland hoof died away. Cleave shook Dundee's reins and went on towardLauderdale. _Judith Cary--Judith Cary--There are other things in lifethan love--other things than love--other things than love.... JudithCary--Judith Cary...._
At Three Oaks Margaret Cleave rested upon her couch by the fire. Miriamwas curled on the rug with a book, an apple, and Tabitha the cat. Willmended a skate-strap and discoursed of "Old Jack." "It's a fact, ma'am!Wilson worked the problem, gave the solution, and got from Old Jack aregular withering up! They'll all tell you, ma'am, that he excels inwithering up! 'You are wrong, Mr. Wilson,' says he, in that tone ofhis--dry as tinder, and makes you stop like a musket-shot! 'You arealways wrong. Go to your seat, sir.' Well, old Wilson went, of course,and sat there so angry he was shivering. You see he was right, and heknew it. Well, the day went on about as usual. It set in to snow, and bynight there was what a western man we've got calls a 'blizzard.'Barracks like an ice house, and snowing so you couldn't see across theCampus! 'T was so deadly cold and the lights so dismal that we ratherlooked forward to taps. Up comes an orderly. 'Mr. Wilson to theCommandant's office!'--Well, old Wilson looked startled, for he hadn'tdone anything; but off he marches, the rest of us predicting hanging.Well, whom d' ye reckon he found in the Commandant's office?"
"Old Jack?"
"Good marksmanship! It was Old Jack--snow all over, snow on his coat, onhis big boots, on his beard, on his cap. He lives most a mile from theInstitute, and the weather was bad, sure enough! Well, old Wilson didn'tknow what to expect--most likely hot shot, grape and canister withmusketry fire thrown in--but he saluted and stood fast. 'Mr. Wilson,'says Old Jack, 'upon returning home and going over with closed eyesafter supper as is my custom the day's work, I discovered that you wereright this morning and I was wrong. Your solution was correct. I felt itto be your due that I should tell you of my mistake as soon as Idiscovered it. I apologise for the statement that you were always wrong.You may go, sir.' Well, old Wilson never could tell what he said, butanyhow he accepted the apology, and saluted, and got out of the roomsomehow and back to barracks, and we breathed on the window and made aplace through which we watched Old Jack over the Campus, ploughing backto Mrs. Jack through the blizzard! So you see, ma'am, things like thatmake us lenient to Old Jack sometimes--though he is awfully dull and hasvery peculiar notions."
Margaret Cleave sat up. "Is that you, Richard?" Miriam put down Tabithaand rose to her knees. "Did you see Cousin Judith? Is she as beautifulas ever?" Will hospitably gave up the big chair. "You must have gallopedDundee both ways! Did you ask about the shotgun?"
Cleave took his seat at the foot of his mothe
r's couch. "Yes, Will, youmay have it.--Fauquier sent his love to you, Mother, and to Miriam. Theyleave for Greenwood to-morrow."
"And Cousin Judith," persisted Miriam. "What did she have on? Did shesing to you?"
Cleave picked up her fallen book and smoothed the leaves. "She was notthere. The Silver Hill people had taken her for the night. I passed themon the road.... There'll be thick ice, Will, if this weather lasts."
Later, when good-night had been said and he was alone in his bare,high-ceiled room, he looked, not at his law books nor at the poet'swords, left lying on the table, but he drew a chair before thefireplace, and from its depths he raised his eyes to his grandfather'ssword slung above the mantel-shelf. He sat there, long, with the swordbefore him; then he rose, took a book from the case, trimmed thecandles, and for an hour read of the campaigns of Fabius and Hannibal.