CHAPTER XLV
THE LONE TREE HILL
The three beautiful Carys walked together from the road gate toward thehouse. Before them, crowning the low hill, showed the white pillarsbetween oaks where the deep coloured leaves yet clung. The sun was down,the air violet, the negro children burning brush and leaves in thehollow behind the house quarter. Halfway to the pillars, there ran backfrom the drive a long double row of white chrysanthemums. The threesisters paused to gather some for the vases.
Unity and Molly gathered them. Judith sat down on the bank by the road,thick with dead leaves. She drew her scarf about her. Molly camepresently and sat beside her. "Dear Judith, dear Judith!" she said, inher soft little voice, and stroked her sister's dress.
Judith put her arm about her, and drew her close. "Molly, isn't it asthough the earth were dying? Just the kind of fading light and hush onethinks of going in--I don't know why, but I don't like chrysanthemumsany more."
"I know," said Molly, "there's a feel of mould in them, and of deadleaves and chilly nights. But the soldiers are so used to lying out ofdoors! I don't believe they mind it much, or they won't until the snowcomes. Judith--"
"Yes, honey."
"The soldiers that I have dreadful dreams about are the soldiers inprison. Judith, I dreamed about Major Stafford the other night! He hadblood upon his forehead and he was walking up and down, walking up anddown in a place with a grating."
"You mustn't dream so, Molly.--Oh, yes, yes, yes! I'm sorry for him. Onthe land and on the sea and for them that are in prison--"
Unity joined them, with her arm full of white bloom. "Oh, isn't there adreadful hush? How gay we used to be, even at twilight! Judith, Judith,let us do something!"
Judith looked at her with a twisted smile. "This morning, very early, wewent with Aunt Lucy over the storeroom and the smoke-house, and then wewent down to the quarter and got them all together, and told them howcareful now we would all have to be with meal and bacon. And Susan'sbaby had died in the night, and we had to comfort Susan, and thisafternoon we buried the baby. After breakfast we scraped almost the lastof the tablecloths into lint, and Molly made envelopes, and Daddy Benand I talked about shoes and how we could make them at home. Then AuntLucy and I went into town to the hospitals. There is a rumour ofsmallpox, but I am sure it is only a rumour. It has been a hard day. Anumber of sick were brought in from Fredericksburg. So much pneumonia!An old man and woman came up from North Carolina looking for their son.I took them through the wards. Oh, it was pitiful! No, he was notthere. Probably he was killed. And Unity went to the sewing-rooms, andhas been there sewing hard all day. And then we came home, and foundJulius almost in tears, and Molly triumphant with the parlour carpet allup and ready to be cut into squares--soldiers sleeping in the snowywinter under tulips and roses. And then we read father's letter, andthat was a comfort, a comfort! And then we took Susan's little baby andburied it, and did what we could for Susan; and then we walked down tothe gate and stopped to gather chrysanthemums. And now we are going backto the house, and I dare say there'll be some work to do between now andbedtime. We're doing something pretty nearly all the time, Unity."
Unity lifted with strength the mass of bloom above her head. "I know, Iknow! But it's in me to want a brass band to do it by! I want to see theflag waving! I want to hear the _sound_ of our work. Oh, I know I amtalking foolishness!" She took Judith by the hands, and lifted her toher feet. "Anyhow, you're brave enough, Judith, Judith darling! Come,let us race to the house."
The three were country-bred, fleet of foot. They ran, swiftly, lightly,up the long drive. Twilight was around them, the leaves drifting down,the leaves crisp under foot. The tall white pillars gleamed before them;through the curtainless windows showed, jewel-like, the flame of a woodfire. They reached the steps almost together, soberly mounted them, andentered the hall. Miss Lucy called to them from the library. "The papershave come."
The old room, quiet, grave, book-lined, stored with records of oldstruggles, lent itself with fitness to the papers nowadays. TheGreenwood Carys sat about the wood fire, Judith in an old armchair,Unity on an old embroidered stool, Molly in the corner of a great oldsofa. Miss Lucy pushed her chair into the ring of the lamplight and readaloud in her quick, low, vibrant voice. The army at Fredericksburg--thatwas what they thought of now, day and night. She read first of the armyat Fredericksburg--of Lee on the southern side of the Rappahannock, andBurnside on the northern, and the cannon all planted, and of the womenand children beginning to leave. She read all the official statements,all the rumours, all the guesses, all the prophecies of victory and therecord of suffering. Then she read the news of elsewhere in the vast,beleaguered fortress--of the fighting on the Mississippi, in Louisiana,in Arkansas, in the Carolinas; echoes from Cumberland Gap, echoes fromCorinth. She read all the Richmond news--hot criticism, hot defence ofthe President, of the Secretary of War, of the Secretary of State;echoes from the House, from the Senate; determined optimism as toforeign intervention; disdain, as determined, of Burnside's "On toRichmond"; passionate devotion to the grey armies in the field--all theloud war song of the South, clear and defiant! She read everything inthe paper. She read the market prices. Coffee $4 per lb. Tea $20 per lb.Wheat $5 per bushel. Corn $15 per barrel. Bacon $2 per lb. Sugar $50 perloaf. Chickens $10. Turkeys $50.
"Oh," cried Molly. "We have chickens yet, beside what we send to thehospitals! And we have eggs and milk and butter, and I was looking atthe turkeys to-day. I feel _wicked_!"
"A lot of the turkeys will die," said Unity consolingly. "They alwaysdo. I spoke to Sam about the ducks and the guinea-hens the other day. Itold him we were going to send them to Fredericksburg. He didn't likeit. 'Miss Unity, what fer you gwine ter send all dem critturs away lakdat? You sen' 'em from Greenwood, dey gwine die ob homesickness!' And wedon't use many eggs ourselves, honey, and we've no way to send themilk."
Miss Lucy having read the paper through, the Greenwood ladies went tosupper. That frugal meal over, they came back to the library, theparlour looking somewhat desolate with the carpet up and rolled in onecorner, waiting for the shears to-morrow. "The shepherds andshepherdesses look," said Unity, "as though they were shivering alittle. I don't suppose they ever thought they'd live to see a Wiltoncarpet cut into blankets for Carys and other soldiers gone to war! It'simpossible not to laugh when you think of Edward drawing one of thosecoverlets over him! Oh, me!"
"If Edward gets a furlough this winter," said Judith suddenly, "we mustgive him a party. With the two companies in town, and some of thesurgeons, there will be men enough. Then Virginia and Nancy and Deb andMaria and Betty and Agatha and all the refugeeing girls--we could have areal party once more--"
"Just leaving out the things to eat," said Unity; "and wearing very oldclothes. We'll do it, won't we, Aunt Lucy?"
Aunt Lucy thought it an excellent idea. "We mustn't get old before ourtime! We must keep brightness about the place. I have seen my motherlaugh and look all the gayer out of her beautiful black eyes when otherfolk would have been weeping!--I hear company coming, now! It's CousinWilliam, I think."
Cousin William it was, not gone to the war because of sixty-eight yearsand a rich inheritance of gout. He came in, ruddy as an apple, riddenover to cheer up the Greenwood folk and hear and tell news from thefront. He had sons there himself, and a letter which he would read forthe thirtieth time. When Judith had made him take the great armchair,and Miss Lucy had rung for Julius and a glass of wine, and Unity hadtrimmed the light, and Molly replenished the fire, he read, and as inthese days no one ever read anything perfunctorily, the reading was moretelling than an actor could have made it. In places Cousin Williamhimself and his hearers laughed, and in places reader and listenerbrushed hand across eyes. "Your loving son," he read, and folded thesheets carefully, for they were becoming a little worn. "Now, what'syour news, Lucy? Have you heard from Fauquier?"
"Yes, yesterday. He has reached Fredericksburg from Winchester. It isone of his old, dry, charming letters, only--only a l
ittle hard to makeout in places, because he's not yet used to writing with his left hand."Miss Lucy's face worked for a moment; then she smiled again, with acertain high courage and sweetness, and taking the letter from herwork-basket read it to Cousin William. He listened, nodding his head atintervals. "Yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure! You can't remember UncleEdward Churchill, Lucy, but I can. He used to read Swift to me, though Ididn't care for it much, except for Gulliver. Fauquier reminds me of himoften, except that Uncle Edward was bitter--though it wasn't because ofhis empty sleeve; it was for other things.--Fredericksburg! There'll beanother terrible battle. And Warwick?"
"We heard from him to-day--a short letter, hurriedly written; but oh!like Warwick--like Warwick!"
She read this, too. It was followed by a silence in the old Greenwoodlibrary. Then said Cousin William softly, "It is worth while to get suchletters. There aren't many like Warwick Cary. He's the kind that provesthe future--shows it isn't just a noble dream. And Edward?"
"A letter three days ago, just after you were here the last time."
The room smiled. "It was what Edward calls a screed," said Molly; "therewasn't a thing about war in it."
Unity stirred the fire, making the sparks go up chimney. "Five pagesabout Massanutton in her autumn robes, and a sonnet to the Shenandoah! Ilike Edward."
At ten o'clock Cousin William rode away. The Greenwood women hadprayers, and then, linked together, they went up the broad, old shallowstairs to the gallery above, and kissed one another good-night.
In her own room Judith laid pine knots upon the brands. Up flared thelight, and reddened all the pleasant chamber. She unclad herself,slipped on her dressing-gown, brushed and braided her dusky hair,rippling, long and thick, then fed again the fire, took letters from herrosewood box, and in the light from the hearth read them for thethousandth time. There was none from Richard Cleave after July, none,none! Sitting in a low chair that had been her mother's, she bowedherself over the June-time letters, over the May-time letters. There hadbeen but two months of bliss, two months! She read them again, althoughshe had them all by heart; she held her hand as though it held a pen andtraced the words so that she might feel, "Here and so, his hand rested";she put the paper to her cheek, against her lips; she slipped to herknees, laid her arms along the seat of the chair and her head upon them,and prayed. "O God! my lover hast Thou put far from me.--O God! my loverhast Thou put far from me."
She knelt there long; but at last she rose, laid the letters in the box,and took from another compartment Margaret Cleave's. These were sinceJuly, a letter every fortnight. Judith read again the later ones, theones of the late summer. "Dear child--dearest child, I cannot tell you!Only be forever sure that wherever he is, at Three Oaks or elsewhere, heloves you, loves you! No; I do not know that his is the course that Ishould take, but then women are different. I do not think I would everthink of pride or of the world and the world's opinion. If you cried tome I would go, and the world should not hold me back. But men have beentrained to uphold that kind of pride. I did not think that Richard hadit, but I see now all his father in him. Darling child, I do not thinkthat it will last, but just now, oh, just now, you must possess yourheart in patience!"
The words blurred before Judith's eyes. She sunk her head upon herknees. "Possess my heart in patience--Possess my heart in patience--Oh,God, I am not old enough yet to do it!"
She read another letter, one of later date. "Judith, I promised. Icannot tell you. But he is well, oh, believe that! and believe, too,that he is doing his work. He is not the kind to rest from work, he mustwork. And slowly, slowly that brings salvation. You are a noble woman.Be noble still--and wait awhile--and wait awhile! It _will_ come right.Miriam is better. The woods about Three Oaks are gorgeous."
She read another. "Child, he is not at Three Oaks. Now you mustrest--rest and wait."
Judith put the letters in the rosewood box. She arose, locked her handsbehind her head and walked softly up and down the room. "Rest--rest andwait. Patience--quietude--tranquillity--strength--fortitude--endurance.--Rest--patience--calm quietude--"
It worked but partially. Presently, when she lay down it was to liestill enough, but sleepless. Late in the night she slept, but it was todream again, much as she had dreamed during the Seven Days, great andtragic visions. Dawn waked her. She lay, staring at the white ceiling;then she arose. It was not cold. The earth lay still at this season, yetwrapped and warmed and softened with the memories of summer. Judithlooked out of the window. There was a glow in the eastern sky, the treeswere motionless, the brown path over the hills showed like a beckoningfinger. She dressed, put a cloak about her, went softly downstairs andleft the house.
The path across the meadow, through the wood, up the lone tree hill--shewould see the sunrise, she would get above the world. She walkedquickly, lightly, through the dank stillness. There was mist in themeadow, above the little stream. The wood was shadowy; mist, likeghosts, between the trees. She passed through it and came out on thebare hillside, rising dome-like to the one tree with the bench aroundit. The eastern sky was burning gold. Judith stood still. There was aman seated upon the bench, on the side that overlooked Greenwood. He satwith his head buried in his hands. She could not yet tell, but shethought he was in uniform.
With the thought she moved onward. She never remembered afterwards,whether she recognized him then, or whether she thought, "A soldiersleeping through the night up here! Why did he not come to the house?"She made no noise on the bare, moist earth of the path. She was withinthirty feet of the bench when Cleave lifted his head from his hands,rose, stood still a moment, then with a gesture, weary and determined,turned to descend the hill--on the side away from Greenwood, toward across-country road. She called to him. "Richard!"
It was rapture--all beneath the rising sun forgotten save only thisgold-lit hilltop, with its tree from Eden garden! But since it wasearth, and Paradise not yet real, and there were checks and bars enoughin their human lot, they came back from that seraph flight. This was thelone tree hill above Greenwood, and a November day, though gold-touched,and Philip Deaderick must get back to the section of Pelham's artilleryrefitting at Gordonsville.--"What do you mean? You are a soldier--youare back in the army?--but you have another name? Oh, Richard, I see, Isee! Oh, I might have known! A gunner with Pelham. Oh, my gunner withPelham, why did you not come before?"
Cleave wrung her hands, clasped in his, then bent and kissed them."Judith, I will speak to you as to a comrade, because you would be thetruest comrade ever man had! What would you do--what would you havedone--in my place? What would you do now, in my place, but say--but say,'I love you; let me go'?"
"I?" said Judith. "What would I have done? I would have reentered thearmy as you have reentered it. I would serve again as you are servingagain. If it were necessary--Oh, I see that it was necessary!--I wouldserve disguised as you are disguised. But--but--when it came to JudithCary--"
"Judith, say that it was not you and I, but some other disgraced soldierand one of your sisters--"
"You are not a disgraced soldier. The innocent cannot be disgraced."
"Who knows that I was innocent? My mother, and you, Judith, know it; mykinspeople and certain friends believe it; but all the rest of thecountry--the army, the people--they don't believe it. Let my name beknown to-morrow, and by evening a rougher dismissal than before! Do younot see, do you not see, Judith?"
"I see partly. I see that you must serve. I see that you walk withdangers. I see that--that you could not even write. I see that I mustpossess my soul in patience. I see that we must wait--Oh, God, it is allwaiting, waiting, waiting! But I do not see--and I _refuse_ to see,Richard--anything at the end of it all but love, happiness, union, homefor you and me!"
He held her close. "Judith, I do not know the right. I am not sure thatI see the right, my soul is so tempest-tossed. That day at White OakSwamp. If I could cleanse that day, bring it again into line with theother days of my life, poor and halting though they may have been,though they may be, if
I could make all men say 'His life was awhole--one life, not two. He had no twin, a disobedient soldier, a liarand betrayer, as it was said he had.'--If I could do that, Judith! I donot see how I will do it, and yet it is my intention to do it. Thatdone, then, darling, darling! I will make true love to you. If it is notdone--but I will not think of that. Only--only--how to do it, how to doit! That maddens me at times--"
"Is it that? Then we must think of that. They are not all dead who couldtell?--"
"Maury Stafford is not dead."
"Maury Stafford!--What has he to do with it?"
Cleave laughed, a sound sufficiently grim. "What has he not to do withit?--with that order which he carried from General Jackson to GeneralWinder, and from General Winder--not, before God! to me! Winder is dead,and the courier who could have told is dead, and others whom I mighthave called are dead--dead, I will avow, because of my choice of action,though still--given that false order--I justify that choice! And now wehear that Major Stafford was among those taken prisoner at Sharpsburg."
Judith stood upright, her hand at her breast, her eyes narrowed. "Untilthis hour I never knew the name of that officer. I never thought to ask.I never thought of the mistake lying there. The mistake! All thesemonths I have thought of it as a mistake--as one of thosemisunderstandings, mishappenings, accidental, incomprehensible, thatwound and blister human life! I never saw it in a lightning flash forwhat it was till now!"
She looked about her, still with an intent and narrowed gaze. "The lonetree hill. It is a good place to see it from. There is nothing to bedone but to join this day to a day last June--the day of Port Republic."Raising her hands she pressed them to her eyes as though to shut out averitable lightning glare, then dropped them. She stood very straight,young, slender, finely and strongly fibred. "He said he would do theworst he could, and he has done it. And I said, 'At your peril!' and athis peril it shall be! And the harm that he has done, he shall undo it!"She turned. "Richard! he shall undo it."
Cleave stood beside her. "Love, love! how beautiful the light is overGreenwood! I thought, sitting here, 'I will not wait for the sunshine; Iwill go while all things are in shadow.' And I turned to go. And thencame the sunshine. I must go now--away from the sunshine. I had but anhour, and half of it was gone before the sunshine came."
"How shall I know," she said, "if you are living? There is a battlecoming."
"Yes. Judith, I will not write to you. Do not ask me; I will not. Butafter each battle I have managed somehow to get a line to my mother. Shewill tell you that I am living, well and living. I do not think that Ishall die--no, not till Maury Stafford and I have met again!"
"He is in prison. They say so many die there.... Oh, Richard, write tome--"
But Cleave would not. "No! To do that is to say, 'All is as it was, andI let her take me with this stain!' I will not--I will not. Circumstancehas betrayed us here this hour. We could not help it, and it has been aglory, a dream. That is it, a dream. I will not wake till I have saidgood-bye!"
They said good-bye, still in the dream, as lovers might, when one goesforth to battle and the other stays behind. He released her, turnedshort and sharp, and went down from the lone tree hill, down the sidefrom Greenwood, to the country road. A piece of woods hid him fromsight.
Judith stood motionless for a time, then she sat down upon the bench.She sat like a sibyl, elbows on knees, chin in hands, her gaze narrowedand fixed. She spoke aloud, and her voice was strange in her own ears."Maury Stafford in prison. Where, and how long?"