CHAPTER IV
GREENWOOD
The April sunshine, streaming in at the long windows, filled theGreenwood drawing-room with dreamy gold. It lit the ancient wall-paperwhere the shepherds and shepherdesses wooed between garlands of roses,and it aided the tone of time among the portraits. The boughs of peachand cherry blossoms in the old potpourri jars made it welcome, and thedark, waxed floor let it lie in faded pools. Miss Lucy Cary was glad tosee it as she sat by the fire knitting fine white wool into a sacque fora baby. There was a fire of hickory, but it burned low, as though itknew the winter was over. The knitter's needles glinted in the sunshine.She was forty-eight and unmarried, and it was her delight to makebeautiful, soft little sacques and shoes and coverlets for every actualor prospective baby in all the wide circle of her kindred and friends.
A tap at the door, and the old Greenwood butler entered with themail-bag. Miss Lucy, laying down her knitting, took it from him witheager fingers. _Place a la poste_--in eighteen hundred and sixty-one!She untied the string, emptied letters and papers upon the table besideher, and began to sort them. Julius, a spare and venerable piece ofgrey-headed ebony, an autocrat of exquisite manners and great familypride, stood back a little and waited for directions.
Miss Lucy, taking up one after another the contents of the bag, made hercomments half aloud. "Newspapers, newspapers! Nothing but the twelfthand Fort Sumter! _The Whig._--'South Carolina is too hot-headed!--butwhen all's said, the North remains the aggressor.' _TheExaminer._--'Seward's promises are not worth the paper they are writtenupon.' '_Faith as to Sumter fully kept--wait and see._' That which wasseen was a fleet of eleven vessels, with two hundred and eighty-fiveguns and twenty-four hundred men--'_carrying provisions to a starvinggarrison!_' Have done with cant, and welcome open war! _TheEnquirer._--'Virginia will still succeed in mediating. Virginia from hercurule chair, tranquil and fast in the Union, will persuade, willreconcile these differences!' Amen to that!" said Miss Lucy, and took upanother bundle. "_The Staunton Gazette_--_The Farmer's Magazine_--_TheLiterary Messenger_--My _Blackwood_--Julius!"
"Yaas, Miss Lucy."
"Julius, the Reverend Mr. Corbin Wood will be here for supper and tospend the night. Let Car'line know."
"Yaas, Miss Lucy. Easter's Jim hab obsarved to me dat Marse Edward amconducin' home a gent'man from Kentucky."
"Very well," said Miss Lucy, still sorting. "_The WinchesterTimes_--_The Baltimore Sun._--The mint's best, Julius, in the lowerbed. I walked by there this morning.--Letters for my brother! I'llreaddress these, and Easter's Jim must take them to town in time for theRichmond train."
"Yaas, Miss Lucy. Easter's Jim hab imported dat Marse Berkeley Cyarterdone recompense him on de road dis mahnin' ter know when Marster'scomin' home."
"Just as soon," said Miss Lucy, "as the Convention brings everybody totheir senses.--Three letters for Edward--one in young Beaufort Porcher'swriting. Now we'll hear the Charleston version--probably he fired thefirst shot!--A note for me.--Julius, the Palo Alto ladies will stop byfor dinner to-morrow. Tell Car'line."
"Yaas, Miss Lucy."
Miss Lucy took up a thick, bluish envelope. "From Fauquier at last--fromthe Red River." She opened the letter, ran rapidly over the half-dozensheets, then laid them aside for a more leisurely perusal. "It's one ofhis swift, light, amusing letters! He hasn't heard aboutSumter.--There'll be a message for you, Julius. There always is."
Julius's smile was as bland as sunshine. "Yaas, Miss Lucy. I 'spectsdar'll be some excommunication fer me. Marse Fauquier sho' do favour OldMarster in dat.--He don' never forgit! 'Pears ter me he'd better comehome--all dis heah congratulatin' backwards an' forwards wid gunpowderover de kintry! Gunpowder gwine burn ef folk git reckless!"
Miss Lucy sighed. "It will that, Julius,--it's burning now. Edward fromSally Hampton. More Charleston news!--One for Molly, three for Unity,five for Judith--"
"Miss Judith jes' sont er 'lumination by one of de chillern at de gate.She an' Marse Maury Stafford'll be back by five. Dey ain' gwine ridefurder'n Monticello."
"Very well. Mr. Stafford will be here to supper, then. HairstonBreckinridge, too, I imagine. Tell Car'line."
Miss Lucy readdressed the letters for her brother, a year older thanherself, and the master of Greenwood, a strong Whig influence in hissection of the State, and now in Richmond, in the Convention there,speaking earnestly for amity, a better understanding between SovereignStates, and a happily restored Union. His wife, upon whom he hadlavished an intense and chivalric devotion, was long dead, and for yearshis sister had taken the head of his table and cared like a mother forhis children.
She sat now, at work, beneath the portrait of her own mother. As good asgold, as true as steel, warm-hearted and large-natured, active, capable,and of a sunny humour, she kept her place in the hearts of all who knewher. Not a great beauty as had been her mother, she was yet a handsomewoman, clear brunette with bright, dark eyes and a most likable mouth.Miss Lucy never undertook to explain why she had not married, but herbrothers thought they knew. She finished the letters and gave them toJulius. "Let Easter's Jim take them right away, in time for the eveningtrain.--Have you seen Miss Unity?"
"Yaas, ma'am. Miss Unity am in de flower gyarden wid Marse HairstonBreckinridge. Dey're training roses."
"Where is Miss Molly?"
"Miss Molly am in er reverence over er big book in de library."
The youngest Miss Cary's voice floated in from the hall. "No, I'm not,Uncle Julius. Open the door wider, please!" Julius obeyed, and sheentered the drawing-room with a great atlas outspread upon her arms."Aunt Lucy, where _are_ all these places? I can't find them. The Islandand Fort Moultrie and Fort Sumter and Fort Pickens, and the rest ofthem! I wish when bombardments and surrenders and exciting things happenthey'd happen nearer home!"
"Child, child!" cried Miss Lucy, "don't you ever say such a thing asthat again! The way you young people talk is enough to bring down ajudgment upon us! It's like Sir Walter crying 'Bonny bonny!' to thejagged lightnings. You are eighty years away from a great war, and youdon't know what you are talking about, and may you never be anynearer!--Yes, Julius, that's all. Tell Easter's Jim to go rightaway.--Now, Molly, this is the island, and here is Fort Moultrie andhere Fort Sumter. I used to know Charleston, when I was a girl. I cansee now the Battery, and the blue sky, and the roses,--and the roses."
She took up her knitting and made a few stitches mechanically, then laidit down and applied herself to Fauquier Cary's letter. Molly, ensconcedin a window, was already busy with her own. Presently she spoke. "MiriamCleave says that Will passed his examination higher than any one."
"That is good!" said Miss Lucy. "They all have fine minds--the Cleaves.What else does she say?"
"She says that Richard has given her a silk dress for her birthday, andshe's going to have it made with angel sleeves, and wear a hoop with it.She's sixteen--just like me."
"Richard's a good brother."
"She says that Richard has gone to Richmond--something about arms forhis Company of Volunteers. Aunt Lucy--"
"Yes, dear."
"I think that Richard loves Judith."
"Molly, Molly, stop romancing!"
"I am not romancing. I don't believe in it. That week last summer heused to watch her and Mr. Stafford--and there was a look in his eyeslike the knight's in the 'Arcadia'--"
"Molly! Molly!"
"And everybody knew that Mr. Stafford was a suitor. _I_ knew it--Eastertold me. And everybody thought that Judith was going to make him happy,only she doesn't seem to have done so--at least, not yet. And there wasthe big tournament, and Richard and Dundee took all the rings, though Iknow that Mr. Stafford had expected to, and Judith let Richard crown herqueen, but she looked just as pale and still! and Richard had a linebetween his brows, and I think he thought she would rather have had theMaid of Honour's crown that Mr. Stafford won and gave to just a littlegirl--"
"Molly, I am going to lock up every poetry book in the house--"
"And that was on
e day, and the next morning Richard looked stern andfine, and rode away. He isn't really handsome--not like Edward, thatis--only he has a way of looking so. And Judith--"
"Molly, you're uncanny--"
"I'm not uncanny. I can't help seeing. And the night after thetournament I slept in Judith's room, and I woke up three times, and eachtime there was Judith still sitting in the window, in the moonlight, andthe roses Richard had crowned her with beside her in grandmother'sLowestoft bowl. And each time I asked her, 'Why don't you come to bed,Judith?' and each time she said, 'I'm not sleepy.' Then in the morningRichard rode away, and the next day was Sunday, and Judith went tochurch both morning and evening, and that night she took so long to sayher prayers she must have been praying for the whole world--"
Miss Lucy rose with energy. "Stop, Molly! I shouldn't have let you everbegin. It's not kind to watch people like that."
"I wasn't watching Judith," said Molly. "I'd scorn to do such a thing! Iwas just seeing. And I never said a word about her and Richard untilthis instant when the sunshine came in somehow and started it. And Idon't know that she likes Richard any more. I think she's trying hard tolike Mr. Stafford--he wants her to so much!"
"Stop talking, honey, and don't have so many fancies, and don't read somuch poetry!--Who is it coming up the drive?"
"It's Mr. Wood on his old grey horse--like a nice, quiet knight out ofthe 'Faery Queen.' Didn't you ever notice, Aunt Lucy, how everybodyreally belongs in a book?"
On the old, broad, pillared porch the two found the second Miss Cary andyoung Hairston Breckinridge. Apparently in training the roses they haddiscovered a thorn. They sat in silence--at opposite sides of thesteps--nursing the recollection. Breckinridge regarded the toe of hisboot, Unity the distant Blue Ridge, until, Mr. Corbin Wood and his greyhorse coming into view between the oaks, they regarded him.
"The air," said Miss Lucy, from the doorway, "is turning cold. What didyou fall out about?"
"South Carolina," answered Unity, with serenity. "It's not unlikely thatour grandchildren will be falling out about South Carolina. Mr.Breckinridge is a Democrat and a fire-eater. Anyhow, Virginia is notgoing to secede just because he wants her to!"
The angry young disciple of Calhoun opposite was moved to reply, but atthat moment Mr. Corbin Wood arriving before the steps, he must perforcerun down to greet him and help him dismount. A negro had hardly takenthe grey, and Mr. Wood was yet speaking to the ladies upon the porch,when two other horsemen appeared, mounted on much more fiery steeds, andcoming at a gait that approached the ancient "planter's pace." "Edwardand Hilary Preston," said Miss Lucy, "and away down the road, I seeJudith and Mr. Stafford."
The two in advance riding up the drive beneath the mighty oaks anddismounting, the gravel space before the white-pillared porch became ascene of animation, with beautiful, spirited horses, leaping dogs, negroservants, and gay horsemen. Edward Cary sprang up the steps. "AuntLucy, you remember Hilary Preston!--and this is my sister Unity,Preston,--the Quakeress we call her! and this is Molly, the littleone!--Mr. Wood, I am very glad to see you, sir! Aunt Lucy! VirginiaPage, the two Masons, and Nancy Carter are coming over after supper withCousin William, and I fancy that Peyton and Dabney and Rives and Leewill arrive about the same time. We might have a little dance, eh?Here's Stafford with Judith, now!"
In the Greenwood drawing-room, after candle-light, they had the littledance. Negro fiddlers, two of them, born musicians, came from thequarter. They were dressed in an elaborate best, they were as suavelyhappy as tropical children, and beamingly eager for the credit in thedance, as in all things else, of "de fambly." Down came the bow upon thestrings, out upon the April night floated "Money Musk!" All thefurniture was pushed aside, the polished floor gave back the lights.From the walls men and women of the past smiled upon a stage they nolonger trod, and between garlands of roses the shepherds andshepherdesses pursued their long, long courtship. The night was mild,the windows partly open, the young girls dancing in gowns of summerystuff. Their very wide skirts were printed over with pale flowers, theirbodices were cut low, with a fall of lace against the white bosom. Thehair was worn smooth and drawn over the ear, with on either side abright cluster of blossoms. The fiddlers played "Malbrook s'en va-t-enguerre." Laughter, quick and gay, or low and ripplingly sweet, flowedthrough the old room. The dances were all square, for there existed inthe country a prejudice against round dancing. Once Edward Cary pushed afriend down on the piano stool, and whirled with Nancy Carter into themiddle of the room in a waltz. But Miss Lucy shook her head at hernephew, and Cousin William gazed sternly at Nancy, and the fiddlerslooked scandalized. Scipio, the old, old one, who could remember theLafayette ball, held his bow awfully poised.
Judith Cary, dressed in a soft, strange, dull blue, and wearing a littlecrown of rosy flowers, danced along like the lady of Saint Agnes Eve.Maury Stafford marked how absent was her gaze, and he hoped that she wasdreaming of their ride that afternoon, of the clear green woods and thedogwood stars, and of some words that he had said. In these days he washoping against hope. Well off and well-bred, good to look at, pleasantof speech, at times indolent, at times ardent, a little silent on thewhole, and never failing to match the occasion with just the right shadeof intelligence, a certain grip and essence in this man made itself feltlike the firm bed of a river beneath the flowing water. He was not ofAlbemarle; he was of a tide-water county, but he came to Albemarle andstayed with kindred, and no one doubted that he strove for an Albemarlebride. It was the opinion of the county people that he would win her. Itwas hard to see why he should not. He was desperately in love, and fartoo determined to take the first "No" for an answer. Until the lasteight months it had been his own conclusion that he would win.
The old clock in the hall struck ten; in an interval between the dancesJudith slipped away. Stafford wished to follow her, but Cousin Williamheld him like the Ancient Mariner and talked of the long past on theEastern Shore. Judith, entering the library, came upon the Reverend Mr.Corbin Wood, deep in a great chair and a calf-bound volume. "Come in,come in, Judith my dear, and tell me about the dance."
"It is a pretty dance," said Judith. "Do you think it would be verywrong of you to watch it?"
Mr. Wood, the long thin fingers of one hand lightly touching the longthin fingers of the other hand, considered the matter. "Why, no," hesaid in a mellow and genial voice. "Why, no--it is always hard for me tothink that anything beautiful is wrong. It is this way. I go into thedrawing-room and watch you. It is, as you say, a very pretty sight! Butif I find it so and still keep a long face, I am to myself something ofa hypocrite. And if I testify my delight, if I am absorbed in yourevolutions, and think only of springtime and growing things, and show mythought, then to every one of you, and indeed to myself too, my dear, Iam something out of my character! So it seems better to sit here andread Jeremy Taylor."
"You have the book upside down," said Judith softly. Her old friend puton his glasses, gravely looked, and reversed the volume. He laughed, andthen he sighed. "I was thinking of the country, Judith. It's the onlybook that is interesting now--and the recital's tragic, my dear; therecital's tragic!"
From the hall came Edward Cary's voice, "Judith, Judith, we want you forthe reel!"
In the drawing-room the music quickened. Scipio played with all hissoul, his eyes uprolled, his lips parted, his woolly head nodding, hisvast foot beating time; young Eli, black and shining, seconded him ably;without the doors and windows gathered the house servants, absorbed,admiring, laughing without noise. The April wind, fragrant of greeningforests, ploughed land, and fruit trees, blew in and out the long, thincurtains. Faster went the bow upon the fiddle, the room became morebrilliant and more dreamy. The flowers in the old, old blue jars grewpinker, mistier, the lights had halos, the portraits smiled forthright;but from greater distances, the loud ticking of the clock without thedoor changed to a great rhythm, as though Time were using a violinstring. The laughter swelled, waves of brightness went through theancient room. They danced the "Virginia
Reel."
Miss Lucy, sitting beside Cousin William on the sofa, raised her head."Horses are coming up the drive!"
"That's not unusual," said Cousin William, with a smile. "Why do youlook so startled?"
"I don't know. I thought--but that's not possible." Miss Lucy half rose,then took her seat again. Cousin William listened. "The air's very clearto-night, and there must be an echo. It does sound like a great body ofhorsemen coming out of the distance."
"Balance corners!" called Eli. "Swing yo' partners!--_Sachay!_"
The music drew to a height, the lights burned with a fuller power, theodour of the flowers spread, subtle and intense. The dancers moved moreand more quickly. "There are only three horses," said Cousin William,"two in front and one behind. Two gentlemen and a servant. Now they arecrossing the little bridge. Shall I go see who they are?"
Miss Lucy rose. Outside a dog had begun an excited and joyous barking."That's Gelert! It's my brother he is welcoming!" From the porch came aburst of negro voices. "Who dat comin' up de drive? Who dat,Gelert?--Dat's marster!--Go 'way, 'ooman! don' tell me he in Richmon'!Dat's marster!"
The reel ended suddenly. There was a sound of dismounting, a step uponthe porch, a voice. "Father, father!" cried Judith, and ran into thehall.
A minute later the master of Greenwood, his children about him, enteredthe drawing-room. Behind him came Richard Cleave. There was a momentaryconfusion of greeting; it passed, and from the two men, travel-stained,fatigued, pale with some suppressed emotion, there sped to the gayercompany a subtle wave of expectation and alarm. Miss Lucy was the firstwhom it reached. "What is it, brother?" she said quickly. Cousin Williamfollowed, "For God's sake, Cary, what has happened?" Edward spoke frombeside the piano, "Has it come, father?" With his words his hand fellupon the keys, suddenly and startlingly upon the bass.
The vibrations died away. "Yes, it has come, Edward," said the master.Holding up his hand for silence, he moved to the middle of the room, andstood there, beneath the lit candles, the swinging prisms of thechandelier. Peale's portrait of his father hung upon the wall. Theresemblance was strong between the dead and the living.
"Be quiet, every one," he said now, speaking very quietly himself. "Isall the household here? Open the window wide, Julius. Let the houseservants come inside. If there are men and women from the quarter on theporch, tell them to come closer, so that all may hear." Julius openedthe long windows, the negroes came in, Mammy in her turban, Easter andChloe the seamstresses, Car'line the cook, the housemaids, thedining-room boys, the young girls who waited upon the daughters of thehouse, Isham the coachman, Shirley the master's body-servant, Edward'sboy Jeames, and the nondescript half dozen who helped the others. Theruder sort upon the porch, "outdoor" negroes drawn by the music and thespectacle from the quarter, approached the windows. Together they made abackground, dark and exotic, splashed with bright colour, for the Aryanstock ranged to the front. The drawing-room was filled. Mr. Corbin Woodhad come noiselessly in from the library, none was missing. Guests,family, and servants stood motionless. There was that in the bearing ofthe master which seemed, in the silence, to detach itself, and to cometoward them like an emanation, cold, pure, and quiet, determined andimposing. He spoke. "I supposed that you had heard the news. Along therailroad and in Charlottesville it was known; there were great crowds. Isee it has not reached you. Mr. Lincoln has called for seventy-fivethousand troops with which to procure South Carolina and the GulfStates' return into the Union. He--the North--demands of Virginia eightthousand men to be used for this purpose. She will not give them. Wehave fought long and patiently for peace; now we fight no more on thatfield. Matters have brought me for a few hours to Albemarle. To-morrow Ireturn to Richmond, to the Convention, to do that which I never thoughtto do, to give my voice for the secession of Virginia."
There was a general movement throughout the room. "So!" said Corbin Woodvery softly. Cousin William rose from the sofa, drew a long breath, andsmote his hands together. "It had to come, Cary, it had to come! Northand South, we've pulled in different directions for sixty years! Thecord had to snap." From among the awed servants came the voice of oldIsham the coachman, "'Secession!' What dat wuhd 'Secession,' marster?"
"That word," answered Warwick Cary, "means, Isham, that Virginia leavesof her free will a Union that she entered of her free will. The terms ofthat Union have been broken; she cannot, within it, preserve herintegrity, her dignity, and her liberty. Therefore she uses the rightwhich she reserved--the right of self-preservation. Unterrified sheentered the Union, unterrified she leaves it."
He paused, standing in the white light of the candles, among hischildren, kinsmen, friends, and slaves. To the last, if ingrainedaffection, tolerance, and understanding, quiet guidance, patient care, akindly heart, a ready ear, a wise and simple dealing with a simple, notwise folk, are true constituents of friendship, he was then their friendas well as their master. They with all the room hung now upon his words.The light wind blew the curtains out like streamers, the candlesflickered, petals from the blossoms in the jars fell on the floor, theclock that had ticked in the hall for a hundred years struck eleven."There will be war," said the master. "There should not be, but therewill be. How long it will last, how deadly its nature, no man can tell!The North has not thought us in earnest, but the North is mistaken. Weare in earnest. War will be for us a desperate thing. We are utterlyunprepared; we are seven million against twenty million, an agriculturalcountry against a manufacturing one. We have little shipping, they havemuch. They will gain command of the sea. If we can get our cotton toEurope we will have gold; therefore, if they can block our ports theywill do it. There are those who think the powers will intervene and thatwe will have England or France for our ally. I am not of them. The oddsare greatly against us. We have struggled for peace; apparently wecannot have it; now we will fight for the conviction that is in us. Itwill be for us a war of defence, with the North for the invader, andVirginia will prove the battle-ground. I hold it very probable thatthere are men here to-night who will die in battle. You women are goingto suffer--to suffer more than we. I think of my mother and of my wife,and I know that you will neither hold us back nor murmur. All that iscourageous, all that is heroically devoted, Virginia expects and willreceive from you." He turned to face more fully the crowding negroes."To every man and woman of you here, not the less my friends that youare called my servants, emancipated at my death, every one of you, bythat will which I read to you years ago, each of you having long knownthat you have but to ask for your freedom in my lifetime to have it--toyou all I speak. Julius, Shirley, Isham, Scipio, Mammy, and the rest ofyou, there are hard times coming! My son and I will go to war. Much willbe left in your trust. As I and mine have tried to deal by you, so doyou deal by us--"
Shirley raised his voice. "Don' leave nothin' in trus' ter me, marster!Kase I's gwine wid you! Sho! Don' I know dat when gent'men fight deygwine want dey bes' shu't, an dey hat breshed jes' right! I'se gwine widyou!" A face as dark as charcoal, with rolling eyes, looked over mammy'sshoulder. "Ain' Marse Edward gwine? 'Cose he gwine! Den Jeames gwine,too!" A murmuring sound came from the band of servants. They began torock themselves, to strike with the tongue the roof of the mouth, towork toward a camp-meeting excitement. Out on the porch Big Mimy, thewasherwoman, made herself heard. "Des' let um _dar_ ter come fightin'Greenwood folk! Des' let me hab at um with er tub er hot water!" Scipio,old and withered as a last year's reed, began to sway violently.Suddenly he broke into a chant. "Ain' I done heard about hit er milliontimes? Dar wuz Gineral Lafayette an' dar wuz Gineral Rochambeau, an' darwuz Gineral Washington! An' dar wuz Light Horse Harry Lee, an' dar wuzMarse Fauquier Cary dat wuz marster's gran'father, an' Marse EdwardChurchill! An' dey took de swords, an' dey made to stack de ahms, an'dey druv--an' dey druv King Pharaoh into de sea! Ain' dey gwine ter dohit ergain? Tell me dat! Ain' dey gwine ter do hit ergain?"
The master signed with his hand. "I trust you--one and all. I'll speakto you again before I go away to-morrow, but now w
e'll say good-night.Good-night, Mammy, Isham, Scipio, Easter, all of you!"
They went, one by one, each with his bow or her curtsy. Mammy paused amoment to deliver her pronunciamento. "Don' you fret, marster! I ain'gwine let er soul _tech_ one er my chillern!" Julius followed her."Dat's so, marster! An' Gawd Ermoughty knows I'se gwine always prohibitjes' de same care ob de fambly an' de silver!"
When they were gone came the leave-taking of the guests, of all who werenot to sleep that night at Greenwood. Maury Stafford was to stay, andMr. Corbin Wood. Of those going Cousin William was the only one ofyears; the others were all young,--young men, young women on the edge ofan unthought-of experience, on the brink of a bitter, tempestuous,wintry sea. They did not see it so; there was danger, of course, butthey thought of splendour and heroism, of trumpet calls and wavingbanners. They were much excited; the young girls half frightened, themen wild to be at home, with plans for volunteering. "Good-bye, andgood-bye, and good-bye again! and when it's all over--it will be over inthree months, will it not, sir?--we'll finish the 'Virginia Reel!'"
The large, old coach and the saddle horses were brought around. Theydrove or rode away, through the April night, by the forsythia and theflowering almond, between the towering oaks, over the bridge with ahollow sound. Those left behind upon the Greenwood porch, clustered atthe top of the steps, between the white pillars, stood in silence untilthe noise of departure had died away. Warwick Cary, his arm aroundMolly, his hand in Judith's, Unity's cheek resting against his shoulder,then spoke. "It is the last merry-making, poor children! Well--'Time andtide run through the longest day!'" He disengaged himself, kissed eachof his daughters, and turned toward the lighted hall. "There are papersin the library which I must go over to-night. Edward, you had best comewith me."
Father and son left the porch. Miss Lucy, too, went indoors, calledJulius, and began to give directions. Ready and energetic, she neverwasted time in wonder at events. The event once squarely met, shestruck immediately into the course it demanded, cheerfully, withoutrepining, and with as little attention as possible to forebodings. Hervoice died away toward the back of the house. The moon was shining, andthe lawn lay chequered beneath the trees. Corbin Wood, who had beenstanding in a brown study, began to descend the steps. "I'll take alittle walk, Judith, my dear," he said, "and think it over! I'll letmyself in." He was gone walking rapidly, not toward the big gate and theroad, but across to the fields, a little stream, and a strip that hadbeen left of primeval forest. Unity and Molly, moving back to thedoorstep, sat there whispering together in the light from the hall.Judith and Richard were left almost alone, Judith leaning against awhite pillar, Cleave standing a step or two below her.
"You have been in Richmond?" she said. "Molly had a letter fromMiriam--"
"Yes, I went to find, if possible, rifled muskets for my company. I didnot do as well as I had hoped--the supply is dreadfully small--but Isecured a few. Two thirds of us will have to manage, until we can dobetter, with the smoothbore and even with the old flintlock. I have seena breech-loader made in the North. I wish to God we had it!"
"You are going back to Botetourt?"
"As soon as it is dawn. The company will at once offer its services tothe governor. Every moment now is important."
"At dawn.... You will be its captain?"
"I suppose so. We will hold immediately an election of officers--andthat's as pernicious a method of officering companies and regiments ascan be imagined! 'They are volunteers, offering all--they can be trustedto choose their leaders.' I don't perceive the sequence."
"I think that you will make a good captain."
He smiled. "Why, then, the clumsy thing will work for once! I'll try tobe a good captain.--The clock is striking. I do not know when nor how Ishall see Greenwood again. Judith, you'll wish me well?"
"Will I wish you well, Richard? Yes, I will wish you well. Do not go atdawn."
He looked at her. "Do you ask me to wait?"
"Yes, I ask you. Wait till--till later in the morning. It is so sad tosay good-bye."
"I will wait then." The light from the hall lay unbroken on thedoorstep. Molly and Unity had disappeared. A little in yellow lamplight,chiefly in silver moonlight the porch lay deserted and quiet before themurmuring oaks, above the fair downward sweep of grass and flowers. "Itis long," said Cleave, "since I have been here. The day after thetournament--"
"Yes."
He came nearer. "Judith, was it so hard to forgive--that tournament? Youhad both crowns, after all."
"I do not know," said Judith, "what you mean."
"Do you remember--do you remember last Christmas when, going toLauderdale, I passed you on your way to Silver Hill?"
"Yes, I remember."
"I was on my way to Lauderdale, not to see Fauquier, but to see you. Iwished to ask you a question--I wished to make certain. And then youpassed me going to Silver Hill, and I said, 'It is certainly so.' I havebelieved it to be so. I believe it now. And yet I ask youto-night--Judith--"
"You ask me what?" said Judith. "Here is Mr. Stafford."
Maury Stafford came into the silver space before the house, glancedupward, and mounted the steps. "I walked as far as the gate withBreckinridge. He tells me, Mr. Cleave, that he is of your Company ofVolunteers."
"Yes."
"I shall turn my face toward the sea to-morrow. Heigho! War is folly atthe best. And you?--"
"I leave Greenwood in the morning."
The other, leaning against a pillar, drew toward him a branch ofclimbing rose. The light from the hall struck against him. He alwaysachieved the looking as though he had stepped from out a master-canvas.To-night this was strongly so. "In the morning! You waste no time.Unfortunately I cannot get away for another twenty-four hours." He letthe rose bough go and turned to Judith. His voice when he spoke to herbecame at once low and musical. There was light enough to see the flushin his cheek, the ardour in his eye. "'Unfortunately!' What a word touse in leaving Greenwood! No! For me most fortunately I must waitanother four and twenty hours."
"Greenwood," said Judith, "will be lonely without old friends." As shespoke, she moved toward the house door. In passing a great porch chairher dress caught on the twisted wood. Both men started forward, butStafford was much the nearer to her. Released, she thanked him withgrave kindness, went on to the doorway, and there turned, standing amoment in her drapery of dim blue, in the two lights. She had about hera long scarf of black lace, and now she drew it closer, holding itbeneath her chin with a hand slender, fine, and strong. "Good-night,"she said. "It is not long to morning, now. Good-night, Mr. Stafford.Good-night, Richard."
The "good-night" that Stafford breathed after her needed no commentary.It was that of the lover confessed. Cleave, from his side of the porch,looked across and thought, "I will be a fool no longer. She was merelykind to me--a kindness she could afford. 'Do not go till morning--_dearcousin_!'" There was a silence on the Greenwood porch, a white-pillaredrose-embowered space, paced ere this by lovers and rivals. It was brokenby Mr. Corbin Wood, returning from the fields and mounting the moonlitsteps. "I have thought it out," he said. "I am going as chaplain." Hetouched Stafford, of whom he was fond, on the shoulder. "It's thesweetest night, and as I came along I loved every leaf of the trees andevery blade of grass. It's home, it's fatherland, it's sacred soil, it'smother, dear Virginia--"
He broke off, said good-night, and entered the house.
The younger men prepared to follow. "The next time that we meet," saidStafford, "may be in the thunder of the fight. I have an idea that I'llknow it if you're there. I'll look out for you."
"And I for you," said Cleave. Each had spoken with entire courtesy and amarked lack of amity. There was a moment's pause, a feeling as of theedge of things. Cleave, not tall, but strongly made, with his thick darkhair, his tanned, clean shaven, squarely cut face, stood very straight,in earnest and formidable. The other, leaning against the pillar, wasthe fairer to look at, and certainly not without his own strength. Theone thought, "I will know," an
d the other thought, "I believe you to bemy foe of foes. If I can make you leave this place early, withoutspeaking to her, I will do it."
Cleave turned squarely. "You have reason to regret leaving Greenwood--"
Stafford straightened himself against the pillar, studied for a momentthe seal ring which he wore, then spoke with deliberation. "Yes. It ishard to quit Paradise for even such a tourney as we have before us. Ahwell! when one comes riding back the welcome will be the sweeter!"
They went indoors. Later, alone in a pleasant bedroom, the man who hadput a face upon matters which the facts did not justify, opened wide thewindow and looked out upon moon-flooded hill and vale. "Do I despisemyself?" he thought. "If it was false to-night I may yet make it truthto-morrow. All's fair in love and war, and God knows my all is in thiswar! Judith! Judith! Judith! look my way, not his!" He stared into thenight, moodily enough. His room was at the side of the house. Below laya slope of flower garden, then a meadow, a little stream, and beyond, alow hilltop crowned by the old Greenwood burying-ground. "Why notsleep?... Love is war--the underlying, the primeval, the immemorial....All the same, Maury Stafford--"
In her room upon the other side of the house, Judith had found thecandles burning on the dressing-table. She blew them out, parted thewindow curtains of flowered dimity, and curling herself on thewindow-seat, became a part of the April night. Crouching there in thescented air, beneath the large, mild stars, she tried to think ofVirginia and the coming war, but at the end of every avenue she cameupon a morning hour. Perhaps it would be in the flower garden, perhapsin the summer-house, perhaps in the plantation woods where thewindflower and the Judas tree were in bloom. Her heart was hopeful. Solifted and swept was the world to-night, so ready for great things, thather great thing also ought to happen, her rose of happiness ought tobloom. "After to-morrow," she said to herself, "I will think ofVirginia, and I'll begin to help."
Toward daybreak, lying in the large four-post bed beneath the whitetasselled canopy, she fell asleep. The sun was an hour high when sheawoke. Hagar, the girl who waited upon her, came in and flung wide theshutters. "Dar's er mockin' bird singin' mighty neah dish-yer window!Reckon he gwine mek er nes' in de honeysuckle."
"I meant to wake up very early," said Judith. "Is any one downstairsyet, Hagar?--No, not that dress. The one with the little flowers."
"Dar ain' nobody down yit," said Hagar. "Marse Richard Cleave, he donecome down early, 'way 'bout daybreak. He got one of de stable-men tersaddle he horse an' he done rode er way. Easter, she come in de housejes' ez he wuz leaving en he done tol' her ter tell marster dat he'ddone been thinkin' ez how dar wuz so much ter do dat he'd better mek anearly start, en he lef' good-bye fer de fambly. Easter, she ax him won'the wait 'twel the ladies come down, en he say No. 'Twuz better fer himter go now. En he went. Dar ain' nobody else come down less'n hits MarseMaury Stafford.--Miss Judith, honey, yo' ain' got enny mo' blood in yo'face than dat ar counterpane! I gwine git yo' er cup er coffee!"