THE LONE TREE HILL
The three beautiful Carys walked together from the road gate toward the
house. Before them, crowning the low hill, showed the white pillars
between oaks where the deep coloured leaves yet clung. The sun was down,
the air violet, the negro children burning brush and leaves in the
hollow behind the house quarter. Halfway to the pillars, there ran back
from the drive a long double row of white chrysanthemums. The three
sisters 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 came
presently and sat beside her. "Dear Judith, dear Judith!" she said, in
her soft little voice, and stroked her sister's dress.
Judith put her arm about her, and drew her close. "Molly, isn't it as
though the earth were dying? Just the kind of fading light and hush one
thinks of going in--I don't know why, but I don't like chrysanthemums
any more."
"I know," said Molly, "there's a feel of mould in them, and of dead
leaves and chilly nights. But the soldiers are so used to lying out of
doors! I don't believe they mind it much, or they won't until the snow
comes. Judith--"
"Yes, honey."
"The soldiers that I have dreadful dreams about are the soldiers in
prison. Judith, I dreamed about Major Stafford the other night! He had
blood upon his forehead and he was walking up and down, walking up and
down in a place with a grating."
"You mustn't dream so, Molly.--Oh, yes, yes, yes! I'm sorry for him. On
the 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 a
dreadful 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, we
went with Aunt Lucy over the storeroom and the smoke-house, and then we
went down to the quarter and got them all together, and told them how
careful now we would all have to be with meal and bacon. And Susan's
baby had died in the night, and we had to comfort Susan, and this
afternoon we buried the baby. After breakfast we scraped almost the last
of the tablecloths into lint, and Molly made envelopes, and Daddy Ben
and I talked about shoes and how we could make them at home. Then Aunt
Lucy and I went into town to the hospitals. There is a rumour of
smallpox, but I am sure it is only a rumour. It has been a hard day. A
number 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 not
there. Probably he was killed. And Unity went to the sewing-rooms, and
has been there sewing hard all day. And then we came home, and found
Julius almost in tears, and Molly triumphant with the parlour carpet all
up and ready to be cut into squares--soldiers sleeping in the snowy
winter under tulips and roses. And then we read father's letter, and
that was a comfort, a comfort! And then we took Susan's little baby and
buried it, and did what we could for Susan; and then we walked down to
the gate and stopped to gather chrysanthemums. And now we are going back
to the house, and I dare say there'll be some work to do between now and
bedtime. We're doing something pretty nearly all the time, Unity."
Unity lifted with strength the mass of bloom above her head. "I know, I
know! But it's in me to want a brass band to do it by! I want to see the
flag waving! I want to hear the _sound_ of our work. Oh, I know I am
talking foolishness!" She took Judith by the hands, and lifted her to
her 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 wood
fire. They reached the steps almost together, soberly mounted them, and
entered the hall. Miss Lucy called to them from the library. "The papers
have come."
The old room, quiet, grave, book-lined, stored with records of old
struggles, lent itself with fitness to the papers nowadays. The
Greenwood Carys sat about the wood fire, Judith in an old armchair,
Unity on an old embroidered stool, Molly in the corner of a great old
sofa. Miss Lucy pushed her chair into the ring of the lamplight and read
aloud in her quick, low, vibrant voice. The army at Fredericksburg--that
was what they thought of now, day and night. She read first of the army
at Fredericksburg--of Lee on the southern side of the Rappahannock, and
Burnside on the northern, and the cannon all planted, and of the women
and children beginning to leave. She read all the official statements,
all the rumours, all the guesses, all the prophecies of victory and the
record 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 from
Corinth. She read all the Richmond news--hot criticism, hot defence of
the President, of the Secretary of War, of the Secretary of State;
echoes from the House, from the Senate; determined optimism as to
foreign intervention; disdain, as determined, of Burnside's "On to
Richmond"; passionate devotion to the grey armies in the field--all the
loud war song of the South, clear and defiant! She read everything in
the 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 per
loaf. Chickens $10. Turkeys $50.
"Oh," cried Molly. "We have chickens yet, beside what we send to the
hospitals! And we have eggs and milk and butter, and I was looking at
the turkeys to-day. I feel _wicked_!"
"A lot of the turkeys will die," said Unity consolingly. "They always
do. I spoke to Sam about the ducks and the guinea-hens the other day. I
told him we were going to send them to Fredericksburg. He didn't like
it. 'Miss Unity, what fer you gwine ter send all dem critturs away lak
dat? You sen' 'em from Greenwood, dey gwine die ob homesickness!' And we
don't use many eggs ourselves, honey, and we've no way to send the
milk."
Miss Lucy having read the paper through, the Greenwood ladies went to
supper. That frugal meal over, they came back to the library, the
parlour looking somewhat desolate with the carpet up and rolled in one
corner, waiting for the shears to-morrow. "The shepherds and
shepherdesses look," said Unity, "as though they were shivering a
little. I don't suppose they ever thought they'd live to see a Wilton
carpet cut into blankets for Carys and other soldiers gone to war! It's
impossible not to laugh when you think of Edward drawing one of those
coverlets over him! Oh, me!"
"If Edward gets a furlough this winter," said Judith suddenly, "we must
give him a party. With the two companies in town, and some of the
surgeons, there will be men enough. Then Virginia and Nancy and Deb and
Maria and Betty and Agatha and all the refugeeing girls--we could have a
real party once more--"
"Just leaving out the things to eat," said Unity; "and wearing very old
clothes. We'll do it, won't we, Aunt Lucy?"
Aunt Lucy thought it an excellent idea. "We mustn't get old before our
time! We must keep brightness about the place. I have seen my mother
laugh and look all the gayer out of her beautiful black eyes when other
folk would have been weeping!--I hear company coming, now! It's Cousin
William, I think."
Cousin William it was, not gone to the war because of sixty-eight years
and a rich inheritance of gout. He came in, ruddy as an apple, ridden
over to cheer up the Greenwood folk and hear and tell news from the
front. He had sons there himself, and a letter which he would read for
the 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 had
trimmed the light, and Molly replenished the fire, he read, and as in
these days no one ever read anything perfunctorily, the reading was more
telling than an actor could have made it. In places Cousin William
himself and his hearers laughed, and in places reader and listener
brushed hand across eyes. "Your loving son," he read, and folded the
sheets carefully, for they were becoming a little worn. "Now, what's
your news, Lucy? Have you heard from Fauquier?"
"Yes, yesterday. He has reached Fredericksburg from Winchester. It is
one of his old, dry, charming letters, only--only a little hard to make
out 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 a
certain high courage and sweetness, and taking the letter from her
work-basket read it to Cousin William. He listened, nodding his head at
intervals. "Yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure! You can't remember Uncle
Edward Churchill, Lucy, but I can. He used to read Swift to me, though I
didn't care for it much, except for Gulliver. Fauquier reminds me of him
often, except that Uncle Edward was bitter--though it wasn't because of
his empty sleeve; it was for other things.--Fredericksburg! There'll be
another 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 Greenwood
library. Then said Cousin William softly, "It is worth while to get such
letters. There aren't many like Warwick Cary. He's the kind that proves
the 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; "there
wasn't a thing about war in it."
Unity stirred the fire, making the sparks go up chimney. "Five pages
about Massanutton in her autumn robes, and a sonnet to the Shenandoah! I
like Edward."
At ten o'clock Cousin William rode away. The Greenwood women had
prayers, and then, linked together, they went up the broad, old shallow
stairs to the gallery above, and kissed one another good-night.
In her own room Judith laid pine knots upon the brands. Up flared the
light, 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 her
rosewood box, and in the light from the hearth read them for the
thousandth time. There was none from Richard Cleave after July, none,
none! Sitting in a low chair that had been her mother's, she bowed
herself over the June-time letters, over the May-time letters. There had
been but two months of bliss, two months! She read them again, although
she had them all by heart; she held her hand as though it held a pen and
traced 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 her
knees, 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 lover
hast 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 since
July, a letter every fortnight. Judith read again the later ones, the
ones 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, he
loves you, loves you! No; I do not know that his is the course that I
should take, but then women are different. I do not think I would ever
think of pride or of the world and the world's opinion. If you cried to
me I would go, and the world should not hold me back. But men have been
trained to uphold that kind of pride. I did not think that Richard had
it, but I see now all his father in him. Darling child, I do not think
that it will last, but just now, oh, just now, you must possess your
heart in patience!"
The words blurred before Judith's eyes. She sunk her head upon her
knees. "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. I
cannot 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 must
work. 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 must
rest--rest and wait."
Judith put the letters in the rosewood box. She arose, locked her hands
behind her head and walked softly up and down the room. "Rest--rest and
wait. Patience--quietude--tranquillity--strength--fortitude--endurance.
--Rest--patience--calm quietude--"
It worked but partially. Presently, when she lay down it was to lie
still enough, but sleepless. Late in the night she slept, but it was to
dream again, much as she had dreamed during the Seven Days, great and
tragic 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, yet
wrapped and warmed and softened with the memories of summer. Judith
looked out of the window. There was a glow in the eastern sky, the trees
were motionless, the brown path over the hills showed like a beckoning
finger. She dressed, put a cloak about her, went softly downstairs and
left the house.
The path across the meadow, through the wood, up the lone tree hill--she
would see the sunrise, she would get above the world. She walked
quickly, lightly, through the dank stillness. There was mist in the
meadow, above the little stream. The wood was shadowy; mist, like
ghosts, between the trees. She passed through it and came out on the
bare hillside, rising dome-like to the one tree with the bench around
it. The eastern sky was burning gold. Judith stood still. There was a
man seated upon the bench, on the side that overlooked Greenwood. He sat
with his head buried in his hands. She could not yet tell, but she
thought he was in uniform.
With the thought she moved onward. She never remembered afterwards,
whether she recognized him then, or whether she thought, "A soldier
sleeping 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 within
thirty 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 a
cross-country road. She called to him. "Richard!"
It was rapture--all beneath the rising sun forgotten save only this
gold-lit hilltop, with its tree from Eden garden! But since it was
earth, and Paradise not yet real, and there were checks and bars enough
in their human lot, they came back from that seraph flight. This was the
lone tree hill above Greenwood, and a November day, though gold-touched,
and Philip Deaderick must get back to the section of Pelham's artillery
refitting at Gordonsville.--"What do you mean? You are a soldier--you
are back in the army?--but you have another name? Oh, Richard, I see, I
see! Oh, I might have known! A gunner with Pelham. Oh, my gunner with
Pelham, 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 the
truest comrade ever man had! What would you do--what would you have
done--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 the
army as you have reentered it. I would serve again as you are serving
again. If it were necessary--Oh, I see that it was necessary!--I would
serve disguised as you are disguised. But--but--when it came to Judith
Cary--"
"Judith, say that it was not you and I, but some other disgraced soldier
and 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; my
kinspeople and certain friends believe it; but all the rest of the
country--the army, the people--they don't believe it. Let my name be
known to-morrow, and by evening a rougher dismissal than before! Do you
not see, do you not see, Judith?"
"I see partly. I see that you must serve. I see that you walk with
dangers. I see that--that you could not even write. I see that I must
possess my soul in patience. I see that we must wait--Oh, God, it is all
waiting, waiting, waiting! But I do not see--and I _refuse_ to see,
Richard--anything at the end of it all but love, happiness, union, home
for you and me!"
He held her close. "Judith, I do not know the right. I am not sure that
I see the right, my soul is so tempest-tossed. That day at White Oak
Swamp. If I could cleanse that day, bring it again into line with the
other 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 a
whole--one life, not two. He had no twin, a disobedient soldier, a liar
and betrayer, as it was said he had.'--If I could do that, Judith! I do
not see how I will do it, and yet it is my intention to do it. That
done, then, darling, darling! I will make true love to you. If it is not
done--but I will not think of that. Only--only--how to do it, how to do
it! That maddens me at times--"
"Is it that? Then we must think of that. They are not all dead who could
tell?--"
"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 with
it?--with that order which he carried from General Jackson to General
Winder, 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 might
have 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 we
hear that Major Stafford was among those taken prisoner at Sharpsburg."
Judith stood upright, her hand at her breast, her eyes narrowed. "Until
this 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 these
months I have thought of it as a mistake--as one of those
misunderstandings, mishappenings, accidental, incomprehensible, that
wound and blister human life! I never saw it in a lightning flash for
what it was till now!"
She looked about her, still with an intent and narrowed gaze. "The lone
tree hill. It is a good place to see it from. There is nothing to be
done 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 a
veritable lightning glare, then dropped them. She stood very straight,
young, slender, finely and strongly fibred. "He said he would do the
worst he could, and he has done it. And I said, 'At your peril!' and at
his 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 over
Greenwood! I thought, sitting here, 'I will not wait for the sunshine; I
will go while all things are in shadow.' And I turned to go. And then
came the sunshine. I must go now--away from the sunshine. I had but an
hour, and half of it was gone before the sunshine came."
"How shall I know," she said, "if you are living? There is a battle
coming."
"Yes. Judith, I will not write to you. Do not ask me; I will not. But
after each battle I have managed somehow to get a line to my mother. She
will tell you that I am living, well and living. I do not think that I
shall die--no, not till Maury Stafford and I have met again!"
"He is in prison. They say so many die there.... Oh, Richard, write to
me--"
But Cleave would not. "No! To do that is to say, 'All is as it was, and
I let her take me with this stain!' I will not--I will not. Circumstance
has betrayed us here this hour. We could not help it, and it has been a
glory, a dream. That is it, a dream. I will not wake till I have said
good-bye!"
They said good-bye, still in the dream, as lovers might, when one goes
forth to battle and the other stays behind. He released her, turned
short and sharp, and went down from the lone tree hill, down the side
from Greenwood, to the country road. A piece of woods hid him from
sight.
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 narrowed
and fixed. She spoke aloud, and her voice was strange in her own ears.
"Maury Stafford in prison. Where, and how long?"