THE PARTING
Through the still night Lyddon could hear plainly the sound of a
sailboat making the little wharf which ran into the broad river at the
foot of the lawn. Richard, hatless, bolted out of the room, and Lyddon
putting up the window saw his dark figure running swiftly like a shadow
to the wharf. It was then after two o’clock in the morning. The night
was murky and the fitful wind swept the storm clouds wildly back and
forth. Upon the black river lay an outline like the ghost of a small
sailboat moored to the wharf. In a moment more Richard and Neville
were standing together. By that time the whole house was aroused, and
Lyddon could hear footsteps moving overhead. He picked up a candle
and going into the hall lighted the lamps which stood on the corners
of the mantel. In a little while Colonel Tremaine with Mrs. Tremaine
was seen coming downstairs. Colonel Tremaine had hurriedly flung some
clothes on, and Mrs. Tremaine was helping him into his coat. Behind
them came Angela with her long crimson mantle thrown over her hastily
assumed gown, her beautiful hair in disorder and hanging down her back.
Archie, the last to awaken, was heard calling out of the window to his
brothers. The side door to the hall opened, and Neville with Richard
walked in. Mrs. Tremaine with a cry of rapture ran toward him.
“My son, my dearest son,” she cried, unconsciously admitting the truth
that this son was dearer to her than the others. Neville kissed his
mother tenderly, and then, as if he were a little boy once more, threw
his arms around Colonel Tremaine’s neck and kissed him on the cheek.
Colonel Tremaine embraced him in return. He loved these demonstrations
of affection from his children, and was proud that in manhood they were
still observed. Neville kissed Angela on the forehead and then Archie
came tumbling downstairs and the two brothers embraced.
“How did you come at this time of night?” asked Colonel Tremaine.
“In a sailboat from Fort Monroe,” replied Neville smiling. “You see, I
haven’t forgotten how to manage a boat. We heard yesterday morning that
the State had seceded, and I got twenty-four hours leave to come home.
The best way to get here was to sail up York River, and I was certain
of finding a wind until I got near enough to Harrowby to land in case
the wind should fail, but luckily it brought me up to the wharf in less
than five hours. I must not take any chances, however, and can only
remain two hours.”
A chill seemed to fall upon the air as Neville spoke. His words were
capable of but one meaning.
“Two hours, did you say?” asked Colonel Tremaine with a sudden rigidity
of face and figure.
“Yes, sir,” replied Neville quietly. “I must then return to my command.
I came to tell you and my mother that I have thought over it, sir, as
you taught me to think over all great matters with a view to finding
out the honorable course to pursue. I think it my duty under my oath to
remain in the United States Army.”
The thunderbolt had fallen; a dreadful silence prevailed. Mrs.
Tremaine, who was standing with her hand upon Neville’s arm, tightened
her clasp, and Neville turned away from his mother’s tragic eyes.
Colonel Tremaine opened his lips once or twice as if to speak, but no
words came, and Neville continued in a voice a little shaken from its
first firmness:
“I know what this means to you and my mother and to everybody I love. I
hardly think you know what it means to me.”
“Have you reflected,” asked Colonel Tremaine after a moment, “that it
is by tacit consent on both sides the Southern officers resign from the
United States Army? They can be of no use there, but are reckoned an
element of danger.”
“I know it well. I shall be a suspect among the very people for whom I
have sacrificed everything on earth. In this coming war I shall never
be trusted with anything or by anybody, I, a soldier bred. I would have
escaped this fate if I could; I fought against it, but always there
came back to me the conviction that my honor required I should stay in
the United States Army.”
“Did you say,” asked Colonel Tremaine quietly, “that you had but two
hours to remain in this house?”
“Just two hours,” answered Neville as quietly.
“Then,” replied Colonel Tremaine with a pale face set like steel,
“after what you have just told us, two hours is much too long.” He
turned and walked up the stairs slowly. He tottered a little, and
Archie ran forward and taking his father’s arm helped him. When they
reached the landing where stood an old settee, Colonel Tremaine’s
strength failed him. He sank upon the settee, leaning heavily upon
Archie, to whom he said: “Stay with me, boy.”
Mrs. Tremaine burst into a passion of weeping, and Richard took his
mother in his arms to comfort her. He made no plea for Neville, knowing
that neither father nor mother would listen to it, but his eyes with
keen sympathy sought Neville’s and the two brothers understood each
other. Neville would always have a friend in Richard.
Angela had looked on with a fast-beating heart at this family
tragedy. Neville standing a little way off did not approach her, but
involuntarily held out his arms. Love, pity, grief, and a burning sense
of injustice smote Angela’s heart. She ran forward and taking Neville’s
hand boldly, said to him: “I will stand by you, Neville; I don’t know
why you should do this, but I know you feel it is right.”
“That is all I ask of anyone to believe,” answered Neville curtly. And
then leading her through the open door of the corridor into the old
study, he said to her: “If you truly love me, there is but one thing to
do. We must be married immediately.”
If Neville had been the Neville of an hour ago, the darling son of his
mother, the pride of his father, Angela would have shrunk from the idea
of marriage, but now from every generous impulse of her nature, she was
up in arms and doing battle for Neville. She would refuse him nothing.
Then she said quietly:
“I suppose it would be best.”
“I gave myself two hours so that if possible the ceremony might be
performed between us. I couldn’t attempt to take you back with me,
but I want you to be in the position that I can send for you as soon
as I know what will be done with me. I don’t suppose,” he added with
bitterness in his tone, “that my father and mother will turn you out of
doors because you are true to me.”
“I shall be true to you, Neville,” was Angela’s reply. He took his arm
from around her, held her off a little way, and scrutinized her face
now pale, now red, her eyes dark and wide and sparkling with emotion.
“Are you not afraid?” he asked.
“Afraid? Certainly not. I am no more afraid than you are, Neville.”
Hand in hand Neville and Angela returned to the hall. Richard sat on
the sofa by his mother, still holding her hand. Mrs. Tremaine no longer
wept. Anguish and reproach, fierce and deep, had dried her tears.
Lyddon, his heart wrung, could not control his agitation as he paced
stealthily up and down a corner of the hall. Half a dozen black faces
by this time were watching and peering in at the doors and windows.
As Neville and Angela came in the door, Richard rose. He knew
instinctively what Neville was about to say.
“Angela and I think best,” said Neville, “to be married at once, so
that she may be able to join me as soon as I can send for her. You
must assist us. I have still nearly two hours, and we ought to be able
to get a license and Mr. Brand in that time. If my father and mother
grudge me the roof of Harrowby under which to marry Angela, perhaps
they will allow us at least a foot of ground somewhere outside.”
Mrs. Tremaine rose and stood trembling. A great gulf had opened between
her and this eldest son for whom she had given every manifestation of
outward affection, and for whom she secretly cherished an idolatry
of which she was at heart ashamed as being unjust both to Colonel
Tremaine and her other sons. The whole humiliation of it, the horror
of Neville being driven from his father’s roof overwhelmed her. The
shame, the chagrin of not having Neville accept the code of honor which
she had taught him and which his father and brothers had accepted
unqualifiedly, was inexpressibly terrible to her. It was as if Neville
had coolly committed a forgery and refused to believe it wrong. She
saw that it was useless to plead with him and said no word, but her
silence, her tremor, her pallor were painfully eloquent enough. Neville
came close to her, and the mother and son who loved each other so much
looked into each other’s eyes and each saw defiance therein.
Then Richard spoke with authority. “Mother,” he said, “when Neville
goes away, he must leave Angela here. No matter what Neville may do
this house is the place for his wife, especially if that wife be
Angela, who has been a daughter to you and my father.”
Mrs. Tremaine’s eyes turned toward Angela. It came upon her that to
keep Angela would be a hold, a thread of communication with Neville,
and besides she loved the girl and would not have been capable of
casting her out. Richard spoke decisively, however, and no one
disputed what he said. He looked at the clock and it was half past two.
“Mr. Lyddon,” he said, “will you ride to the rectory and wake Mr. Brand
up and bring him here at once? I myself will get the license from Mr.
Wynne, the clerk of the court. It is six miles away, but I can do it in
an hour and a half.” He turned, and called out to Peter, whose solemn,
chocolate-colored face was peering in from the back porch, “Go and
saddle the horses at once and bring them up.”
“Thank you,” said Neville briefly. Everything was done properly when
Richard took charge. Angela and Neville stood looking at each other
uncertain where to go. Neville had been invited to leave his father’s
house, and he was not the man to tarry after having received such an
invitation. He glanced at Angela’s lovely disheveled hair and then
said to her: “You must go and dress to be married, and put a hood on
your head, for we shall be married out of doors. I will wait for you
outside.”
Angela passed swiftly up the stairs, and Neville walked the length of
the hall without once turning. Mrs. Tremaine, usually the calmest and
most self-controlled of women, could have shrieked aloud with pain
at the sight. Neville almost walked into Mammy Tulip’s arms, those
faithful black arms in which he had been cradled. In her place of
privilege, she poured forth her love and indignation.
“Never you min’, chile,” she cried. “Ef yo’ mar ain’t gwine to speak
to you no mo’, yo’ mammy lub you jes’ de same, honey. ’Tain’t gwine to
make a bit o’ diffunce cuz you is in de Yankee army, yo’ mammy will
tek car’ o’ Miss Angela fur you, an’ I gwine to knit you some socks an’
sen’ you. Yo’ ole mammy ain’t gwine furgit you.”
“Thank you, mammy,” Neville answered, putting his arm around her neck.
“Now you can do one thing for me at this moment. Go upstairs and help
Angela to make ready for our wedding.”
Angela had sped up the stairs and was in her own large room with its
great curtained bed. She was to dress for her wedding, but how strange
was everything. She threw off her crimson mantle and sitting down
before her dressing table began to comb out her long, thick hair. There
was occasion for haste; she should spend every moment possible with
Neville, but her mind as well as her body seemed dull and nerveless. As
she sat helpless before her mirror, Mammy Tulip waddled in.
“I come to he’p dress you, honey,” she said. “Marse Neville, he sont
me. What you gwine git married in, chile?”
Angela looked at her with eyes which saw nothing. She had thought only
of Neville. But youth is never for long self-forgetful, and a great
shock of pity for herself came upon her. Her quick imagination pictured
to herself what should have been the scene of that greatest hour in a
woman’s life. She saw herself in her bridal array, with a filmy veil
falling around her and a group of rosebud bridesmaids attending her,
and all things irradiated with joy and peace; the sound of wedding
merriment in the old house, felicitations on every lip, sympathy in
every heart, and now how bleak, how drear, how tragic was this wedding!
She arranged her hair, scarcely knowing what she was doing, and
submitted to have Mammy Tulip put on her a white gown and to throw a
white scarf over her head; then carrying her red mantle over her arm,
followed by Mammy Tulip, in lieu of a train of maids, she went down the
broad stair.
Colonel Tremaine still sat on the settee upon the landing. Whether his
heart would not let him lose the last view of his eldest-born or the
strange weakness, which had overcome him, would not permit him to move,
Angela could not tell. Archie, with a frightened face, still sat by
him. Angela stopped in front of him for a moment. She had never looked
into his face before without seeing kindness there, but now all was
sternness. She began to weep a little. Colonel Tremaine turned his head
away. To see a woman’s tears always gave him exquisite pain, but it
could not alter his resolution.
Presently Angela spoke: “Won’t you come and see us married, Neville and
me?”
“No,” answered Colonel Tremaine, in a voice that admitted of no appeal.
Angela went downstairs. Whether Mrs. Tremaine would have yielded Angela
did not know, but Colonel Tremaine’s refusal had frightened her. She
stopped before Mrs. Tremaine, and the two women eyed each other with
somber but uncertain eyes. Then Angela passed on and went out of the
small door in the corridor by the study.
Outside Neville was standing. He took the mantle from her arm and
placed it around her, “Come,” he said, “we shall have an hour to wait
until Richard returns. We need not ask the hospitality even of the
Harrowby lawn or garden. We can sit in the boat; the river, at least,
is a highway free to all.”
They walked to the little wharf at the end of the lawn, and Neville
lifted Angela into the boat, which lay gently rocking upon the
dark water. The sail had been dropped and the slender white mast
was outlined against the dark water and the darker sky. It was the
unearthly hour which is neither night nor day. A wind sharp and cool
was blowing--the wind that brought Neville to Harrowby and would take
him away. He wrapped Angela tenderly in the great cloak, and sheltered
her with his arm. It seemed to them both as if they were adrift upon
the ocean. Neville said little, not being a man of many words, and
Angela scarcely spoke at all. The wild beating of her heart choked her
speech. She had denied she was afraid, but in truth her mind was full
of fearful imaginings, of self-pity, and of a dread of the future.
Nevertheless, she had that species of courage which can disguise fear,
and Neville saw nothing in her agitation and silence to give him alarm.
She had not shown the least unwillingness to marry him. In truth the
habit of old affection was so strong upon her that Neville’s breast
seemed her natural place of refuge. She felt exactly as she had done
when as a little girl she was reproved for some childish naughtiness
and Neville, taking her upon his knee, would still her weeping and make
her laugh while tears were yet upon her childish cheeks. To Neville it
was the sweetest and the bitterest hour of his life. It was Angela who
said after an hour had passed: “Listen, I hear Richard returning!”
Neville rose at once and helped her from the boat. It was then after
four o’clock in the morning, and the wan light of the approaching dawn
was over the still and silent house, the old garden, the great masses
of trees with their delicate foliage outlined against a mournful and
stormy sky, and the weeping willow in the brick-walled spot lying out
in the wide, open fields.
Halfway across the lawn Angela and Neville met Richard.
“Everything is ready,” he said to Neville. “Mr. Brand has been in the
house half an hour. You must abate your pride, Neville, and be married
in the house.”
“No,” said Neville, in the same tone in which his father had refused
Angela’s plea to see them married. “I have been forbidden my father’s
roof, and it is the last place on earth that I should now choose to be
married in.”
Neville had rarely withstood Richard, but on this occasion Richard made
no protest, and Neville continued, with a grim, half-smile: “You can
bring Mr. Brand and Mr. Lyddon down to the wharf; that is as near being
no man’s land as one can find.”
Richard, without a word, turned back to the house, and Neville and
Angela returned to the little wharf which ran out twenty feet into the
river that whispered among its wooden piles.
In a few minutes the wedding group was formed. There were only five
persons: the bride and bridegroom, Richard Tremaine, Mr. Lyddon,
and Mr. Brand. Mr. Brand, looking thoroughly frightened, began some
high-sounding platitudes, rashly inquiring of Neville if he knew his
own mind.
“Certainly I do,” answered Neville, interrupting him, “and so does
Angela. Please proceed as quickly as possible, as my honor requires
that I should not remain away from my post one moment longer than is
necessary.”
Richard produced the license, and Mr. Brand began the wedding ceremony.
Until that moment no one had thought of a ring, but when that part of
the ceremony was reached in which the ring is necessary, Neville looked
confounded. He took Angela’s hand, however, and drew from it a little
ruby ring which he had given her when she was a child, and that was
made to do duty as a wedding ring. And so Angela Vaughn became Neville
Tremaine’s wife.
When the ceremony was over Richard shook hands with his brother, and
kissed Angela tenderly. Lyddon, also, shook hands with Neville, and
then, with a breaking heart, kissed Angela on the forehead for the
first time in his life. This, then, was the plucking of this blossom
in the flowering time. Richard made no suggestion that Neville should
return to the house, but Neville himself, after all, was quite unequal
to leaving Harrowby forever without one parting word to his father and
mother. They walked to the house, Angela between Richard and Neville,
while Mr. Brand, forgotten, lagged behind with Lyddon, who neither saw
nor heard him, although they were but a yard apart.
As the two brothers, with the new-made bride, entered the hall, they
found Mrs. Tremaine sitting on the sofa in the same spot where Richard
had left her. The candles were sputtering, and the pallid light of the
early dawn had crept into the silent hall. Colonel Tremaine still sat
motionless upon the settee at the landing on the stairs. Neville went
up to his mother and without touching her, he, with his whole heart,
his eyes, and voice, said: “I could not leave this house without one
last farewell to you and my father, and I must once more see the rooms
which I shall never see again.”
He turned to go into the drawing-room and Angela went with him. Over
the big grand piano hung a portrait of Mrs. Tremaine when she was a
little girl of six. “That was the first thing I remember,” Neville
said to Angela. “When I was a little boy Mammy Tulip told me that was
my mother, and I couldn’t understand that she should ever have been a
little child. There is my father’s portrait in his uniform when he came
from the Mexican War. I believe it was that picture and my father’s
stories of that war that made me a soldier.”
They passed into the library, the room not much used by any except
Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine, but where family prayers were always held.
Neville smiled a little as he spoke to Angela. “I think all of us have
some time or other been rebuked in this room for our inattention to
prayers, but I don’t think we were corrected often enough. Mother and
father thought themselves strict with us, but they were not half strict
enough. I wonder if they will ever again mention me at prayers as they
have always done.”
[Illustration: “And so Angela Vaughn became Neville Tremaine’s wife.”]
Angela was mute. She understood even better than Neville the depth,
the height, and the breadth of the resentment which Neville Tremaine’s
course had aroused in the hearts of his mother and father. Then they
went into the little shabby study; the ghost-like dawn was peering
through the windows. “This place is the spot where I always see you in
my imagination,” said Neville, “and in my dreams, for a soldier dreams
more than other men, I can tell you. But you are always in my dreams a
little girl, in a short, white frock, with a long plait of hair down
your back, and very sweet and restless, and a little spoiled, I think.”
Her silence for the first time struck Neville. He was holding her by
the hand, and, drawing her toward him, he said: “Are you sorry for what
you have done?”
“No,” replied Angela, “I would do it over again, but I am a little
stunned, I think. Everything is so strange, so unlike what I thought a
marriage would be.”
“Yes, very unlike, but in a little while, I think, I shall contrive a
way for you to be with me. Richard will see that you reach me, and then
our honeymoon will begin, dearest.”
They returned to the hall, and it was now the moment of parting.
Neville, drawn by an irresistible impulse, ascended the stairs to where
his father sat, still leaning upon Archie.
Father and son looked at each other steadily. Neville had half-extended
his hand, but it dropped to his side when he saw the expression on
Colonel Tremaine’s face, and then Neville, standing at attention,
formally saluted his father, as a soldier salutes his superior; a
salute which Colonel Tremaine returned in the same formal manner,
standing as straight and rigid as Neville. Archie’s boyish heart could
not see Neville go without a word. He ran forward and caught his
brother around the body, crying: “Good-by, brother, good-by!”
Neville kissed the boy on the brow.
True, these Tremaines were bone of one bone and flesh of one flesh,
because each of them was ready to sacrifice the heart, the soul,
all present, all future happiness to the principle of honor as each
understood it.
Neville went to the sofa where his mother sat. He meant to say some
words of farewell, but he could not speak, and for the first time since
his manhood he wept, the silent tears of a strong man, wrung from him
like drops of blood. Mrs. Tremaine, too, wept, but said no word. She
could bestow upon him neither her forgiveness nor her blessing, but
this wrenching apart was like the separation of the flesh and the
spirit. Neville could only turn to Angela and, taking her hand, place
it silently within his mother’s. That was his farewell.